#Nile flood

[nicholasandriani]

A Breaking of Crows and Dogs - The Storyteller’s Guide to the “Dog Days” of Summer: The Folklore & Mythologies of the Autumnal Equinox

Twitter Patreon GitHub LinkedIn YouTube This is one of my favorite moments in life. Every year, there is this moment when the tides and energies of some corporeal atmosphere beyond my understanding begins shifting. This usually occurs a week or two before the autumnal equinox.  This is when the crows return. It’s 5am and I’m lying in bed thinking of you, or one of you, out there, reading…

[the-con-she-called-conscience]

Julius Grief as a character is so fascinating for me. Like, so much unexplored potential there. Did he know that day that Jack wasn't being killed so it was just a joke to him????

His accent??? Afrikaans-german-ish with french lilt? The fact that he thought that he could gel in with the big bad by drinking.....beer? And it works—

That time in prison where he tried peeling his face off? The heavily implied sexual assault by that one creepy guy in nightshade?

The shoddy welding job on purpose? Beginnings of the escape plan?

Being trained to be a literal genius?

The possibilities were endless

RIP Julius you'd have loved gua Sha and changing your face to have a different jaw than Alex.

[thevalleyisjolly]

Absolutely off-the-walls theory with no supporting evidence, but Mrs. Flood -> reference to the Nile flooding? -> the flooding of the Nile not only playing a crucial role in the development of ancient Egypt civilization (life) but the river itself being considered a causeway from life to death and the afterlife -> Mrs. Flood is a third-party/third-party representative of a related entity to Sutekh but with their own agenda/realm independent of his plans?

[ancientegyptdaily]

FLOODED TOMBS OF THE NILE (2021)

[postcard-from-the-past]

Flood time of the Nile river by the Great Pyramids, Egypt

British vintage postcard

[elucubrare]

Walking in Memphis (Egypt)

[nonevahed]

Ming Dynasty 1566 episode 3

Of course the prince randomly offers 100,000 bolts of silk to his concubine's family when the government is struggling to come up with 500,000 for an important foreign trade deal

Yan Shifan triggers a 7-province flood for political advantage, "that'll get the farmers off their land so the silk merchants can take it over!" ... and that kind of out-of-control flooding probably isn't good for the land either

[melissak2802]

Some musings on the central themes of Dame Agatha's novels.

Starting from Poirot novels. The first three formulated similarly by someone I know and agree with, slightly reworded by me, others are my thoughts.

Some spoilers for The ABC Murders and Evil Under the Sun ahead.

Murder on the Orient Express:

Justice. Including the question if the justice of conscience always matches the law.

Murder of Roger Ackroyd:

Fall of a person. Even someone kind, smart, caring, talented and overall sympathetic is in danger of temptations like greed and cowardice. Avoid the wrong path.

The ABC Murders:

Stigma. Someone alone, weak and especially mentally ill can easily become treated like a monster, while the true monsters more often than not are someone prosperous and healthy willing to transfer the consequences of their crimes to a defenseless person.

Death on the Nile:

Blind love/devotion. Even a selfless passion for someone can become twisted and cause corruption if it's enabling and obsessive.

Evil Under the Sun:

Lust and attention-seeking. Not only it's detrimental to your relationship/family, it makes you an easy victim for a pretty face willing to flatter you.

Hercule Poirot' s Christmas:

Arrogance. If you think yourself superior to the "regular fools" and in the right to toy with people's feelings and issues, one day you run into someone like you who will outwit you and make you suffer for what you caused to them.

Learning to overcome the haunting of past trauma.

Actions in a difficult situation are what shows one's true self. This includes a passive person learning to make decisions.

"Fighting evil" motivated by pride and revenge can make you a monster like your enemy if not worse.

Appointment with Death:

Unhealthy desire for power over people. More often than not the person like that just doesn't want to realise they are pathetic person. Also, one day you may bite off more than you can chew.

Domestic emotional abuse, varying reactions to it (apathy, embitterment, escapism) and ways to free yourself/help freeing someone from its power.

Five Little Pigs:

Righting the past wrongs. (On several levels.)

Big consequences of small things. Sometimes a misunderstanding, a badly-thought white lie or ill-timed joke can cause or contribute to tragedy.

Revenge doesn't make you happy.

Sometimes a family that looks weird from side can actually be harmonious in their own way.

Taken at the Flood:

Feeling lost. Almost everyone in this story starts with the ground being knocked from under their feet one way or another.

Perilous chase of fortune. (This is a fatal flaw of more than one character, and what the title of the novel refers to, being a poetry quote)

[brilliantfantasticgeronimo]

honestly tho rtd delighted so much in writing nolly / minnie the menace / cherry / jackie tyler... of course he wouldn't resist bringing back iris wildthyme.

[murderousink23]

08/15/2024 is National V-J Day 🌎, National Acadian Day 🇨🇦, Flooding of the Nile 🇪🇬, Obon 🇯🇵, Polish Armed Forces Day 🇵🇱, National Lemon Meringue Pie Day 🇺🇸, National Relaxation Day 🇺🇸

[littledinosaurarms]

Why are all the comments like "I'm not neurodivergent, but-"

Yes, you are! And that isn't a bad thing! We are never going to be accepted as long as people still think being one of us is a bad thing!

Most people are at least slightly neurodev, you can't NOT be living in the times we live in. Stop worrying about whether or not your brain is normal, normal is just a word people use to shame each other.

If you want to support neurodevs, start by being ok with the idea that you might be one.

sometimes you just have to let yourself be a bit neurodivergent.

i hate going out, it gives me a lot of anxiety and sensory input that i dont like, and i am often forced to talk to people.

so i do this thing on more difficult days, or sometimes just for fun, where i "bring a fictional character with me". i walk and imagine Fictional Character walking next to me. they talk to me, reassure me, hype me up, whatever i need them to do.

today dean winchester came christmas shopping with me. he went over the list with me of stuff i needed to get, told me i was doing a good job every time i finished in a certain shop, reminded me to take a deep breath when i got a little overwhelmed.

and yea. its kinda silly. and i know its just me talking to myself in a different voice, but it Works! especially since all of my special interests/hyperfixations tend to be tv/movie related.

so do what you gotta do to Get Shit Done. stop holding yourself to neurotypical standards. if you need Fictional Character to tell you you're doing a good job, do it! if you need Favourite Singer to walk you to school, do it! yea it might feel silly but you're literally fighting against your own brain to get stuff done every single day. you can have a little self indulgent daydream, as a treat.

[parafrazerofhistory]

The Inundation of the Nile

“In all ages of which we possess any records the Egyptians have been an agricultural people, dependent for their subsistence on the growth of the corn. The cereals which they cultivated were wheat, barley, and apparently sorghum (Holcus sorghum, Linnaeus), the doora of the modern fellaheen [i.e., fellahin]. Then as now the whole country, with the exception of a fringe on the coast of the Mediterranean, was almost rainless, and owed its immense fertility entirely to the annual inundation of the Nile, which, regulated by an elaborate system of dams and canals, was distributed over the fields, renewing the soil year by year with a fresh deposit of mud washed down from the great equatorial lakes and the mountains of Abyssinia [i.e., Ethiopia]. Hence the rise of the river has always been watched by the inhabitants with the utmost anxiety; for if it either falls short of or exceeds a certain height, dearth and famine are the inevitable consequences. The water begins to rise early in June, but it is not until the latter half of July that it swells to a mighty tide. By the end of September the inundation is at its greatest height. The country is now submerged, and presents the appearance of a sea of turbid water, from which the towns and villages, built on higher ground, rise like islands. For about a month the flood remains nearly stationary, then sinks more and more rapidly, till by December or January the river has returned to its ordinary bed. With the approach of summer the level of the water continues to fall. In the early days of June the Nile is reduced to half its ordinary breadth; and Egypt, scorched by the sun, blasted by the wind that has blown from the Sahara for many days, seems a mere continuation of the desert. The trees are choked with a thick layer of grey dust. A few meagre patches of vegetables, watered with difficulty, struggle painfully for existence in the immediate neighbourhood of the villages. Some appearance of verdure lingers beside the canals and in the hollows from which the moisture has not wholly evaporated. The plain appears to pant in the pitiless sunshine, bare, dusty, ash-coloured, cracked and seamed as far as the eye can see with a network of fissures. From the middle of April till the middle of June the land of Egypt is but half alive, waiting for the new Nile….”

—J. G. Frazer, Adonis, Attis, Osiris, part 2 (The Golden Bough, vol. VI, 1914, pp. 30-31)

An old photograph depicting the flooding of the Nile River, with palm trees in the background.

(Source: New York Public Library, No restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons)

[postcard-from-the-past]

Floods of the Nile river and the Great Pyramids, Egypt

British vintage postcard

[nerdypagan1]

cool!

Meaning of Colors in Anciet Egyptian Art:

[tenth-sentence]

The Nile flooded at just the right time for crops each year, and large, rain-fed oases supported farming far into what is now desert.

"Why the West Rules – For Now: The patterns of history and what they reveal about the future" - Ian Morris

[ryoflix]

sukuna as a history/geography buff | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ

it’s a quiet sunday morning, and sukuna is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, shirtless as usual, his (now) long hair tied up, tattoos stark against his skin as the sun filters in through the gauzy curtains. the twins are perched in front of him on tiny cushions — your son already mimicking his father’s broad-legged sprawl, your daughter with her hands tucked neatly in her lap like she’s attending court.

you’re curled on the couch with your tea, watching sukuna pretend like he isn’t thrilled by the attention.

“the earth wasn’t always split like this,” he starts, picking up a toy globe that had been rolling under the couch last week. he spins it lazily. “not when i was your age. or even before.”

“before what?” your daughter asks, eyes wide.

sukuna huffs. “before anything. before kings. before borders. before all this nonsense about ‘nations’ and ‘leaders’ pretending they invented order.”

he says it with a growl, but you see it — the glint in his eyes, the way his thumb rests reverently on the continent of africa, like he remembers walking those lands before they were ever carved into colonies.

“so you’re old, huh,” your son says, blinking up at him.

“watch your mouth,” sukuna mutters, but there’s no heat behind it.

he shifts forward, his voice dropping just a little as if the walls might overhear. “when the nile flooded, it told us what the gods wanted. now? now men build dams and wonder why the land turns sour.”

your daughter gasps. “you knew the nile?”

“walked beside it,” he mutters. “ate dates from trees by the riverbank. saw them stack stones for pyramids, not to worship, but to remember.”

you almost choke on your tea.

he glances at you briefly, as if embarrassed by the softness in his tone, and then clears his throat, tossing the globe lightly to your son. “anyway. history is a circle. greedy men fall. then the earth spins again.”

you watch as the kids lean in closer, soaking him up like he’s storytime and science class all in one.

“borders,” he scoffs again, waving a hand. “lines drawn by cowards too afraid to bleed for what they take.”

“sukuna,” you warn gently. “maybe skip the bleeding part.”

he raises a brow. “they’re three. they’re not stupid.”

and they aren’t. they look at him like he’s the whole world, and maybe he is — a brutal, ancient, bruised world, still turning. “you’re really into this, huh?” you say, sipping.

he shrugs, trying to play it off. “they asked.”

“no, she asked,” you nod at your daughter. “you’ve been going on for twenty minutes about trade routes and roman currency.”

“it was cattle,” he grumbles. “before coins. that means something. things meant something.”

and there it is again — that flicker of something almost tender behind the scowl. he knows too much. remembers too much. his fists know how to kill, but his brain? it’s a goddamn library.

your daughter yawns and leans into his side, and without missing a beat, he scoops her into his lap. your son’s already half-asleep against his thigh.

he doesn’t stop talking, even then.

“remember this,” he murmurs. “empires fall. but the earth—” his voice softens to a rumble, one you feel more than hear, “—the earth don’t give a damn about crowns.”

and even though he’s talking to them, he looks right at you when he says it.

and if history was not enough, your husband now ventured into the world of modern-day politics.

it starts with a documentary left playing on mute, some grainy footage of cold war drills and mushroom clouds you forgot to turn off. you’re in the kitchen, slicing fruit for the kids, and when you come back with the tray, sukuna’s already sprawled across the floor like a bored warlord babysitting future generals.

“what’s a communism?” your son asks, mouth sticky with mango.

sukuna pauses, one hand draped across the back of his neck. you know that look — the way his jaw sets like he’s about to launch into a rant but is trying very hard to be normal about it. he hums like he’s disinterested. “it’s not a thing. it’s an idea. one they butchered before it could walk.”

“who’s ‘they’?” your daughter asks, legs swinging off the side of the couch. he exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing like he’s staring through time. “men in suits. with missiles. and fear. mostly fear.”

you settle on the armrest, sipping your tea, trying not to smile. “you’re talking about america again, aren’t you?”

“am i?” he says, feigning innocence. “i just said men. the shoe fits.”

he picks up one of the twins’ storybooks and tosses it aside like it offends him. “you know what the problem is? people think the last hundred years just happened. like the world woke up one day and boom — borders, bombs, billionaires.”

“what about the wars?” your son asks. “was there a good guy?”

sukuna laughs, low and bitter. “there are no good guys. just victors. and victims.”

“what about gandhi?” your daughter offers, hopeful.

he clicks his tongue. “mm. a clever man. said pretty things. but freedom’s never clean, sweetheart. someone’s always bleeding for it. whether they admit it or not.”

you glance at the twins — not scared, just curious — and then at him, wondering how much he’s holding back. because you know he was there. not on the sidelines. there. trench mud on his boots. ash in his lungs.

he leans back, resting his weight on his palms, flexing his fingers like they still remember the weight of swords and secrets.

“i saw berlin fall. twice,” he says after a moment. “once with fire. once with flags. both times they claimed it was peace.”

you blink. “and which time was better?”

he shrugs. “neither. peace is just war with better marketing.”

“but isn’t peace good?” your son frowns.

sukuna’s voice softens just a little. “it can be. but not if it comes with chains.”

the kids are quiet now, thinking it over like a bedtime story with no ending. sukuna reaches for a slice of apple from the tray and tosses it into his mouth without much thought.

“dad,” your daughter says quietly, “do you know everything?”

he snorts. “hell no. just lived through enough to see how often people forget.”

you watch him scratch lazily at his temple, faking indifference, but his gaze drifts back to the television, now showing an interview from the ‘90s — some man in a crisp suit talking about the fall of the soviet union.

sukuna mutters, “that prick’s lying.”

you roll your eyes. “they all are.”

“exactly,” he says, grinning wide and wolfish. “finally. someone’s listening.”

your daughter leans her cheek against his shoulder. your son plays with the edge of his tattoo like it’s a road to follow.

and sukuna, for all his bluster and old wounds, lets them — his future, his legacy — crawl all over him like he doesn’t mind carrying the weight of history one more time.