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theodora3022 · 4 years ago

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Companion Headcanons for Fairy

The original fic can be found here

The sequal hcs can be found here

Summary: You are now Overhaul’s posession. Just like Eri, he have big plans for you.

Warning: Yandere, implied NSFW, forced aphrodisiac use, non con(not graphic), mentions of forced pregancy, loss of virginity

Kai feeds you healthy food and perform weekly checkups. No way you are getting sick under his watch.

He never refers you by your real name, always calling you “my fairy”.

Gives you a large room to live in, he knows you have claustrophobia, he doesn’t want cabin fever to get to you.

He would fill your cell room with books, to occupy your time while he is gone.

With the quirk cancelling handcuffs on, you cannot escape the heavily guarded Yakuza base.

However it also frustrates Kai because he wants to see you flying around like the fairy you are

So he lets you use your quirk under his supervision. He would take you for flights in the backyards wearing those acrylic wings, you comply to his wishes, terrified of the alternative: He took so much already, not your quirk too. After two or three laps he would take you back to your room and disappear behind the door.

You soon find out he just wants to admire you from a distance. He never touched you unless necessary. When you ask him why, he says he get rashes. Which is such a relief.

Quirk-cancelling cuffs is quickly replaced with a pair of thin silver bracelets. While they have the same effects, you are able to move around more freely. It is a reward of being docile towards Kai. He is happy that his threats work, as you seldom scream.

You learn about Eri when you overheard one of his subordinates come to inform him about her situation.

“Eri? Who is that?” When he sees those sparkles in your eyes once more, Kai felt so weak.

“The granddaughter of my mentor.” “Can I see her?”

He told you tomorrow you will. It is probably good for both of you and Eri. It can lift your spirits, and maybe you can calm down the little girl. You are trapped here, there is no need to worry about leaking info.

When Eri saw you the next day, she was not sure what to do. So you crotched down and smiled at her. It has probably been a long time since the little girl received any genuine affections, so it will not take long for her to warm up to you, the only kind person here.

Soon you began to look forwards to these little playdates. Kai would allow you an hour with her everyday after your daily flight, while he sits on sofa in the corner, watching the two of you. At first Eri seems to be intimidated by his presence, but she soon understands Kai won’t hurt her as long you’re in the same room.

Seeing you attending Eri’s tea party with her stuffed animals, brushing her pale hair, how Eri is able to make you laugh like you used to, gives him a strange sensation. Eri likes to call you “Sister”, which you would respond with a warm “Yes, Eri~” every time. Is that...jealousy? You never spoke his name with such warmth before. You were not even referring him by his first name. Just a cold, business-like “Chisaki”.

When you are back to your cell you expect him to leave, but this time he did not.

“Call me Kai, with that sweet tone.”

You are confused…Which tone?

“Do it now.”

“Kai.” You tried your best to apply honey onyour shaky voice, and it seems to work.

Then you felt a pat on your head. “Good girl.” He is talking to you like you are some domestic pet.

You sighed with relief once the door shuts him out.

Thanks you Eri, Kai now can hear your gleeful laughter again. He shows his gratitude by taking shallow, less hurtful cuts.

You are surprised to find Eri calling you “Mommy” two weeks after your initial encounter. “What happened to sister?” When you start to question why, she just buried her head between her knees, whispers: “Sir Overhaul.”

You are confused. What is the meaning of this? Being a woman in her twenties, you guess it is normal for a toddler like Eri to call you mother. So you pay that no more attention.

Until Kai starts to touch you whenever he can. It started with the lingering finger when he took your blood sample, to brushing his knuckles against your cheek. From gloved hands to bare. It is not hard to see he is trying to get more comfortable with touching you, it terrified you immensely. You don’t even give him rashes like he once said. That is when you planned your escape. You are going to break these bracelets, grab Eri, and get the hell out of this damp basement before the Yakuza boss violates your flesh.

Kai needs a successor to his grand plan, since he knows he is not going to accomplish it during his limited time. And you are going to provide him a healthy son. A child can also bond you to him forever and give you something to do during the day. He aleady knows how a caring mother you can be by watching you play with Eri.

You do not have much information about the base structure, but you need to try. The only route you remember is how to get to Eri’s room from your cell. You could have a better understanding if Kai has not blindfolded you every time you have to take your daily flight.

When Kai “accidentally” left your door unlocked, you took the chance without hesitation.

You do not know he needs an excuse to punish you. Escaping sounds legitimate.

You decided to worry about those bracelets later, when you are back into the sunlight, far from Overhaul.

Your heart sank when you see Chrono’s white figure in front of Eri’s door. You cannot see his face with that mask, but you swear he is smiling when he injected you something from his pocketed syringe.

You woke up in a room that greatly resembles an operation room, tied to a chair beside the operating table. Kai stood silently in the doorway.

This is your first time seeing his face without masks, although you had been here nearly a month. If he were not your captor, you would call him handsome.

“Do you know why you’re here, fairy?” Putting both of his hands on your shoulders from behind, Kai said in an awfully calm tone. You expected him to mad; this coolness is much more unsettling.

“Because you tried to leave me.” Without waiting for your answer, he untied your ropes. “Go lie down on the operating table.”

You comply, shivering.

Suddenly you feel you are burning, and there is this itch in your heart. You would start to pant, while Kai look down you with amuse in his gold eyes.

You might be a virgin, but you are no saint. You recognized this sensation well, and you immediately figured what was in Chrono’s syringe.

“You bastard! You gave me aphrodisiac?”

This is the first time you act like your former bold self. Usually you are too scared to even maintain eye contact with Kai.

You kept on telling yourself that you need to maintain composure, as you turned to the other side to ignore him.

It has been thirty minutes and Kai is impressed by your resilience. So those hero training did do some good after all. Chrono had injected you a large dose, enough for creatures twice your size, yet all you is clenching your teeth. So strong willed. He expects you to be begging for him now.

Too bad you will not remember how you lost your virginity, he thought as he put you out with chloroform.

You woke up alone in your bed the next morning, in pyjamas. Your back feels sour, like you just did three hundred sit-ups. You are also littered with bruises. Great, just great. Kai took just about everything you had. You were not sure if he used a condom or not, you prayed the germaphobe had. The last thing you want is carrying that jerk’s child.

Kai took your hand in his when he come to collect you for your daily flights. His expression is still stoic, as if nothing had happened the previous day.

At your playdate with Eri after, instead of sitting in the corner couch as usual, he decides to sit on the ground, just inches away from Eri and you. She screams and run into your arms, trembling. You never know why Eri is so afraid of Kai (the bandages on her limbs let you know it’s nothing good) , so you pat her back gently. “It’s okay, dear Eri.”

“Eri, would you like a little sibling? Would you like to be a big sister?”

The trembling seized; those watery eyes looks up to yours. Now you understand why he made Eri call you “Mommy”: to prep you for the real deal. Recalling the incidents yesterday, you feel violated and used.

“Yes! Sir Overhaul!” Eri squeals. The trembling resumed. All you can do is glare at him with anger as you soothe the shacking girl in your embrace. You read Eri a story to distract her. Kai’s lips curl upwards under his mask: Look at you, you already know how to be a good mother! As you hugged Eri goodbye, he pulled you out of the room rather roughly.

You expect him to lock you back to your room, but he took you to his office instead.

“Sit.” Taking off his gloves, he pats his thighs lightly after taking a seat behind the desk.

Once you are secured on his lap, he pulled you close to his chest and starts doing paperwork.

This situation lasted for hours. Your legs are turning numb.

“Chisaki?” “You know what to call me.” “K-kai. Did you wear a condom...yesterday?” Although you are already aware of the terrifying answer, you need to be absolutely sure.

“How can you give me an heir if I do? I thought you are wiser than this, my fairy.” Playing with your hair, Kai enjoys your horrid expression. Putting the pen down, he strokes your abdomen with the free hand. “If we’re lucky, I can meet the little one in nine months.”

You feel like his personal incubator, but there’s nothing you can do about it.

#bnha x reader #bnha #bnha overhaul #bnha overhaul x reader #yandere overhaul x reader #yandere overhaul #yandere bnha

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bluepenguinstories · 5 years ago

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Intention Headaches Chapter Nine

To Our Crumbling City:

How many dusks, overtaking dawn, have the drones

littered the skies just as the bodies litter the streets

devoid of human spirit, or the spirit in the machine

wishing to devour everything, but falling short

for its gingivitis and inflamed throat; lacking bite

it only leaks information, devoid of context, its

liberating enslavement, braying Cranes (weathered by time) –

Our crusades of laughter, our vicious joviality

slaughtering each other with mugs. Our curse of skin

sagging into itself as we drink ourselves away. Yet these halls

where we age like wine, slow and souring, the grapes

of wrath now forgotten, our hostility tempered

to a refined weapon which has grown rusted;

– (as all things become) Arrested by its final days...

So we, men loving, loving men, all lay in our residences

with our hands tied, to our legs, to our necks, to our lips

just as we find another place to take the whiskey

as if it were a thicker liquid, as if our essences were honey.

I reminisce on our togetherness, although never separated

we would feel ourselves becoming less of each other

and more automatons in Hephaestus’ pornography collections.

Weeping tears of liquid titanium, our craniums feel the bolts

losing their grips on each other. One by one, we slow ourselves

down to the moments where we forget the tides shifting

and not in our favor, but theirs.

We cannot pretend “All is well” when the negotiations

flat on the table, we lean ourselves against, came from the ones

with the wrench, loosening the screws so the table would fall on us.

We fought and we fought our own memories bitten into the dust.

They taste like blood, they are film reels playing the same things:

Cinemas of grotesques parading as “Just another day”.

Of course, we chose the life of one such gang.

So as to relive the memories, but omitting one key detail

that used to bind us all together:

No fault of ours, but a fault of the years. We once fought our everyday.

We once marched against the ones with their names on the tables.

It is both a great amusement and a bitter taste, then, that we act.

Such bravado for such cowardice. Surprised by our surmise, counteract

our love for men, for the love of death. For us, the muscles, the hair,

the beards and the bears, the shaved and the scarred, the bitten.

The sophist, the self-destructive, the slurred and the articulate.

The tortured and the torturer, the smokers and the freshest of breaths.

Those with supple breasts, milk which tastes like ale, hair like cotton

and when I drink from him he tells me to call him Captain.

We gather together, strangers, lovers, cousins, brothers.

Clergymen of our own blunders. Kissing the winds, each other.

Mistakes are acquaintances, even for the antiquated.

I see us all as the spit we lick from each other, our sweat

against the ceiling fans. Hardened buttocks betray

Sideways glances. All our contributions we owe to open secrets –

– If you listen real close, I’ll tell you:

Cranes are who we are, the ones who rest on the water.

Our necks twisted, faith distorted by the Orphic.

Between corners of each district, I see lights that operate.

“Whatever you wish to see at any given time shall be yours.”

Or so they say, the bastards, so holographic.

So courteous as to lie, as we in wait, because out of all the boasts

of technologies, all that were made were means to enslave.

Weaponry cannot baptise us any more than a plague.

For all the so-called advances, we have yet to find a way

to help each other live.

Cranes gather in an unassuming shack, by an unassuming docks.

Our base of operations. Above ground, by mere inches.

It’s a testament to my flair that I do not protest. For all the talk

of atrocities, what better way to live, than to tear through our insides?

We can change our parts for anyone. Our arms, our hearts

Our genitalia. All belong to us at any time, for the price of many lives.

It’s a testament to my amusement that I have played along so long.

So this tribute is for you, broken city, with your watchful eyes.

No, not you. Your uninhabited towers and your houses of horrors.

Those I care not for. This is a tribute to tributaries.

For the seas and the rivers, the ponds and the lakes, the oceans

which divide us all. We are united in the ways in which the currents

drag us under like a siren hungry for its next lover.

Oh, how I wonder who or what this is all for. For the rapids rest

just outside of the city itself. If we could conquer them, no.

If we could fornicate with them, then we may see passage.

For these many bridges will one day collapse.

Thank you, you foul creature. Just as you have thanked us.

Just as we have thanked each other by shaking hands.

Time and time again, I wish to suck your lips.

Beside your bridge.

Part I: Aloe Vera:

Vive la Karen:

Our old friend Karen came a callin’.

During our raucous rancor, our celebratory crowned affair.

No lordships, bishops, lieges, or bison, could stamp away

at our achievements in blissful ignorance.

But one could, our old friend Karen.

Every night, our home served as a tavern. Us, our own servers.

The disc is somewhere, corrupted and overwritten.

Blame it on our laughter, the lack of slumber, the swayed movements.

We couldn’t hear her until the lights were darkened.

We looked around, there was Karen.

“Your next and only mission is to disband.”

The machine’s grand announcement. No uncertainty present.

The panel on the wall with the eyeball, its ocular malice;

Glazed with its sterile gaze. Never more than what was needed.

Lack of subtlety and an unnecessary cruel mercy.

Karen couldn’t make the intent any more crystalline.

But, she decided to lay frosting on our cakes:

“There will be no funds. No rewards for your troubles.

But if your mission proves to be a success, you will not be shot

to death within a twenty-four hour window.”

We all exchanged expressions meant for lovers or distant relatives.

Straits were dire, and not to mention the famine of straights.

Only one was; he was a pale widow, sunken within a ship in a bottle.

I creaked, my bones atrophied, my cane gifting with splinters.

“You heard it, men. Time to pack it up. Our time has come to an end.”

My cyclical smile unwound back below my nostrils.

Everyone cheered, for the truth was an open secret.

Men between men, that was how it was kept.

We were not leaving each other.

We were leaving the city which made us.

I knew that thoughts and words could be heard

But few doubt the resolute.

Forward March:

Outside, still night. Still as it was eternal.

Our collective thoughts: holding hands.

Beef and chicken alike, in a hot pot

Made to be slurped down. That was us.

At least a hundred of us. Foot out in front.

Leg out in back. Each one making their

forward motions in unison to display our union.

We sang a little ditty, a barrage of showtunes.

Our weapons on our backs. Some of us as

Our own weapons, we guided ourselves.

I was eager, yet wary. Weary for the true outside.

So out of reach, the stars were unfocused.

Students left to their own devices.

Rats with shock collars and curds stuck in fur.

I was an all-out war and I am more.

Streets as empty as the night, Patron Saints of paint.

Nary a drive-by in sight. Pardon the mourning

of bloodshed; city wasn’t alive without someone to die.

On cue, a device to electrocute took a man

I loved so dearly that I only ever kissed his hand.

Nary a tear was shed, for the beast was fed at last.

Hunger was a strange thing, wishing for nothing

to fill up the stomach, but we could speak

of all the things we would eat when we escaped.

If only the fates would stop slurping our eyeballs.

I needed them to see, however myopic of me.

Part II: Bridge Out Ahead:

Approach:

As the steel greeted us with its sturdiness

we shook our heads in disgust, our tastebuds distorted.

Stealth was not an option; grasping at straws, we took aim

and attached our mucus membrane gelatin onto the beams.

Smiles and jeers, no time for cheers. Karens, no, turrets.

Torrent of them took aim without firing.

So we stood, forever lost in the absence of Father Time.

“City limits. Turn back now or be prepared to be shot on sight.”

Karen could be a ferocious one, always wanting to empty

the contents of the device inside of several men at once.

Oh, but such a fulfilling release would lead only to an end.

We would not be deterred, so long as my bones ached.

“Mikey, can you go on?”

“– Babe. I’m Logan.”

Only in the early 30s, already losing to the ravages of age.

Our weapons drawn, we took fire at the turrets named Karen.

They took struck at us. Some fell, some put up electric glass

As a means to protect. What we couldn’t protect was the bridge.

We knew our passage would not be a solid one. Not a stone skipped

but a record without any scratches.

Turrets could be intelligent, even within their torrents.

Aimed at the matter which held firm to the bridge’s limbs

we watched the load get blown. Several pieces, several

men hit in the name of revolution. Their concussion wouldn’t

Be in vain. But our means of escape, we were afraid.

Bridge dissipated, too damaged to be a salamander.

Many remain, yet we had to turn back. We saw

the rustic passage as a golden opportunity.

We walked across our fellow’s remains and back

to the home which we abandoned.

Whatever crustacean in the sky would bless us

I would bless in return; hermits, no more.

“Betty, would you do the honors?”

“What about you, Barry?”

Betty and Barry were the same man. Or the two men

were joined together. Their algae arms pawed at the crate

which kept hidden until the very day. I came up

With the idea, myself. I wanted to kiss Betty and Barry.

Betty and Barry were both men, men I could sail with.

Under the crate was our lever, our lover. Such a promise

In the form of a warm and hardened stick.

It had to be kept warm at all times, someone crawling

toward it in secrecy. The lever was powered by our

Equilibrium, no, our affectionate friction.

Part III: Ship of Relations:

Theseus:

Every day since our inception, we supplied ourselves.

Our end was always approaching, and Karen knew it.

Each month after shipment, we took boards.

Our hands were full, planks drawn, quartered. Flanked.

So on that night, or day, we finally deployed.

To test if it would float or sink. Fine testing, it was.

Fine men, we are. Fine enough to squeeze. Like mustard.

No, mayonnaise on a desert day.

Ship did float, and so we installed light

on our boots, so we could walk above water.

Perform miracles, if only for a few seconds.

Then, we watched the docks get shot down.

Karen was a diligent one. If only Karen was a man.

If I could hold a machine like men held me.

Like I’m a baby, and mother brought meat.

Baby Harold, waddling. But this baby was a button:

If I had twenty more years to get my youth back

Then I wouldn’t be so elderly. But in the 30s, you know.

Third decade brought booze and misery.

Booze could serve as a playground, or a death sentence.

One of my men had to help me aboard.

Soon, I and them, all on deck. Out with the city, in

With the forewarning breeze. Passionless in its stirring.

The wind would have to guide us.

My compass was too fogged by malicious software.

Incontinent:

Did we have food?

Yes, we had/have food.

It has expired, it has grown molded.

It tastes of our favourite bourbon.

It smells like a familiar flatulence.

It is food.

Did we have a map?

Yes, it told us where to love and how often.

There were sticks and stones.

In due time, we would break each other’s bones.

Then seal the deal and murder with words.

Later into the night, we would bring a kiss.

Did we have cabins? Yes, just as we had means to sleep.

In each room weren’t beds, but we would keep

Each other warm in each other’s arms.

The body heat would be our thermostat.

The mast had a glow to it.

Did the ship move?

Just as it sails, a ship moves.

There is a wheel, it goes unused.

We move it to get the experience.

It reminds us to spin.

The ship itself, sails itself.

Automation is our lifeblood.

We designed our ship to forego hesitation.

Part IV: To Cutlery Sharks:

Cutlery Shark:

Waters blackened by the murky chemical invasion.

So long past, we almost think to drink it.

Instead, fresh men take purifying solutions within

the laboratories of the chemistry quarters.

I took a look and took a drink.

I became drunk off of it.

Some of us made the mistake of drinking

from the waters we sailed on; sickness set in.

Stumbled overboard, devoured by the sharks

with teeth made of cutlery.

It bit into our planks and turned some of us to rust.

We shot at the shark, but the creature split

into a husk of tapeworms with acidic spit.

I prayed for our continued passage and what answered:

Explosion! One man, a burly burlesque dancer

threw a brigade of explosives into the water.

The tides themselves roared and the tapeworms no more.

In our stead, a whirlpool and the seas quivering.

Skies above rained down cutlery. Messengers from the gods.

From the whirlpool, we washed our clothing.

I went first, taking a drink, then pouring the soap.

Our clothes fished, a mildew scent perforated

And left an imprint. Damp and musty, we lost nakedness.

I drank to that, as did all the rest.

Ol’ Phil Howards:

Phillip Howards was a man, or a shrew.

Hated men, or hated himself as an extension.

Hated me, but valued our friendship.

I loved the way he loved the fetal position.

Always did think of it as poetic.

Smooth sailing so far, I descended.

Down the hatch of madness.

Where in his private cabin, he was crouched.

In the far corners was his whispers.

He always said things not pale didn’t bode well.

I laugh because he was paler than the ghost of my mother.

Bless that woman’s heart, she raised a loving man.

Me, I was wrinkled more than my grandmother;

When I last saw her was on her deathbed. But I digress.

He always talked like he had one foot in the grave

while hoping others would go in instead.

I ask why he cower. His teeth chatters. He speaks in whispers:

“I’ve seen colours, more than black, more than deep purple.

There is smoke on the water and it signifies danger.

We shouldn’t undergo such a folly.

For I’ve seen colours, more than neon, but something brighter.”

“They haunt my dreams, the seas, they speak.

Though I do not understand their language, I know malice.

There is a healing intent, that I do see. The seas sing to me.

But they are not Siren’s Songs, but signs of foreboding.

What we sail will not cleanse our bodies.”

I laugh because he didn’t understand. He doesn’t wish to.

“If there can be any freedom for my men, any indication

that we can live within each other, and outside, that is enough.”

Although we both were former clergy, we resigned;

His distaste for others, yet belief that no one deserves healing.

Me, I loved men a little too freely.

He spoke again, eyes sunken, his face a full 180:

“There is a beast in the sea. The church spoke of one.

Which would heal any who dared enter.

But I am not ready to be healed by it.

I would rather stay inside, plead ignorance to the outside.

Know this: we know nothing. We will soon.”

I took a drink. Truer words never spoken.

The sea was a harsh mistress who seldom display her phallus.

Before I may part, he said one last thing:

“Friend, I am concerned about your drinking.

You appear in poor health.”

Part V: To Virginia:

First Sights:

As the cutlery sharks pacified, back into the depths

Whence, I too, descended. Only for one more sip.

Sips turn into a chug, which turn into grey hairs.

Hairs upon dogs I wish I had brought along, if only to keep warm.

Up above, breeze of the sea poured salt into me.

That was how I came to see the sights of the city:

We passed by endless roads of nothingness, always paved.

By the wayside were the routine machines paving their ways.

Little cars which drove themselves, express purpose of open flame.

And beside them, the skyscrapers, all plain and never-ending.

So too I, my whole face agape, will we ever find sanctuary?

Past the gangs, past each base, I wanted to know

what was past it all.

All our gazes, mine especially, shifted to the forests.

Those haunting woods with their shrill howls abound.

Those hounds which surely lurk, stalk, prey for me.

As I should pray for them, if my hands weren’t for drinking.

Those thickets and bushes, rustling of leaves from them trees.

I believe I could see shadows from the plants, the rabbits.

Deer and bears, then, something glistening:

Behooved horned creature.

They say Hemingway drank from its blood.

An open wound to ease the troubles.

As I partake in a drink of my own. Common cure for the bereavement.

It stood to reason, I stand with my legs bent.

Cane not quite working, leg machine broken.

Forests, woods, pines, all stretched for miles and kilometers.

Other units of measurements. I don’t know them.

Centipentagrams? Terasects? Parallax?

One of those words are not like the others.

All that matters is the endlessness...the vast.

Undergrowth overtaking, but a crease, it does cease:

Trees line up. Stop.

Stop! Stop it!

Groan. I knew it.

I know, I knew it then.

The alcohol will not, would not, can never keep it at bay.

Oceans, tempest, they all expand. But the forest doesn’t.

Ain’t hear a root a shootin’.

City limits, where you think it ends, it doesn’t.

There is a mountain, next.

Hills, a rocky point. The forest itself a circle.

No, a circle cannot be a square.

Even if the circle be a peg, cannot be a leg.

Let me explain: like a barrier, a veil, a shield.

Preventing or protecting, cannot say.

But at the hills, past the rocky trail, lie a cliff-side.

Where I see their home: the final base.

We sure were sailing away.

To Virginia:

Dear friend, how did you let the years fill you up so fast?

Like the drink in my belly, in my liver, in my gut.

I ask for you gracefully, without a poem or a song to be sung.

No pretense about it, I remember your top aide:

Was it Vera? Or Santa Maria? Flo-Rida? Maybe I don’t remember. Let me partake once more.

Aha!

As you are Ginny, she was Victory.

You and her and Virgil. The three of you in matrimony.

No doubt, you lost her in the hospital. As well as yourself.

Every day I stop being me, becoming an adjacent memory.

One day Heart. Hearth. Earth. Arthur. Hurt.

What do any of those ‘words’ mean?

Anyway, if I make it out, I won’t tell the outside:

That you were mad, wicked, numb, or naive.

I’ll read not only my poetry, but your unspoken words.

Just like the way you must wish for it to be.

Just you and her and him.

Those words you wish you could tell him that he already knows.

Those words you still wish you could tell him, anyway.

Before the hospital made you forget.

Or you chose to go.

I wouldn’t blame you, either way.

Oh! Look! Out on the cliff-side face! It’s your base!

Operations were much smoother when you didn’t have to think.

Wouldn’t you agree? Or is it just through my eyes that see?

See far too many things...right now I see…

Just past your base. To my ship’s side. It is!

I look and see To the Lighthouse, its burning beams.

Searchlights take us all someday. So I hope.

What am I doing? Writing this letter to you?

Who am I kidding? It will never get sent.

Just like you will never say the words to him.

The ones he already knows, but you wish you could say.

That’s OK. Just like Oklahoma, the place.

I read about it when I was a kid.

Millennia and a half, maybe more, ago.

It was said to have existed. Like Agartha.

Like Atlantis.

But those places were fairy tales we told each other as children.

I never met you as a kid. I never much believed in the English.

Your house and its hinges, where you reside, your age untapped.

By madness, it still lies still.

No fear for you, only admiration.

I would have let you criticise me any day, if I could continue.

You may live to see more days, but will you ever escape?

Look! I see your garden! Down by the beaches!

Your little Daisies and Petunias, Pansies and Begonias.

How you would walk with your watering can.

Sing, “I must tend to my Sapphics.”

Hark! On cue, one of those devoted.

Adeline with bear claws, passes by pansies.

Hangs on a laundry line a pair of panties.

I wave, so does she. She asks the crew what we’re doing.

“We’re sailing for freedom!” I make my declaration.

“Yeah! Come get y’all freedom!” She echoes the statement.

Even if I cannot send you this letter when my men escape.

I would like to pretend that you have read it.

If there were any proof of an outside world. Or a “world” at all.

I would like to send this your way, as a form of evidence.

I have to go now, Ginny, for gin is calling me

and the end is approaching, my dear friend.

Whom I’ve never interacted with.

Part VI: The End:

Earth is Both Round and Flat:

We did it.

Thoughts and prayers were answered with cheers.

Clangs of mugs! Hoo-rah!

I take my tiptoes to Phil Howards, he mumbles

about his fiendish friend, from the clergy, St. Eliot:

“The sea is a wasteland...the sea is a wasteland…”

I shake my head. The Wasteland was what I counteract.

For water is not soil. Or so it was, I would have soiled my pants.

Rather than the piss that smelled of bourbon.

Taking to him, I say:

“We made it! Soon we shall live!”

His eyes, first things to turn, I see not.

Instead, clam shells or oyster heads.

Spiral homes for hermit crabs.

His mouth was a starfish.

Words were no longer important.

But so I heard, just as I will hear:

“We have not left, only departed. The true end is the end.”

I leave him. There is an above to this.

There cannot be a Hell with a head above water.

One man in the crowd eyes eyes with I, I eye him.

We kiss. First on the lips, then on the fists.

Fists kiss with fists, knuckles bloody.

How men make love aboard a ship of relations.

One other man sees and comes up to me:

“Something new!”

I look. But I disagree.

“Familiar should not be new.”

Image of our former base of operations, in flames.

How we left it. How we left everything.

I shake, so does my face. My head, for good measure.

“Must be a mistake. Sail faster.”

So we went at it. Pushed around, left to right.

Sway with the night; harder, faster, stronger, better.

Currents in our favor. We didn’t yet notice the ship was lower.

Until we reached the end again and found ourselves

back at the beginning.

Water fills the top decks; our ankles get licked by it.

Its liquid, thicker than my blood long since poisoned.

If there is anything I can do, all our years of plans, and

We remain in the same place for I cannot locate action.

“Captain! We keep going around, and each time we do

We sink further below? What is the meaning behind this?”

“Words too obvious! This is a poem!”

“Ah! You’re right! ‘T’is my testicles caressed by Satan!’”

“Much better.”

So I stew in my saltwater sweat. Tastes like men.

So do I, but I don’t let it become my doppelganger.

I will not have my sweat swallow me.

Not when I can swallow it. Sweat is my pride.

Seagulls ahead, murderous cries.

Part VII: Leviathan:

Rumbling in the water:

Riptides in the muddled pond.

It was bad enough to find that the ocean was a moat.

City is a donut hole. No nutrition, only fat.

Our knees were tickled by seaweed. Or mine, leg hair algae.

Riptides grew louder; ripple effect of defective parapets.

My precept for perception failing me.

At this point we started noticing things:

Crocodiles jumping gangrene and tails wagging.

My men grabbed the nearest pointed weapon.

Fire open! Battle cries like the wild ride we chose for ourselves.

But fire proved to be nothing against the Crocodile’s hardened skin.

Us all, cowering, but I, I saw myself as a Doge, crowning.

Wow! It becomes time to step up! Wow!

With the press of a button, my phallus expands.

With it, I can swordfight Crocodiles.

Even past my prime, I am told I hold it well.

We’ll see, when it’s skin against teeth.

Reptiles have bite, but my blade does slice.

For all those teeth, I was the one who made the creatures bleed.

Bleed and retreat, just as the burden of being on the sea.

Sailors and Maritime sea-shanties sing

of a magnificent phallic fascination.

The battle itself, legendary. Decisive victory.

As the last of the creatures fled, my blade sheathed.

My blood was in my body, but I felt as if I was losing it all.

Forfeiting, for I already knew the truth:

the bridge that collapsed was our only way out.

Through it, we could have reached the tunnel.

But no more.

The tunnel is a sheet.

Over a black hole.

Sucking us in to the idea of freedom.

Suckering us, just as it does, and we fell into it.

My head sinks, no drinks left.

Far too sober, head sick. Head split.

“For those who want to live, leave now.”

Were the words I wished to say to my men.

But just as I addressed my evacuating sea men, ripple effect.

Ears ringing. Before, the creatures with teeth

may have made my fellows depart from me.

With my phallus back in my pants, sea men wouldn’t evacuate.

And, as my past erections, in an instant, from the waters

a great creature did rise!

Some unknown poison flower, a mouth dripping.

Plant with scales like a dragon fruit blooming.

Fins and tails, a face thought to be extinct.

Eyes of pure malice, flame emitting.

If there was a time to evacuate, the sea men should have.

Too magnificent, too arousing. Fear heightened.

Taller than the highest man-made structures.

Taller than structures made by AI.

So tall in stature that its body was nary a body at all

But a sizable shadow. Us, breadcrumbs.

If it weren’t for the hatred which summoned it

we may have gone unnoticed.

Too frozen in fear to jump overboard.

Us, a collective, hundreds, morsels to the beast.

Try as I might, there were no apt descriptors.

Despite the prior attempt. It was too great.

My heart understood true hopelessness.

The way the creature leaned until face against our ship:

Eyeing its meal.

“Everyone. Let’s all kiss one another

before our time is up.”

All of our systems, dry.

If not for its distaste for our attempted dissent

we wouldn’t have been its candidate for digestion.

Bestial and anomalous.

One of (Phillip Howards) Craftlover’s anonymity.

I understood his words now; the powerlessness.

Us all must have felt.

Yet powerful, in our final moments, like the Spartans.

No, Athenians. We had to be them: naked and unafraid.

My Grandmother’s Grandmother’s Grandmother:

If you were here with us, would you remember anyone at all?

I looked up to you, thighs greater than the legend of the Grand Canyon.

Child, Baby Boy, I was. You, the Great Grandmother. Mafia Don.

Gang leader with a Sailor’s tongue.

Someone so kindly, baking all the burly men cookies.

I remember, as a child, you told me:

“When I was your age, I sat upon the lap of my Grandmother.

Just as she sat upon the lap of hers. Then, there was your mother.

She had no lap for anyone to sit upon. Aside, the role was for

Us Grandmothers.”

I asked you what to do if a man loves a man and

a men love a men as a whole and everyone had a Sailor’s tongue.

You laughed and said how you were no man, yet

every Sailor needed somebody to bake cookies. It was a maritime rule.

You said how next there will be no grandmothers

because I was the next one chosen.

I objected, your crystalline eye, your sibylline prophecy.

If it would come true, who could I be?

My feelings lie not in war, but the act of action itself.

In turn, you told me:

“When you have feelings, you write poetry.

Poetry lets you hang your naked body in full display

without you being filled with shame.

Poetry is why some men live, laugh, and love.

Others eat, drink, and be merry.

For you, to have a gay old time, just find a rhyme.

Don’t worry about whether it makes sense.

That’s not what metaphors are there for.

Therefore, go off and lay your feelings bare.

Face down, buttocks up.

No need to worry about lazing on your bum.

That’s what men love!”

That was how I would become

the one who crocheted tea stands

with white-knuckled hands and a fluoride thread.

Though I could not bake cookies, I could write poetry.

When you left in the war, I grew to be an old man

before even leaving my twenties.

If you were with us, would you stare the beast into the eye

and serve it cookies?

All we have is our fists. Our spears which pierced with love.

Impaled with the most tender of grafts.

What rendered is a great sense of despair.

Our mission was being fulfilled.

In our failures, we were a success story.

What does it all mean? Would you have said:

“I am your grandmother and I have a lap”?

If I so loved a woman, she would have been you.

I miss your guidance, your arms like monkey bars.

If I know not the right answer, call it nostalgia

that illuminates my soul.

Vore:

“Men! If we shall go, we shall go with in the midst of action!”

That wasn’t what I shouted, but I seconded the motion.

No more. No more. No more. No more. No more.

There weren’t any more words.

For all the times others have swallowed me whole.

This was too much. Too great to bear.

I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

What I wish for is to be a poet. Lover. Man.

Not dead. Not mad. Not dead. Not mad.

I watched them; spears made of lightning; code.

Binary and hexadecimal creating enough energy

to electrocute the seas, but focus on the beast.

Everyone, everyone but me. They fought, ‘til the end.

Bitter was the end. For the violence only made the beast grew.

Larger and larger, a boastful source of nourishment.

All our attacks made it hungrier. Rather, it wasn’t an invincibility:

not that we couldn’t scratch; each scratch gave more life to it.

Whatever I had called such a mass of distortion in the seas

it wasn’t correct. This beast, its shape could not be contained.

Not one shape. Not one shape. Square hole in round pegs.

Would any survive the fight? Would any love me?

See me as the lover I am, or once was, before I couldn’t stop?

Or would they see me as a coward, for refusing to be devoured?

Yes.

I watched all of them.

And I jumped, so I could meet my end elsewhere.

Bottom of this body of water, my body shall lie.

To think, I may only become a footnote in the overall history.

The Pantheon’s memory itself is a beast.

Goodbye, my men.

(Before I lost consciousness, my eyes remained open. Before all systems shut down, I noticed: my mind had been awake for too long a time. Over one hour had elapsed. By then, the beast must have returned from whence it came. I fear it may not be the only one. One if by land, one if by sea. So it must be. What of my body? No. Bad question. What of the end? When would I reach the bottom? Every downward spiral, my star loses its twinkle. Each descent, further fading, and every second it grows darker, I think it has reached the blackest point but IT BLACKENS FURTHER. There is no lowest point, it only grows lower, and I may never see a true end…)

Part VIII: Lost at Sea:

Deserted Virgin Islands:

...Cannot have a maiden voyage with crowded cabins

where everyone, so close, almost congealed

tied to each other, mingling and bleeding

to paint the halls and the boards on the floor.

No captain in the captain’s quarters, the wheel

has steered itself.

Down the stream is a continual loop, further

degrading its health.

Further sinking down, no smooth landing.

Only sandpaper on the ocean floor.

Course correction won’t save the inhabitants

when there is nowhere beyond the boundaries.

Outside, empty. Land, empty. Earth experiencing

a flirtation with entropy, a perfect reciprocity.

Forego the salutations. Wave and be forgotten

for what is best is to stare it into the mouth

and drown, than to let yourself be eaten.

#intention headaches #fiction #horror #grimdark #cyberpunk #poem #poetry #poem collection #the bridge #hart crane #lovecraft #bury your gays #all apologies #I know I dont like the bury your gays trope #but theres a lot with this story as a whole where it has topics im otherwise uncomfortable with

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wisdomfish · 4 years ago

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Overcoming Evil With Generosity

Love overcomes evil by doing good, and one of the marks of genuine love is that it is generous.

Paul spells out what this looks like in Romans 12:9-21:

Contribute to the needs of the saints and seek to show hospitality. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep (Romans 12:13-15).

Generosity is seen when we open our home to others, or help to alleviate their needs. It is shown when we share the joys and sorrows of others, but most of all, it is put on display when we choose to bless those who have hurt us.

Blessing someone who has hurt you doesn’t come naturally. When someone brings pain into your life, you will be tempted to focus on the injustice of what they have done. You will be tempted to brood over what you have lost, like Jonah who was angry when the plant that had given him shade was taken away. But God calls us to something better.

Generous people give more than is needed or expected. They give when kindness is not deserved and where it may never be returned. And God calls us to this because this is how He has dealt with us.

So how can we grow in generosity, and show kindness towards those who have hurt us?

1. Reflect on the example of Jesus.

One wound leads to another in our culture, and we become more and more divided. It is “an eye for an eye until the whole world goes blind” as Gandhi once said.

But Jesus was different. When the soldiers nailed our Lord to the cross, He did not curse them.

When He was reviled, He did not revile in return (1 Pet. 2:23).

Jesus sought the good of those who brought Him pain. He prayed, “Father, forgive them, they do not know what they are doing” (Lk. 23:34, NIV).

And Peter makes it clear that Jesus’ generosity towards those who wounded Him is an example for us to follow.

“For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you might follow in His steps,” (1 Pet. 2:20-21).

2. Consider the position of the person who has hurt you

Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). That tells us something about the spiritual condition of those who were persecuting Him. They were spiritually blind. They did not know because they could not see.

Robert Candlish1 points out that when a wrong is done to you, you can respond in one of two ways. One is to brood on the offense. But if you do that, your heart will soon become hard. A better way is to put yourself in the shoes of the person who has hurt you, and ask yourself:

What would my life have been like if his/her story had been mine?

What would I be like if I had experienced what he/she has endured?

What if I was estranged from the knowledge of the love of God as he or she may be?

When Jonah was resentful towards the rebellious city of Nineveh, God said to him, “Should not I pity Nineveh?” (Jonah 4:11). Nineveh was a city of 120,000 people, and God said they “do not know their right hand from their left.”

The Ninevites had sinned to the point where they no longer knew the difference between right and wrong. To them evil had become good and good had become evil. That’s a tragic condition. It doesn’t call for anger, but for pity and compassion. “Jonah, when you see a their true spiritual condition, you will feel sorry for them!” In the same way, when you see the position of a person who doesn’t know what they are doing, you will have compassion, and compassion gives birth to generosity.

3. Remember how God has dealt with you.

While we were still sinners Christ died for us (Rom. 5:8). While we were still hostile to Him, God loved us (Rom. 8:7). While we were still God’s enemies He reconciled us to Himself in Christ (Rom. 5:10).

Generosity towards those who hurt us lies at the heart of the gospel, and it can have surprising results. God’s kindness led us to repentance (Romans 2:4), and your kindness towards someone who has hurt you may have the same effect

Our missions pastor, Brad Mullet, told me the story of Dusan, a believer he met on a recent trip. Dusan is Serbian but he grew up in Croatia where his family had lived and worked peaceably for years. But when war broke out in 1991, Serbians living in Croatia were rounded up and imprisoned.

After some weeks, Croatia agreed to repatriate about 250,000 Serbs who were being held within their borders. Dusan, at the age of 9, was put on a bus to go to Serbia with his mother and other siblings along with other children and their mothers. Fathers and older sons remained in prison in Croatia.

So Dusan boarded the bus, leaving his home with just one bag of personal possessions.

The journey was long, and when they finally stopped, Dusan charged off the bus. Thinking that they were in Serbia, he started shouting Serbian chants and yelling curses against Croatians. “I did this as only a zealous nine-year-old sinner could do.” Dusan said.

Dusan’s mother sprinted off the bus behind him and, when she caught up with him, clapped her hand over his mouth. “Be quiet! We’re still in Croatia!” she said.

Right then, Dusan noticed the squad of Croatian soldiers around them. The soldiers had heard him shouting and cursing, and one of them walked toward him. “Is this your son?” he asked Dusan’s mother. The mother was so afraid, she couldn’t utter a word. She just stood there with her head down, holding on to her son. The soldier told them to stay where they were, surrounded by Croatian army, and said he would be back.

After some time, he returned carrying a box. “It’s a long journey,” he said to Dusan. Here is something to eat and drink.” When Dusan opened the box, he found that it was full of treats and snacks.

Years later, when Dusan heard the gospel, he remembered the kindness of the Croatian soldier. “Here’s what the gospel is like,” he said. “It’s like I came running off the bus, shouting obscenities against God, clearly his enemy and clearly powerless, and God responded with a gift!”

And what a gift! The Son of God loved us and gave himself for us. (Galatians 2:20)

God overcomes evil with generosity and He calls us, by the power of His Spirit, to deal with others as He has dealt with us.

~ Colin Smith

1. Robert Candlish, Studies in Romans 12 (Grand Rapids: Kregel, 1989), 244.

#croatia #serbia #journey #generosity #christianity

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dypuh-blog · 4 years ago

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Kathakali - The Grand Spectacle of Kerala

Kathakali is a profoundly stylised old style move show portrayed by its alluring make-up of its characters, expound outfits, definite motions and very much characterized body developments introduced in line with the grapple playback music and going with percussion. It began in the territory of Kerala during the sixteenth century AD, roughly somewhere in the range of 1555 and 1605. Kathakali has experienced fast updation and enhancements throughout the years.

The fundamental rights of a fruitful Kathakali entertainer are his aptitudes of fixation and physical endurance. Imperative endurance to last an entire night of thorough execution is picked up from controlled preparing dependent on Kalaripayattu, the old military craft of Kerala. This preparation readies an on-screen character for his requesting job. The preparation can frequently keep going for 8-10 years, and is escalated. The serious Kalaripayattu preparing has additionally subliminally impacted the non-verbal communication of Kathakali characters.

Historical underpinnings:

The name Kathakali gets from the Malayalam words "katha" (story) and "kali" (which means: play or execution).

Brief History:

As indicated by legends, Kathakali began from a forerunner move show structure called Ramanattam and owes a considerable lot of its exhibitions to Krishnanattam. To put it plainly, these two forerunning structures to Kathakali managed introducing accounts of the Hindu Gods Rama and Krishna (both are natural appearances of the Preserver among the Hindu trinity-Vishnu).

Legend has it that Kottarakkara Thampuran (1555-1605) (leader of the south Kerala area of Kottarakkara) formed most plays dependent on the Ramayana that in the long run prompted the development of Kathakali. In spite of the fact that Ramanattam as a work of art is wiped out, its accounts keep on living as a piece of Kathakali.

Kathakali is the consequence of effective amalgamation from different artistic expressions. It imparts likenesses to Krishnanattam, Koodiyattam (a Sanskrit dramatization execution of Kerala) and Ashtapadiyattam (an adjustment of twelfth century melodic called Gitagovindam). It likewise joins a few components from other conventional ceremonial works of art like Mudiyettu, Thiyyattu, Theyyam and Padayani other than a minor portion of society expressions like Porattunatakam.

Kathakali melodies are rendered in Manipravalam-which is a blend of the traditional language Sanskrit and neighborhood language Malayalam. Despite the fact that a large portion of the melodies are set in ragas dependent on the microtone-overwhelming Carnatic music, there is an unmistakable style of plain-note interpretation, which is known as the Sopanam style. This normally Kerala style of version takes its underlying foundations from the sanctuary melodies which used to be sung (proceeds even now at a few sanctuaries) when Kathakali was conceived.

The characters of Kathakali show up with vigorously painted faces and expand outfits. The movement is profoundly best in class (principally created Kaplingad Narayanan Namboodiri - 1739-1789) and authorizes stories transcendently from the Hindu sagas. Despite the fact that Kathakali was customarily been acted in sanctuaries and castles,Alex Kime Chicago over the previous century it has likewise discovered settings in post-reap paddy fields just as proscenium phases of open corridors/auditoria. Kathakali is a visual treat and its green painted entertainer has gotten interchangeable with the raised culture of Kerala.

Noticeable highlights of Kathakali:

Kathakali comprises of five old style components of compelling artwork:

Articulations (Natyam, the segment with accentuation on outward appearances)

Move (Nritham, the segment of hit the dance floor with accentuation on mood and development of hands, legs and body)

Establishment (Nrithyam, the component of dramatization with accentuation on "mudras", which are hand signals)

Tune/vocal backup (Geetha)

Instrument backup (Vadyam)

Kathakali plays

Generally there are 101 traditional Kathakali stories. The most usually organized stories among them may associate with 30-40. In those occasions when amusement media was amazingly constrained, Kathakali exhibitions were intended to last an entire night. We may state it might have evoked the reaction of a contemporary live performance.

Execution

Kathakali in its most flawless structure is acted before the immense Kalivilakku (kali importance move or execution and vilakku meaning light). The light was lit with a thick wick fuelled by coconut oil. This light was the single wellspring of brightening when the plays used to be performed inside sanctuaries, royal residences or homes of aristocrats and blue-bloods. This aided in making a feeling of wonderment and riddle and helped the entertainer misrepresent the characters he played. It was conceivably one of the principal compelling employments of light to highlight the characters and make a display.

Kathakali is instituted with the backup of music (geetha) and instruments (vadyam). The percussion instruments utilized are Chenda, Maddhalam and Edakka. The lead artist is classified "Ponnani" and his devotee is designated "Shingidi". The lead artist utilizes the "Changala" (gong made of chime metal, which can be hit with a wooden stick) to direct the Vadyam and Geetha segments, similarly as a conduit utilizes his wand in western traditional music and the Shingidi utilizes the "Elathalam" (a couple of cymbals) to add a variety to the music. Most music is customarily framed in gatherings of up to 14 individuals. Be that as it may, typically the melodies are formed with more than 20 individuals.

The distinctive element of Kathakali is that the entertainers never talk yet use hand signals, articulations and cadenced moving rather than discourse (however for two or three uncommon characters). The story is established simply by the developments of the hands (called mudras or hand motions) and by outward appearances (rasas) and substantial developments. The articulations are gotten from Natya Shastra (the tome that manages the study of articulations) and are arranged into nine as in most Indian old style fine arts. Artists additionally experience exceptional practice meetings to learn control of their eye developments.

Kathakali execution rotates around 24 essential mudras - the change and mix of which would include a piece of the hand motions stylish today. Each can be separated again can be grouped into 'Samaana-mudras'(one mudra representing two substances) or "Misra-mudras" (both the hands are utilized to show these mudras). The mudras are a type of gesture based communication used to recount to the story.

The fundamental outward appearances of a Kathakali craftsman are the 'Navarasams' (Nine tastes or articulations). The Navarasams are: Sringaram (love), Hasyam (scorn, humor), Bhayanakam (dread), Karunam (sentiment), Roudram (outrage, rage), Veeram (valor), Beebhatsam (sicken), Adbhutam (wonder, awe), Shantam (serenity, harmony).

Kathakali has an intricate make-up code. The make-up might be characterized into five essential sets to be specific Pachcha, Kathi, Kari, Thaadi, and Minukku. The contrasts between these sets lie in the prevalent hues that are applied on the face. Pachcha (which means green) has green as the prevailing shading and is utilized to depict honorable male characters that are said to have a blend of "Satvik" (devout) and "Rajasik" (regal) nature. Rajasik characters having a detestable streak ("tamasic"= fiendish) - no different they are screw-ups in the play, (for example, the evil spirit ruler Ravana) - and depicted with dashes of red in a green-painted face. Too much underhandedness characters, for example, evil presences (absolutely tamasic) have an overwhelmingly red make-up and a red facial hair. They are called Chuvanna Thaadi (Red Beard). Tamasic characters, for example, ignoble trackers and woodsmen are spoken to with a transcendently dark make-up base and a dark facial hair and are called Kari/Karutha Thaadi (which means dark whiskers). Ladies and religious zealots have glistening, yellowish appearances and this semi-sensible classification shapes the fifth class. Moreover, there are alterations of the five fundamental sets portrayed better than as Vella Thadi (white whiskers) used to delineate Hanuman (the Monkey-God) and Pazhuppu, which is significantly utilized for Lord Shiva and Balabhadra.

Minukku

Minukku is the cleaned assortment of facial make-up comprising in smoothening the entertainer's face with a covering of a blend of yellow and red shades. The arrangement gets 'a self' (or normal skin) appearance shading. It mirrors the characters normally found in Brahmins, Ascetics and Virtuous ladies. The eyes and eye-lashes are painted and shapes lengthened with the dark unguent and oily collyrium. Some of the time the face is enriched with white or cream shading specks, running from the cheeks to the front head in a bow-shape. The lips are blushed and the temple is enriched with a station mark. This shading plan serves to give a representative sparkle of devotion to a fan character. Ladies job types are given sensitive contacts of the make-up.

Pachcha

Pachcha delineates a dark green face. The endorsed jobs are Gods, commended legendary saints, and ethical personages, representing internal refinement balance, chivalry and good greatness. This incorporate legends of a play and honorable characters, Indra, Krishna, Rama, Lakshmana, Bharata, Sathrugnan, Harishchandra and Nala. The forward portion of their appearances is given smooth dark green base on which chuttis (white rice-glue bends) run from the focal point of the jawline, covering the lower jaw, to either side of the face. The eyes and the eye-lashes are painted dark and the lips splendid red. It expect the state of a wide cutting edge saber or of a broad bend of a bow. The brow, over the tie formed painted segment, is secured by a red lace of the overlaid head gear.

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the-monkey-ruler · 10 months ago

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Do you think you could make a list from the strongest demon king to the weakest?

Maybe Wukong's sworn brothers other than the demon bull king wouldn't be included because we never see them fight (although I understand they fought alongside Wukong when he rebelled against heaven?)

I could only give out a rough outline since I'm not really a 'power scaler' and honestly it's hard to say if by strong you mean the most difficult or if they had powerful attacks. Most of Wukong's worst fights aren't, particularly because his enemies were physically powerful but just had a strong weapon or a single powerful attack while being a glass canon.

While Wukong's sworn brothers did join the fight against heaven, their own armies were captured. Not sure if this was to reflect Wukong's favoritism toward his own monkeys or to show how his sworn brothers were outclassed but I am not even going to try to guess.

So this will be more of a list of Wukong Most DIFFICULT fights to the easiest fights.

Hurt Wukong Trapped Wukong Fought (tie) Fought (lost) Lost without Fight Never seen Fight (inconclusive) Magic Item

Red Boy - made Wukong pass out, Guanyin subdued him, glass cannon

Scorpion Demoness - poisoned Wukong, killed by Pleiades Star Offical, glass cannon

Yellow Wind Demon - make Wukong blind, he needed Lingshan's help, glass cannon

Hundred-Eyed Demon Lord - blinded Wukong momentarily, also taken out by Star Official Pleides

Golden-Winged Great Peng - Talons overpowered Wukong, was taken out by Buddha

Silver Horned King - captured Wukong due to magic spell and has magic item, was killed later though

Single Horned Rhinoceros King - very powerful magic item used, subdued by Laozi

Yellow Brows Great King - powerful magic item and needed Maitreya Buddha help to defeat

Princess Iron Fan - blew Wukong away with magic item, he needed Lingshan's help

Golden Horned King - captured Wukong due to magic items

Six Eared Macaque - tie until Buddha gave Wukong the upper hand

Bull Demon King - impressive fight but still ran away after being overwhelmed in numbers

Yellow Robe Demon - impressive fight but Wukong still needed the 28 Star's help

Nine-Headed Insect - ran away until taken out by Erlang Shen

Black Wind King - good at escaping, needed Gaunyin's help

Great Immortal King of Spiritual Touch - Gaunyin defeated in the end

Yellow Toothed Elephant - defeated Bajie, lost to Wukong

Azure Lion / Lion-Lynx Demon - defeated Wujing, lost to Wukong

Grand Saint of Nine Spirits - Wukong had Tianzun to help

King of Dust Protection - captured Bajie and Wujing

King of Heat Protection - captured Bajie and Wujing

King of Cold Protection - captured Bajie and Wujing, was killed by Bajie

Lady Earth Flow - able to slip away, needed Nezha and King's Li's help

Great King Jupiter's Rival - had a magic item but never got a chance to use against Wukong

Tuolong Black River God - his own cousin took him out but even Wujing could fight him

Python Demon

White Bone Demon - hard to pin down but killed in one blow

Spider Demons - stole Sanzang but very easy to defeat

King of the Southern Hill

Tiger Strength Great Immortal

Elk Strength Great Immortal

Antelope Strength Immortal

White Deer Spirit

Nine-Tailed Vixen

Great King Fox Number Seven

Wansheng Dragon King

Demon King of Confusion

Dragon Demon King

Peng Demon King

Lion Demon King

Female Macaque King

Snub Nose Monkey King

Bear Mountain Lord

This is my personal take on the Demon Kings and as you can see, I did include demons that aren’t technically Demon Kings but rather the main antagonist in their arc. This also doesn't include ALL the demons or any gods or immortals that Wukong has fought with either, these are just the Demon Kings (or at least demons that are the big bad in their arcs) so there are still other antagonists that are in the book on here.

I am solely going on how the fights went in my notes and what I can remember so if you remember these fights going differently and actually want to add any details please let me know. I didn't include anything that the demons like 'claim' to have or powers or feats that they have done, just what they ACTAULLY did in the story, cause actions speak louder than words.

There could be grey area with the demons with magic items. And you could argue how easily the demons that caused Wukong the most damage were easily defeated by other gods just because they could bypass their one (1) magic spell gimic that was just giving Wukong trouble. Two of these Demon Kings were taken out by the SAME ROOSTER just because they are insect demons and roosters are their natural enemies. So take that as you will... Other demons Kings were defeated just cause their owner showed up before they could really fight too.

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heatofthehunt · 5 years ago

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FOLKLORE CALENDAR DAY FOUR

GUINEFORT

In contrast to yesterdays venture into demonology, the name Guinefort actually comes from St. Guinefort, the dog saint of folk Catholicism. In 'Heat of the Hunt' it is the job of Gabriel, as huntmaster, to patrol the borders of his fae clan territory and ensure their existence remains hidden from mortals. In order to do this, in addition to his nine hounds, he is granted certain magikal abilities, which have in the past caused miraculous occurrences to be attributed to him. Guinefort is the name of one of his hounds.

Guinefort was a greyhound belonging to a knight who lived in a grand castle in Lyon, France. One day, the knight went out hunting, and left his young son guarded by his faithful hound. When the knight returned, he found an empty crib, and Guinefort greeted him with bloody jaws. In a grieving rage, the knight killed the dog. It was only after this that the knight moved some blankets aside and found the body of a dead viper and his perfectly unharmed son.

The family, in their sorrow, dropped the body of Guinefort down a well and covered him over with stones, before planting a grove of trees around the site. This folkloric element may have links to the practice, which we have previously considered, of burying dogs at important sites in order to put them under the protection of a canine spirit.

Over time, the well became a site of pilgrimage, and locals visited the shrine to ask Guinefort for help in healing their infants. Women would leave salt and burning candles as offerings in the grove, despite the practice being branded as 'heathen'. Around one hundred years after the shrine was erected a friar, named Stephen of Bourbon, had Guinefort's body dug up and burned, and the trees cut down. But, such reverence and belief was attached to the martyred animal that the cult of the dog saint persisted well into the 1930s, despite the prohibitions of the Catholic church.

If you find folklore fascinating, you might just enjoy reading 'Heat of the Hunt'. It is available to order direct from the author or from your local Waterstones.

Paperback: www.facebook.com/heatofthehunt

Ebook: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B07WK82T62?pf_rd_p=f20e70b1-67f9-48d1-8c78-ba616030b420&pf_rd_r=Y7APR3JWBJHKSXAWJPMG

Image: ancient - origins. net

#folklore #french folklore #mythology #myth #guinefort #dog saint #dog cult #folklore research #heat of the hunt #greyhound #miracles #heathen #Magic

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solitariussanctumartarchitecture · 5 years ago

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The Sistine Ceiling

Within the vast complex of Vatican City, which is an independent city-state with its own governing body as well as the seat of the Pope in the Roman Catholic faith, is the famed Sistine Chapel (also known as the Venue of the Papal Conclave). The chapel is named after Pope Sixtus IV, who commissioned its restoration in the late 15th century. Originally, it was defined as the chapel of the Vatican fort, known as Cappella Magna. The chapel serves various important functions, from celebrating papal acts to ceremonies of the Catholic rite, but its major religious role is that of the site where cardinals meet to elect the next pope. The building where the Sistine chapel is located of the building very close to St. Peter’s Basilica and the Belvedere Courtyard in the Vatican.

The Sistine Chapel is also the home of 2 magnificent frescoes painted by the famed Michelangelo, the Sistine Ceiling (as it is known by) and later, The Last Judgement. There are also works from other notable Renaissance artists, from the likes of Sandro Botticelli, Pietro Perugino, Pinturicchio, Domenico Ghirlandaio, Cosimo Rosselli, and Luca Signorelli. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was originally painted blue and covered with golden stars (think of the ceiling of Sainte-Chapelle's lower chapel). In 1508, Pope Julius II (1503-1513) commissioned Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the chapel, instead of leaving it as it was. The pope wanted the ceiling done in a " geometric ornament with the 12 apostles placed on spandrels around the decoration". However, Michelangelo suggested that instead of doing ornamentation, he would do a painting of scenes from the Old Testament. Although, at the time, Michelangelo had been known more for his work in sculpture (as he had recently completed his famous sculpture of the Pietá as well as his statue of David, both of which reside in the Vatican) rather than painting. But, never one to be daunted, Michelangelo rose to the challenge and went on to create one of the most famous fresco masterpieces in Western art!

𐰸 Rendering of the Sistine chapel before Michelangelo worked his magic on it 𐰸

The ceiling of the chapel is made up of 33 separate areas, each space containing a different scene. Each scene is divided using a technique called trompe-l'oeil (visual deception, especially in paintings, in which objects are rendered in extremely fine detail emphasizing the illusion of tactile and spatial qualities), giving the impression that each painting is divided by physical molding within the vault. They are painted in monochromatic colors, creating a spatial effect between each panel. In the center of the ceiling is a series of nine narrative paintings, depicting scenes from the book of Genesis. There are five smaller scenes, each framed and supported by four naked youths or Ignudi. The scenes start with the Creation of the World (Gen. 1) and end with Noah and the Flood (Gen 6:9).

The subject matter was, more than likely, laid out with the help of a cleric from the Vatican (and seeing how this was the home of the pope, he wanted to be sure to get it right!) The entire project took Michelangelo 4 years to complete and took a grave toll on his health. He penned this poem, describing how his work was taxing both his body and mind:

I've grown a goiter by dwelling in this den– As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy, Or in what other land they hap to be– Which drives the belly close beneath the chin: My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in, Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly Grows like a harp: a rich embroidery Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin. My loins into my paunch like levers grind: My buttock like a crupper bears my weight; My feet unguided wander to and fro; In front my skin grows loose and long; behind, By bending it becomes more taut and strait; Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow: Whence false and quaint, I know, Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye; For ill can aim the gun that bends awry. Come then, Giovanni, try To succor my dead pictures and my fame; Since foul I fare and painting is my shame.

The main theme of the frescoes is that of the connection between humans and God, and nowhere is this more evident than in the panel, The Creation of Adam. We are given a breathtaking vision of the spirit of God embodied as a human form, reaching across the heavens, just out of reach of Adam, who lazily reclines on a barren earth. This contact point has previously been described as a spark or current, an electrical metaphor which would be unknown to those in the sixteenth century. Nonetheless, it seems quite a fitting description, considering that the lifeblood which is about to flow into the awaiting Adam is similar to the flow of electric current produced when a wire is connected to a power source. In this case, the power source being God. This particular piece is world-famous and has been reproduced hundreds of thousands of times. And we can see why. It is such a powerful image.

At either end of the ceiling, and beneath the scenes are Prophets and Sibyls (a female prophet or witch, a nod to the pagan beginnings of religion) seated on grandiose thrones that alternate along the long sides, while the shorter sides are taken over by the figures of Zechariah and Jonah (situated above the altar) who has a distinguished position in so much as he is the adumbration of Christ. The crescent-shaped areas, or lunettes, above each of the chapel windows are tablets listing the forerunners of Christ and their accompanying figures. Above them, in the spandrels (the space between the shoulders of adjoining arches and the ceiling or molding above), eight groups of figures are displayed (however, they have not been identified with specific biblical characters). The entire narrative is finished off by four large corner pendentives (a curved triangle of vaulting formed by the intersection of a dome with its supporting arches) each one portraying a dramatic Biblical story. All of this illustrates the connections to Christ, before and after His birth and death, which are embodied in these paintings.

𐰸 map of the architectural features of the Sistine Ceiling 𐰸

𐰸 Guide to the artwork on Sistine Ceiling 𐰸

In 1510, Michelangelo decided that he needed a well-deserved break from this arduous assignment. Upon his return a year later, his style of painting had undergone a noticeable change. Rather than jumbled and multiple images within a scene, as previously done, Michelangelo had decided to minimise details and focus on essential figures, but on a grand scale. Also, he added a strong sense of emotion to the figures as well as dramatic gestures (as in The Creation of Adam). This would enable the viewer on the floor below to have a clear understanding of exactly what the scene was trying to convey. Further, when we look at the commanding figure of God in three of the frescoes, it clearly illustrates the separation of darkness from light, the creation of the heavens and the earth, all radiating its power through God's body. The influence of these works cannot be emphasized enough. The complexity of design in the individual figures display Michelangelo’s skill in creating a variety of poses for the human figure. His stupendous works have turned the Sistine Chapel into a veritable academy for future artists!

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domestic-harry · 6 years ago

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Hi, could you please do your 24 fics to take to vacation with, please. Dance to distortion is defo in my list already. Thank you.

Ooooh I like this idea! What an honor you added dttd :’) This will be a mix of adventure, feel good, angst longshots and some of my favorite pwp smut fics because you never know what you’ll be in the mood for.

24 Fics to take with you on Vacation

Walk That Mile : A Route 66 AU where falling in love was never part of the plan.

Escapade: In the grand scheme of things, finding a date for a wedding should be no problem for Louis Tomlinson. He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s reasonably well behaved. But when the wedding is for his lifelong best friend (and former boyfriend), and is happening in under a month, finding a date for the ceremony and accompanying festivities becomes more of an adventure than he ever could have planned for.

Atlas At Last : He doesn’t know what he had been expecting out of the road trip itself besides burping contests and too much shitty gas station food with Oli and Stan, but in the brief moment before Harry ambles up his driveway, Louis idly wonders if this is about to become some sort of Gay Coming of Age story.Maine to California in ten days. In which Zayn’s an open-shirt hippie they meet somewhere in Ohio, Liam’s the pastor’s son running away from home, and Niall’s the number they call on the bathroom wall.It’s 1978. Harry and Louis are just trying to get to San Fran in time for the Queen concert.

Baby Look What You’ve Done To Me : Louis moves into harry’s old flat. harry gets a lot of mail.

Cupid’s Defence : In which Harry is Cupid, Louis and Liam own a law firm, and they’re all getting sued.

Perfect Storm : What do you do when your best friend asks you and your (now) ex to be the best men at his destination wedding? You can either tell him the truth, tell him you’re not together anymore, and deal with the consequences, or you can pretend you’re still together and roll with it, just pray you don’t spiral. Fake it ‘til you make it. You know, for the sake of the wedding.Harry and Louis choose the latter.

Outwit, Outplay, Outlast : A Survivor All-Stars AU in which Harry and Louis are just in this game to win the million dollars, but they end up with something better.

I’ll Fuck You Like The Devil : Harry is 17, dresses as an angel for Halloween, and attends Louis’ Halloween party. Louis fucks him

Turning Page : Harry Styles tries to get lost in a place he’s never been. Louis Tomlinson has been perfecting the art of being lost for years. What they don’t expect to find is each other.

Switch Out The Batteries : Two years after meeting in a sex shop, Harry’s just returning to Louis from a month-long tour in the States, and they come up with a wholesome bonding exercise.

Through Eerie Chaos : For as long as anyone can remember, Old Hillsbridge Manor has always been believed to be haunted. Everyone in the village agrees and keeps a respectful, fearful, distance. New in town after a bad breakup and an internship that led to disappointment rather than a permanent job, Harry Styles figures taking pictures of the decrepit building could be a great new creative project. Or at least a much-needed distraction while he searches for a job and crashes at his parents’ new house. No one warned him about the apparitions though; about the music, the laughter, the people who flicker and vanish when you call after them, the echoes of a past that should be long gone… Harry has never believed in spirits but even he can admit that there’s something weird going on. What starts as mere curiosity evolves into a full-blown investigation and soon enough, Harry finds himself making friends with an aristocrat from the 1920s and struggling with finding the best way to tell him that he’s dead.

This Wicked Game : An AU in which The Bachelor is gay, Louis is a contestant, Harry is the bachelor, everyone drinks a lot of champagne, the entire world gets to watch them fall in love, and no one plays by the rules.

Down : Sometimes all Harry really wants is to play with Louis’ arse.

Never Be : The one where Harry Styles moves to Connecticut from England for nine months as a part of a study abroad program, and he just so happens to move in with Louis Tomlinson and family.

Here In The Afterglow : 1970’s AU. In a tiny town in Idaho, Louis’ life is changed forever by the arrival of a curious stranger.

Wild Love: Two best friends try to date each other for forty days. It’s supposed to be fun until emotions make it complicated.

Loving You Is Free : Louis is a workaholic record label CEO who hasn’t been on a date in nearly a year. Niall and Liam make an account for him on a sugar dating website as a joke. And then Louis meets Harry.

Baby Shut Your Mouth and Turn Me Inside Out : And it’s good. It’s really, really good. Except they haven’t really talked about any of this and Harry can’t muster the courage to bring it up. Niall’s words at the bar run through his mind nearly every day. Fresh meat. Is this a thing Louis does, then? Find a toy to play with for awhile until he gets bored?He knows Louis, though. He’s been friends with him for months now and he knows that he’s not just some heartless asshole. But he doesn’t know if this is just a nice convenient hook-up to him or something more, like how Harry feels. And he knows he should ask, but he’s not brave enough. Not brave enough to possibly ruin everything when Harry can take what he’s being offered without complaints.

Unbelievers : It’s Louis’ senior year, and he’s dead set on doing it right. However, along with his pair of cleats, a healthy dose of sarcasm and his ridiculous best friend, he’s also got a complicated family, a terrifyingly uncertain future, and a mortal enemy making his life just that much worse. Mortal enemies “with benefits” was not exactly the plan.

Jump in the Deep End : Louis’s arse is a sensitive subject, so Harry approaches it gently. With his tongue.

Adore You : Against his wishes, Harry spends the holidays at his family’s summer estate, and is reluctantly pulled into a courtship he didn’t ask for. Harry doesn’t want to get married, but Louis does. They don’t fit, but then again they really, really do.

Wings to Break Your Fall : Strip club AU. Harry’s work and family are keeping him busy. He really isn’t looking for a relationship, doesn’t want one. He just wants Louis. Problem is, Louis has other plans.

Finding Lou : Louis is the nomadic stranger who wanders into Harry’s bookstore. Harry is the skeptic who falls for him.

Tainted Saints and Velvet Vices : A self-fulfilling Hogwarts AU in which Louis is new to seventh year and Harry is the resident devil-may-care Slytherin set to make his entire experience a living misery. Due to less than favourable circumstances they’re forced to forge an unwilling, tentative relationship for their own survival. Repressed emotions, decidedly unromantic ballroom dancing, Triwizard Tournament tasks, creative jinxes and twilight flying above the Forbidden Forest ensue.

#you knew i had to add tainted saints since im reading it right now and dying over it #wow what a collection of fics #fic rec #asks #if you liked drarry this would be half drarry

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shawnlaveau · 5 years ago

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The Journey: A Guide to Ritual Work

In today’s online circles I see a lot of people talking about the rituals they are doing, but I don’t see a lot of people talking about why they do ritual aside from the possible manifestations of the ritual.They know that ritual work attracts the attention of the of the universe and affects the flow of energy to brings desires to manifestation but they don’t understand the ”how” of its working. In this post I would like to explore that ; what is it exactly that makes rituals work (in my own experience of course) and hopefully you benefit from it as I have.

Ritual has two technical definitions; the first “a religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to prescribed orders.” The second “relating to, or done as a religious or solemn rite.” While I feel both of these definitions do a very good job of getting straight to what ritual is, I do believe that they leave out a huge piece of what spiritual-ritual gives. The feeling of accomplishment. When the ritual is carried out in its proper steps, and followed through with whole devotion: whether it be in a church confirmation or a self-initiation into witchcraft, there is no greater feeling of having it done (and knowing that you did it with the best of your ability). I would compare that to a journey well traveled, and if that experience is the journey consider this a traveler's guide. (If you haven’t picked-up on it yet I will be continuing to use that metaphor for the rest of this post)

The first step to any journey is setting a destination. Getting into a car and driving until you are out of gas is a great way to see a lot of new and unfamiliar things, it is also a great way to end up stuck in the middle of a desert with no food or water and waiting for someone (anyone) to come and save you. The same can be said about ritual work; I have never see a ritual without a purpose. I would dare to say that one does not exist, but I know there is some fool out there waiting to hand a beer off so they can complete this foolish (and literally pointless) task. That being said, know where your ritual is going to take you. I have spent many a full moon night with all my tools laid out in preparation for a ritual with no idea what to do with them and not the slightest clue of where I was going with grand set-up. Also planning the journey sets in mind set of you actually make it there. A lot of the time when people have “mis-manifestation” within ritual work is because the knew what they wanted, they just didn’t know everything they would need to get there, but we’ll talk more about that as we go on. Also in the process of “setting your destination” you also might choose a travel companion. Sense a lot of ritual work is based around solar and lunar events (as well as astrological placements and many other things may coincide with goal) you may have enough time to build a relationship with a spirit that may lend an influence to your ritual working. This is where the process may become a little involved. When choosing a spirit (deity, saint, ancestors, spirit-guide, ect.) that you may want to accompany you on this journey divination is going to be required, because while there might be a lot of spirits that have jurisdiction over love, Venus may not help attract the same love as Saint Valentine. Just as you might consider the background of any friend you may want to take on a road trip (there strengths and weaknesses), you should do the same for the spirit you may choose to evoke to lend aid to your work. Also notice that I used the “evoke” as opposed to “invoke”; the spirit is not there to lead the ritual they are just called in to assist with direction of ritual. My suggestion for making sure that your goal is clear first start off by writing it out on a piece of paper and reading it out loud; once you know where the ritual will take you then divine on the purpose of the ritual, ask spirits you have a relationship with they will be able and willing to help you with it (if the spirits you already have don’t necessarily fit what you’re trying to manifest find a new spirit, do a reading and see if the spirit is willing to help and begin to build a relationship with them).

Once a goal has been set, and a spirit has agreed to help you on your journey; you’d think you’re ready to start the journey right? Well hold your horses partner, cause you’re not even nearly there yet. Once you’ve set a goal you need to study how you get there and what you’ll need to make it come out perfectly. I call this “studying the map.” In the phase of the process you gather all the tools that you may need in order to make this magical work come to manifestation. One of my favorite quotes is “If I had six hours to chop down a tree I would spend the first four sharpening the axe.” In my simplest understanding of that quote from Abraham Linclon, I would rather have a short amount of time and have all the tools I need, instead of having a lot of time and not having everything needed to make a successful ritual. That’s what leads a lot of people to mis-manifestation, they had a specific idea of what they wanted to manifest and picked herbs, crystals, and whatever else they may use that circle generally around the idea. That’s why instead of manifesting that dream job that pay amazing, you just get a nine-to-five that will help pay the bills; which isn’t all bad but its not exactly what you wanted. Studying the map is how we find our way to where we want to be, we even find tricks that might be considered shortcut (even though in true magic there is no such thing as a shortcut); things like, what we can offer the spirits to make them more inclined to be on our side, crystals that lend there vibration to enhance the work, and the perfect herbs that Mother Earth provides to achieve your goal. It also may help you, to look at an almanac to see what planetary placements, astrological movements and events will help you select the best day to work the ritual. You may even find a system of prayer, or magical working that coincides with spirit you choose to evoke, that may fit nicely into your ritual format. It is also possible that you may begin to write a script for your ritual in this stage, just so you know when the perfect time to execute certain actions, and to create an energetic flow through the ritual.

At this point in the post you have almost completed the ritual. You have studied the length of post; made the sacrifice of time; and have become completely dedicated to the task. The only thing left to do is begin the journey. I know that earlier on in the post that I may have given the idea that you doing the ritual work would be the completion of the journey but the completion of the ritual is the completion of the journey. Before you even get to the workings of the ritual there are still steps that you will have completed. The cleansing of the ritual space, the casting of a circle of protection, the calling of guardian/watchtowers/elementals. These steps are so important for magical workings, especially when doing ritual work. When a person is the divine in between that ritual creates they are very vulnerable, able to be attacked by any negative energies that may be hiding in the shadows waiting for the spiritual weakness. In the long run these steps also help prevent mis-manifestation because they prevent interference of any unwanted spirits, or any unwanted magical impressions being cast against you and what you may want to achieve. Now you're ready to begin the journey, and it will be just as fun as road trip you have ever taken but even more so. Yes there will be hurdles such as forgetting to put something out before the ritual has begun, or misreading the script that you created; but in spite of all of those things you will begin to feel the raise of energy within yourself, and spirits will look down on you pleased with the effort that you put for putting together this whole ritual, and watching you execute and will see fit to lend help to your will. Then that spirit GPS tell you “you have arrived!”

You did it! I am so proud of you, you have accomplished the ritual and start to see the your will being manifested in the world around. Once you’ve done it, it gets easier as you go. Just remember to set a course, have a clear goal in mind; choose a partner that you not only connect with but also connects with your cause; study your maps so you don’t end up missing your magical destination but instead you land exactly where you want to be; and bless and consecrate the space before beginning the journey. Once you have followed all the steps, with full intent of completion and absolute devotion to the ritual, not only will get feel of accomplishment but that feeling will be confirmation that you have executed a beautiful and successful ritual and that is why we do ritual. Because after all the work is done, all the time is put into connecting the elements of the ritual, you’ve built a working relationship with spirit and made your offerings, and you’ve gotten to the end of the ritual you have gained more confidence in your ability to manifest and create your own smaller work (cause if you can do something in such a grand manner doing a smaller candle spell will be a cake-walk). That is the purpose of the ritual work.

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