#Saint Agnes eve

[witcheslovemooses]

Happy Saint Agnes eve my loves <3

[chthonic-cassandra]

There were petit fours in their pale colors, with frosting flowers - no, preserved flowers, roses and violets and marigolds and nasturtiums, there were perfect miniature fruits, each with the color and bloom proper to its skin: apples, peaches, pears, plums, oranges, none bigger than a large marble - marzipan, those must be; there were rolled-up lacy cookies dipped half in chocolate and filled with cream; there were candied orange slices and ginger chunks and whole red strawberries sparkling with sugar; there were slabs of shortbread pricked with a fork in pattens of flowers; there were small cakes like chrysanthemums; there were piles and drifts of the glistening red seeds of the pomegranate; there were, in fact, exactly as Keats had said in "The Eve of Saint Agnes," candied apple, quince and plum, and gourd (by which he meant melon and Melinda Wolfe provided canteloupe), jellies soother than the creamy curd, and lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon, all right, Janet could smell it from where she stood and dates, too - of which Porphyro had brought to seduce Madeline.

Pamela Dean, Tam Lin

Definitely up there with my favorite food descriptions in fiction - share yours with me, if you like.

[farfromstrange]

Carpe Noctem [Chapter One]

ONE: “All these spindly roots”

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Nun!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Religious imagery & symbolism, mentions of rehab, crisis of faith, mentions of blood, the typical "animal attacks" aka vampire attacks, mentions of childhood trauma, stalker vibes at the end, Dead Dove Do Not Eat (the entire series)

Chapter Summary: You return to Clinton Church for the first time since Father Lantom saved your life, but what you first believed as an opportunity to start over reveals itself as a mountain of secrecy you have yet to uncover. Needless to say, your first week as a sister at Saint Agnes leaves you with more questions than answers, and an impending sense of darkness coming to get you.

Word Count: 6.8k

A/n: I finally got this done! I started with 3k words and it doubled in size. But I suppose it is enough to set the scene a little. We will certainly be diving deeper in a short while...

Read Me On AO3!

Sunlight streams through the colorful mosaic of stained glass. Red fades into magenta and violet, and blue fades into yellow. Innocence is a fleeting concept in this modern-day garden of Eden, and salvation remains merely a whispered promise. 

Centuries rest on the shoulders of those hallowed walls; the knees of countless worshippers have left indentations on the wooden benches, too many to count, even, but a tragic beauty remains in the art of architecture that stands tall amidst worn-down brownstones in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. 

Catholics believe in the Devil. He preys on the innocent and makes them eat their souls like Eve bit the apple. He corrupts them, slowly, passionately, and intimately until they have nothing left. Then, and only then, does he take them by the hand, and he drags their lifeless bodies down to the fiery pits of hell. 

You once danced with him. You met him, and you were charmed by him. You shared a bed with him. You loved him. But then the snake whispered about the forbidden fruit, and you had to taste it. You were already broken when he found you. You were shattered glass on white marble floors, bleeding wine into the cracks. The serpent didn’t have to try—you fell hard and fast for his blatant corruption. A silver tongue whispering the sweet promise of salvation to a broken soul, but you never saw the end of it.

Three years you spent surrounded by brick walls and sycamore trees. It was ironic, really. You, the least catholic person to have ever breathed, confined to the walls of a nunnery. For three years, you prayed your knees bloody, yet three years later, it still feels like you learned nothing at all. 

You professed your first vows shortly after you returned to New York. It is a vivid memory. You thought you would never see the city again, not after everything the cold and dark streets put you through, but it was the only place willing to give you something to live for. To survive for.

The cold of the marble stairs before the altar will forever remain etched into your skin. Candlelight reflected in your eyes. When you lifted your gaze, you remember, you met the hollow eyes of Mary as she looked down on you. Like her inanimate features were suddenly overcome by a wave of shame for you. Her hands were clasped in prayer, as most of her statues are. A figure from thousands of retellings forever cast in stone. She was given no choice, but neither were you.

The church was alight with the wonders of early spring the day you took your first vows. Yet, when you met the dead eyes of the Virgin Mary, a shadow cast over her pale features like a widow’s dark veil. The sun disappeared behind a set of clouds with the promise of rain, and the kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass faded into gray. The walls around you resembled more of an asylum, the priest before you reciting a Bible verse you still fail to remember even to this day. You weren’t listening. A voice was calling for you, and the darkness threatened to possess you with its magic.

The longer you stared at the statue, the more the stories set into the church’s window started to come to life. A window to the soul of Christianity: Mary and Jesus, and the apostles, and Judas betraying Jesus; God’s son dying on the cross for all of our sins before rising and ascending to heaven. Judas was greedy, or so they say. He gave up his friend for money, and in return, they both suffered. 

The serpent that tempted Eve crawled out of the glass and toward you, the original sinner. Every story played like a bad movie before your eyes, coming at you inhumanly fast. The voice in the back of your mind kept getting louder, and louder and louder as it called your name. 

Your sins hung above your head like a guillotine, the very fruits of your labor you had to bear far too young. A daughter, not a son. An inconvenience to those who bore you. You were forsaken from the start, you were told, and the day you took your first vows to become a child of God after being no one’s daughter for most of your life, the walls of the church seemed to know that even after hours of confessing all of your sins to the priest, no Hail Mary could ever take them away. They would always be there until the day you die. You could have done penance until your knees were bloody—you would always be a sinner in the eyes of the church. 

You had the Devil inside you, they said. Because you let him inside. And he did not hesitate to steal your virtue from the source, forever tainting the well of your innocence. 

“In the presence of God, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the saints, I humbly offer myself to His service,” you recited on those marble steps, but the shadow only continued to grow around you, wrapping its black wings around you. The fallen angel. Was it you or the Devil? 

The people around you disappeared. You weren’t taking your vows that day; you were standing trial in front of God and all his disciples who came before you. You were taking a stand, and only the jury could decide if you were worthy of your title. 

“I vow to embrace the holy virtues of chastity, poverty, and obedience, following in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ and the teachings of the Holy Scriptures,” you said. “I promise to submit myself to the will of God and commit to live out these vows faithfully all the days of my life. Always.”

Amen.

You lay your broken soul bare, cuffing yourself to the congregation with unbreakable steel and throwing away the key. And there remained the voice, calling for you from the threshold to the darkness.

You thought you could ignore it. Until you returned to Hell’s Kitchen. 

Until him.

Your heels drag over the stone floors of the seemingly endless hallway stretching through Clinton Church. The walls look different when you’re not running. When you can breathe without yearning for means of self-destruction that set fire to your lungs. 

When you asked Father Lantom if you could come back to Clinton Church, he didn’t hesitate. You were unsure what it would be like. The last time you were here, the circumstances that led you into the arms of the empathetic priest were anything but conventional. The memories you have since tied to this place are a conflict between reaching your breaking point and begging for someone, anyone, to help you, and the overwhelming guilt that came with committing the worst of crimes, and a cardinal sin.

You were not a woman of God. You doubt you were a human being at all. If anything, you were a puppet. 

Father Lantom said three years ago, “When you feel ready to take your first vows, come back. I will always have a room waiting for you.” And come back, you did—for he was the one who held your hand when you were falling into an abyss headed for certain death. When you were covered in blood and feared you would burn in hell, the past came back to haunt you with pitchforks and execute you at the stake for the entire town to see. He was there, and in that moment you knew you could not disappoint him. It was then you first started believing in the idea of God.

You gaze down at your habit. The tunic, the cincture, and the veil. You have never been more dressed up, yet you have never felt more naked in the eyes of another man. The fear of judgment for choosing a path you once thought you would only pick over your dead body is rooted so deeply within you that it nails you to an invisible cross. 

“Three years,” the priest breaks the silence. You look over at him, walking beside you as he leads you around the hidden corners you’re not yet familiar with. 

You nod. “Three years,” you repeat. “Doesn’t feel like that long ago.”

Sensing your conflict and the underlying insecurity that renders you speechless a lot of the time, Father Lantom clears his throat. “You look…better,” he says.

“Thank you, Father. My time at St. Anne’s was very… self-reflective. I learned a lot.”

“Good. I’m proud of you.”

Your wide eyes snap back up at him. Oh. 

Pride is not the word you would have used. Proud of you, he said. He sent you away to cleanse your soul, and most days you are not sure if it even worked, but he is proud of you. The man who only knows the worst version of you looked at you and saw good instead of evil. It is a concept that had once been so foreign to you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“For what?” he asks.

“This. Everything.” You shrug. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me here, so hearing you say that…it means a lot to me.”

“I promised you would always have a room here if you chose to come back.”

There is so much sincerity in his voice. In his eyes. You swallow thickly, feeling the tears burn behind your eyes. You don’t want to cry in front of him, but the words die miserably on your tongue. Instead, you nod. You just hope your eyes manage to convey what you want to say.

The priest leads you to a door that connects the church with the grounds of the orphanage next door. “You will be living with the other sisters at Saint Agnes,” he tells you. The change of subject is welcome. “After we had to close our convent because Tony Stark could not be bothered to fund our restoration, all postulants who have since wanted to join our order were sent to study at St. Anne’s. Like you. But most of them stayed there,” his tone changes slightly into hurting. “They offer a lot more than we can. Donations can only get us so far, and we barely get those anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you cut in. 

He sighs, waving your concern off with the flick of his wrist. “We make due, and now that you’re here… well, the sisters are going to appreciate the extra help.” Father Lantom puts on another smile like you would put on your veil. “We don’t have any separate living quarters, unfortunately,” he states, “so your room is a floor above the children’s dormitories. Sister Grace offered to show you around.”

“Sister Grace?”

“She’s the one in charge.”

Your eyes flick back to the walls you’re passing. Intricate details are carved into the stone even here, far away from the chapel. These hand-made masterpieces breathe a certain eeriness into the church. Not just life but a certain wave of mystique because even the stories from the bible are left open for interpretation, especially when they are turned into art. 

A sense of doom falls over you like a dark cloud. “Does she know?” you ask. 

Father Lantom raises his eyebrows. He studies your features. Your chin tipped toward the ceiling, observing. He notices the gentle shift in your breathing pattern as your heartbeat speeds up, and when you meet his eyes again after an agonizing bout of silence, he smiles at you once again. 

“Sister Grace?” he inquires. You nod. “Well,” he says, “She does know. She’s the abbess. I had to let her in when I told her you were coming here, but I assure you, she swore to the utmost discretion.”

You breathe out. The weight rests heavily on your chest. “And everyone else?” You turn back to him. 

The Father shakes his head. His eyes are so gentle. “It’s not my story to tell,” he says. “If there’s one thing I learned after years of talking to people—taking their confessions, listening to their fears, their anger, and their pain—it’s that we all suffer. We all have things we’d rather not talk about.”

The words penetrate your heart like a sharp dagger. 

“And as humans, we tend to often see our burdens as sins, even if those apparent sins hurt us, or we had to commit them to protect ourselves from getting hurt. And sometimes, hurt people do stupid things. Objectively stupid, that is. It doesn’t mean we are going to hell for doing what it takes to survive. People suffer, and most of the time, that suffering doesn’t stop. That’s the truth,” he says. “Now, a lot of these people come to confession because they think it will give them a clear conscience, which it does, momentarily. They believe that God will make the pain go away with the snap of his omniscient fingers. A few Hail Marys, a few extra hours at Sunday mass, and your burdens will be dealt with. That is not the truth. Confession is not therapy because penance does not heal decades of trauma. If that were how it works, we would collapse from overcrowding.”

Father Lantom breaks off with a chuckle, but you can’t find amusement in his wisest insight. It’s real, too real. You can’t even muster a pity smile. 

“Why do we do it then?” you ask. 

“Do you want the Catholic answer or my personal opinion?”

“If those don’t intersect, I’ll choose the latter. Please.”

He takes a moment. “Well, confession works as a tool,” he explains then. “God knows the difference between an actual sin and human nature. Sometimes, these two are the same, but a lot of the time, there is a big difference, and He knows that. Confession helps regain balance where you’re standing with your faith. That’s why we do it. Because faith… faith can be a strong motivator. That’s why a lot of us—sisters, priests, and… and monks—are here now. Because we found a passion and a purpose in devoting ourselves to God. It’s not for everyone, of course, but it is a clean slate if you want it to be. Whether you tell the other sisters about why you chose this path, is up to you. Not me. Because that trauma is yours, and yours alone.”

The silence stretches between you, long, longer, as the church holds its breath. You absorb every word and every breath of his like a sponge. You swallow them. A bitter pill, that’s what it is. It goes down like hard liquor. 

You walk a few more steps in that silence with his eyes on you and the world on fire within. “Father,” you whisper. The sound is not more than that. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. And this time, you smile at him.

Behind the door that leads to the orphanage, another hallway awaits. The walls smell faintly of moss—nature but a bit rotten. A woman in a similar habit makes her way toward the two of you from the end of the hall. She carries herself with a quiet air of authority. You can’t look through her. 

Father Lantom may have vouched for Sister Grace and her discretion, but her judgment is not his to determine. She is her own woman, with thoughts only she can determine. You’re not sure if you are ready for that, either. 

He greets her with a smile. “Sister Grace,” he says.

“Father. Good morning,” at him, she smiles. 

He nudges you forward. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

Her gaze shifts to you then. “The uniform is unmistakable.” She nods. “Welcome, Sister.”

It’s a start, a small step towards finding your place within these hallowed walls. 

“Thank you, Sister,” you reply. “It’s nice meeting you.”

“Likewise. Though it’s been a while since we had someone new here. So young, too.”

“I know. Father Lantom mentioned. I’ll try my hardest not to disappoint you.”

She nods. “Let’s get you settled into your room first before we worry about that. I believe Father Lantom has mass to prepare.”

Father Lantom gives you a reassuring nod. “I’ll leave you in Sister Grace’s capable hands. And remember, you are not alone. If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to come and find me.” With that, he turns and makes his way back through the door you came from, leaving you with your fellow sister and a lump in your throat.

She leads you down the corridor. “This way,” she says. “Your room is above the children’s dormitories. Second floor. You’ll find it quiet enough for reflection but close enough to be of help when needed.”

Her tone suggests that you will be plenty busy, no matter where your room is in the building. More work means less time to think, and less time with your thoughts sounds like a blessing.

As you follow her, the faint sounds of children playing filter through the walls. It’s a comforting contrast to the silence you’ve grown accustomed to. 

Sister Grace opens a door to a narrow staircase, and you both begin to climb. “The other sisters will be eager to meet you,” she says over her shoulder.

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “I am, too,” you answer.

At the top of the stairs, she leads you down another hallway, then finally stops at a simple wooden door. “This one...will be your room.” She pushes it open to reveal the small space behind, connected to a window with a clear view of the adjacent cemetery. “I admit, it is a little scarce,” Sister Grace says, “but you are more than welcome to add a few personal touches; pictures, curtains, maybe even a plant or two. Don’t worry, Father Lantom encourages it.”

The wooden floorboards creak beneath your weight as you step inside. You look around. A single bed, neatly made with crisp white linens and a worse-for-wear mattress occupies one corner of the room, a crucifix nailed above the headrest, and casting a faint shadow on the aged plaster walls. On the other side, a desk and a wardrobe offer some storage space that leads to a second door—the bathroom. It is scarce, but you came here with nothing but a cardboard box filled with your hopes and dreams and books and diaries; people have built homes from less. 

“Our shared kitchen is downstairs. Feel free to store your food in the fridge, but don’t forget to label the containers if you don’t wish to share.” Sister Grace pauses, chuckling softly as her hazel eyes meet yours. “You wouldn’t believe it, but even nuns can be picky eaters, and very territorial about snacks.”

You smile, but your attempt at kindness falls into artificiality. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense. We look after each other around here.”

There has to be more to it, surely. Innocent may be a construct, but most of the sisters in the community were born into their faith. They started studying from a young age, always destined to dedicate themselves to the cause. You were far from religious before destiny found you dying in the flames of your old life. Whether destiny or a curse befell you that night remains open for interpretation. You have seen it both ways. An opportunity arose. You received a second chance from a very nice man, but the price to pay was your soul sacrificed to a God you once thought you would never believe in. 

Do you have faith or do you not? It is a loaded question. You think you do. You want to know you do too, but you are never fully certain. In the eyes of God, you are a loyal soldier who studied the scriptures and did her due diligence praying for penance, but when you look in the mirror, all you see is Judas. 

A heavy breath ripples through you. “You didn’t have to let me in,” you whisper. “Father Lantom didn’t have to offer me refuge, but he did. And you’re not judging me even though you have all right to… I just don’t understand.”

Her answer is a shrug. “When you were desperate,” says the sister, “God led you to us, and you found refuge at the church like so many before you. I don’t believe that was a coincidence.”

You were covered in blood when you came—your hands stained with the essence of another man’s life, clothes torn beyond recognition. You can still feel his hands on you, wandering, lurking… The crimson had seeped into the fine lines of your palms. It took you days to get rid of it, and weeks more to scrub the last remains from under your fingernails down the drain. 

You grapple with their decision. “I, uh… I wasn’t sure. At St. Anne’s, they treated me like an outsider. Because I didn’t grow up Catholic, and—”

“And you found your faith in rehab?” Sister Grace smiles knowingly. “Trust me, it happens so often that it no longer comes as a surprise.”

“But there is still judgment. There will always be judgment,” you insist.

She takes your words into account, nodding. They digest for a brief moment until she breaks into a soft chuckle—a mere breath from her full-moon lips. 

“A small piece of advice, if I may?” she asks. You hum. “If you spend all your time here questioning whether God has forgiven you for your sins, your lack of faith in the Lord, as tiny as it may be, will always stand between you and taking your final vow. And if you keep worrying about the judgment of anyone other than God, you won’t find happiness.”

You vowed to dedicate your life to religious service, and if you don’t close the last period of your study after taking temporary three vows with a solemn declaration to give up even the last of your possessions then the gap between you and God will be too big for you to ever be anything but a simple sister of the congregation. 

But is that what you want? To close that gap and give yourself fully to a higher power? It would be a live sacrifice, you knew that from the start.

You believe in God and the Devil, and you believe in eternal damnation. And you believe that you are damned, too. Doomed, forsaken, and cursed. A scratched record. God’s wrath is not a match for the fear you instill in yourself; your mere existence is maddening. 

You are drowning in a darkness you were born with, and possessed by demons you never learned how to exorcize. Not even studying a newfound faith in God to get on the right path could get rid of the monsters that are not lurking under your bed or in the shadows but in the dark corners of your mind.

The beast inside of you has gone to sleep, but God knows that he is a ticking time bomb, even in a comatose state. The Devil has planted his seed—all these spindly roots growing from your soul to the pit of your stomach, digging their claws into your fragile heart and tearing you to shreds. The protective poison ivy you grew over the years can only last so long without water before it starts to wither. 

You look over your shoulder when the door shuts gently behind Sister Grace as she leaves you be. 

The cardboard box on your desk holds an abundance of scriptures, books, and leather-bound diaries. Your diaries. They told you that writing your feelings on paper would help you heal. If you crave something you know you should and cannot have, you should write it down; you have been for years now, but with every pen wasted and every diary hidden in compartments around your room so no one can find them, the words you write turn into firewood, and your tears are the gasoline. 

Outside, the wind brushes through the trees. It beckons you, its tendrils creeping into your consciousness like creatures of the night reaching for the last flickers of light.

With a heavy heart, you flip open the worn-down leather. Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours turn into days. Knees turn bloody from praying, and the joy of one child’s happiness dies at the hands of another’s trauma. 

Dear Diary, 

Yesterday, the groundskeeper dug another hole in the cemetery. Father Lantom will officiate the funeral on Sunday. Another addition to the bones and rotting corpses hiding under a shield of dirt, but does anyone know what happens after? 

I tried to ask the Father, but he didn’t give me a satisfying answer. He told me what he thought I wanted to hear, but I did not. I can’t help but wonder if he is protecting me or keeping secrets. The latter would be highly unethical, I suppose. 

Other than maintaining a religious belief in heaven or hell or rebirth while we are alive, what does happen to us after we die? Is it definite? Is it infinite or is there something else, something... more? 

Is it the Devil? Is it God? Or is it heaven and hell? 

And why do they keep digging holes in the cemetery? The children keep asking me every day, but I do not know how to answer them. 

Dear Diary, where do we go when it is all over?

The clinking of porcelain and cutlery emerges from the kitchen like a mushroom cloud. As you approach the dining room through a long hallway, the soft soles of your vinyl shoes barely make a sound. The voices inside overlap, but a few rise from the masses, demanding your attention. Like a moth to a flame, you fly toward it. 

“…and they found another one this morning. Washed up on the river banks after the storm last night,” one of the sisters whispers to another. 

“It’s been fifteen this month alone,” another one says.  

“What kind of animal does that?” a third cuts in.

“The kind that isn’t an animal,” says the nun you now recognize as Sister Marjorie, the oldest of the bunch. “It happens every two months for twenty years that bodies wash up on the shore, supposedly mauled by a bear or a baboon in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, and then the city grows quiet again. I’ve been here for forty-five years, and it still happens like clockwork.”

The one next to her sighs. “Well, maybe it’s the changing climate. Lord knows it has humans and animals going crazy alike.”

“Can’t you see?” Marjorie raises her voice. “These aren’t the actions of an animal. It’s the Devil!” 

It seems as though the mere thought puts the fear of God in them—your fellow sisters, usually so strong and collected, reduced to whispers of the rumor mill as the color fades from their skin. 

Sister Grace clicks her tongue, interrupting them all at once. “That’s enough,” she says, trying to remain calm but there is still a sense of urgency in her voice. It’s not an exclamation but a well-concealed warning. Behind that façade hides a leader you would not want to cross twice. 

Only one of Sister Marjorie’s eyes finds you standing there, eavesdropping like a misbehaving child. The other remains unmoving, caged in by a white scar across her cheek and an iris made of glass. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Animal attacks?” you dare to ask. 

Heads snap toward you. The table falls speechless, compelled into a sudden silence by your presence. The world stops turning. 

“Oh, dear, don’t you worry about that,” Sister Grace, the first to find her voice again, reassures you. She ushers you from the doorway to the table, but the eyes of your fellow sisters suddenly feel like tiny needles all over your skin. “It’s just idle gossip,” she says, shooting the others a glare, “nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

But the silence starts to wrap around your neck like a noose regardless. Curiosity is only appreciated when they can answer it, you have learned. In the eyes of God, lying is a sin, and you spend each day teaching the children to believe the same, but is omitting not essentially the same as lying? 

They’re scared. They don’t want to admit it; no one does. Fear does not fit under the veil of ignorance, so they try concealing it as idle gossip. The rumor mill is always spinning, and it is an outstanding excuse, but you will never forget the look in Marjorie’s eyes when you dared to ask—dared to question. 

A thud from outside causes you to sit upright in your bed later that evening. The springs that are digging into your lower back creak when you move so suddenly. 

Through the window, you can see the cemetery hulled into a fog where cold and warm air meet for the night. You put the children to bed, got them dressed in their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and told the little ones a bedtime story. They like it when you do it. Something about the way you tell them fascinates their little minds, so it has become a ritual in the week you have been here. 

The more it strikes you as odd that there is noise outside. After bedtime, no one is supposed to be out and about, and if a sister has something to do out of schedule, they have to share it with the group. For safeguarding reasons, they told you. 

Against your better judgment, you roll out of bed and into your slippers, wrapping a cardigan around your body. Your nightgown is not the warmest thing to wear on these cold walls unless it is under a thick wool blanket. 

The door creaks when you open it. Father Lantom gave you a flashlight a few nights ago because he asked you to take care of something on the church grounds for him after the sun had set, so you kept it. You weren’t sure if you would still need it. Thankfully, you did.

You follow the noise to the back door one floor below. It leads out into the backyard, and a few more feet east, a fence and a gate separate the many acres of the cemetery from the rest of the church’s grounds. 

The flashlight illuminates the path before you. “If it’s another stupid raccoon, I swear…” you mutter to yourself. It wouldn’t be the first time one of those critters found their way into the trashcans and caused mayhem in the middle of the night. 

Somehow though, it always seems to be you who catches them. The night-owl. The one who is always on guard, always on edge, even when she knows she is safe.

You wander through the backyard, closer to the fence. You tilt your head. There is a small gap in the gate to the cemetery. The fog makes it harder to see. 

“Hello?” you call out into the darkness. Nothing. 

Through the rustling of leaves and the howling of an owl in the woods far beyond Saint Agnes, a small whimper breaks the silence like a hot knife. It is faint, but unmistakable nonetheless. 

You strain your ears. “Oh no,” once again, you curse to yourself. “No, no, no…” 

You follow the sound through the gate and into the cemetery. June Montgomery and her husband share a grave. They died over twenty years ago, but it is still well-maintained by their children and grandchildren. A few steps further though, the infestation of poison ivy begins. 

The graves under the gigantic cherry tree are the most hidden, and the best hiding spots. You had to tell the children many times that the cemetery is not a hiding place, especially not for games, and never alone, even when the gates are open. The general public has access to it during the day, and if they wander too far, they will land on a populated street. It’s dangerous. 

You were so careful. You did everything by the book, and someone still managed to sneak out. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, the wet grass soaking your thin slippers until you come upon a small figure huddled behind one of the bewildered gravestones. Sara Mayfield; she died in 1945. Your sigh resembles a cry of relief. 

“Timmy!” you exclaim. “Thank God!”

He’s curled up into a ball behind the headstone. Tears stream down his cheeks in bottomless rivers. Your flashlight blinds him, and his whimpers escalate to sobs. Your heart shatters at the sight. 

“Hey there, it's okay,” you try to soothe him, crouching beside his tiny figure. “It's just me. Hi. What are you doing out here all alone?” You shed your cardigan, wrapping it around his shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night, sweetheart.”

From what you’ve learned about Timmy, his parents died in a freakish car accident about a year ago. He was in the car when his father fell asleep at the wheel and drove the car into a tree. His mother died instantaneously, but his father bled out right in front of him. He has been receiving therapy ever since he came to Saint Agnes, but he is a troubled child. 

Timmy sniffles, accepting the makeshift blanket. He recognizes you, which is a good sign. “I had a nightmare,” he confesses. “I-I wanted to see the stars, but then I heard a crash, and I got scared.”

You wrap your arms around him. “It’s okay to be scared,” you say. “But you shouldn’t wander off by yourself, especially at night. You should have come to me, or Sister Grace.”

“I’m sorry, Sister.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just glad nothing happened to you.”

His skin is clammy and cold. You don’t know how long he has been out here, but he is also in no state to be questioned. 

“Come on,” you say and lift him into your arms. “Let’s get you back inside.”

Together, you make your way back towards the orphanage. But as you approach the gate, there it is again, that voice. Whispers of nothing in the chilly breeze. The air crackles with a certain, sinister something. A chill runs down your spine, and the back of your skull starts to burn as though someone is watching you. Listening. Lurking. And it is not a raccoon this time.

You set Timmy down on his feet. He whimpers again. “Go to your room. I’ll be right there,” you tell him. 

He looks up at you with his innocent blue eyes. “Promise?” he asks. 

“Yes. Promise.”

The boy lets go of your hand, quickly sneaking back inside. He knows better than to make any more noise. Any other sister would have threatened consequences. But he’s just a traumatized little boy, and the night is dangerous. It’s creepy. Of course, it would only add to childish fear and trauma that has had time to manifest for an entire year.

You turn around when he is safely inside, pointing your flashlight in the direction where you came from. 

You scan the blanket of fog for any sign of movement. And that’s when you see it—a shadowy, obscured figure standing amidst the graves by the woods, behind the cherry tree.

Your breath catches in your throat, the whispers echoing in your mind once more. It could not be your name. It’s something else. Latin, perhaps. What terrifies you most though is that you're not scared; you feel strangely drawn to the figure. 

You hold your breath. The figure tilts its head, and you do the same. Your heartbeat remains eerily steady throughout. You should scream. You should alert everyone that there is something—someone—out there, but they would call you crazy, surely. And maybe you are. No sane person hears voices and sees the darkness as a comforting presence. Not a nun. Not someone who is not supposed to let the Devil win. And what other explanation is there but for the figure to be a phantom of the Devil's making? 

In the blink of an eye, the figure is gone. The hold on your lungs eases, and you gasp for air like a desperate woman.

Instinctively, you turn to the door and usher inside. Timmy is still standing there. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

You shake your head, trying to clear your mind. “Nothing,” you say, but when you lock the door to make sure no one can get in or out, your hands shake. A single drop of sweat runs down your temple. “Come on.”

Inside, you’re freezing. Like a cold hand touched you and set you on fire, but it had claws that let the ice age into your heart, and now you’re poisoned. 

Taking Timmy back to his room, you can’t shake the feeling of unease that gnaws at your insides like a hungry beast. You tuck him in; you check under his bed for monsters, and you lock the windows. It takes a while for him to settle back into sleep, but when he finally does, you leave his room on your tiptoes and close it. 

The other children are all peacefully asleep, and your fellow sisters seem to not have noticed the commotion you caused on your way in. Every door is locked—you check twice. Still, when you get to your room, your hands tremble once again when you use the key for the fragile lock for the first time. 

Fear is not what compels you. Uneasiness, maybe, but not fear. The venom in your veins stems from something else entirely. You can’t explain it. The feeling is familiar somehow, but so foreign at the same time.

You clutch the rosary from the nightstand over your diary, facing the fog you yearn for so desperately. “Foolish, foolish idiot,” you mutter. 

Dear Diary, 

Did I force myself upon God out of… of guilt? Or was it a sign that He led me to Clinton Church that night? I thought penance would wash away my sins, that by dedicating myself to Him, I could erase the past. You know, like magic. But I was so wrong. Father Lantom… He told me that’s not how it works, and Sister Grace… She’s so sure that will stand in my way, and now I can’t help but wonder… Did I study scripture and Catholic rules for the past three years like a mad woman out of faith or because I was trying to make good for something I did by neutralizing myself?

I’m lost. I don’t know the path to righteousness, and I don’t know how to silence this… this darkness inside me. I can hear it calling my name. Every night… I’m scared that I’m not scared enough. I’m a flawed creature; I’m desperate and tired, but I don’t want to disappoint Him. But how can I? 

How do I serve a God I have been lying to from the start, and how the fuck do I fix this?

You squeeze your eyes shut, the pen cracking under the pressure, and the ink bleeds onto the page, over the letters and your broken heart. Your blue fingers wrap around the rosary again as what you have written disappears under the chemical ocean. 

In the heat of the moment, you tear the page out of its confines, but it has tainted all the ones to come. You ruined it like you ruined yourself. The page had been you once, being bled all over by an ink meant to stain for the rest of your miserable life, but you tried to glue it back in place. You tried not to fall apart like your diary just did at your very hands—as everything you touch rots or turns to ashes eventually.

You ball a fist around the paper, tossing it across the room. It hits the window. You catch your runny reflection in the glass. To think you were just looking to be loved, to be seen and forgiven ever since you were a little girl dreaming of being a princess, but instead, you are falling apart. 

But no, you will not let the Devil win. You pull the curtains closed, and you hide the cemetery where it belongs—with the dead, both in heaven and hell and everything in between. The Devil can’t have you because God already does. 

You have to seize the night before it seizes you. Anything else would be, for the lack of a better word, certain suicide. 

Tag List: @luvebugs @mxxny-lupin @1988-fiend @bluestuesday @ghostheartbeat @cheshirecat484 @faesspace (if you want to be tagged or I forgot to tag you, let me know!)

[preraphaelitepaintings]

Madeleine Undressing – Eve of St Agnes

Artist: John Everett Millais (English, 1829–1896)

Date: 1863

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Royal Collection, London, United Kingdom

Description

The Eve of St. Agnes is a Romantic narrative poem of 42 Spenserian stanzas set in the Middle Ages. It was written by John Keats in 1819 and published in 1820. The poem was considered by many of Keats's contemporaries and the succeeding Victorians to be one of his finest and was influential in 19th-century literature.

The title comes from the day (or evening) before the feast of Saint Agnes (or St. Agnes' Eve). St. Agnes, the patron saint of virgins, died a martyr in 4th-century Rome. The eve falls on 20 January; the feast day on the 21st. The divinations referred to by Keats in this poem are referred to by John Aubrey in his Miscellanies (1696) as being associated with St. Agnes' night.

[petergwaelod]

Cŵn Annwn

Cŵn Annwn (the hounds of Annwn) are spirit beings associated with the Welsh lord of the otherworld, Arawn. He appears in the Mabinogi, a medieval literary cycle. Welsh mythology suggests that the twilight landscape of Cader Idris was the hunting ground of the hounds of Annwn. 

The Cŵn Annwn are associated with the Wild Hunt. They are supposed to hunt on specific nights (the eves of New Year, Saint Agnes (21 January), Saint David  (1 March) , and Good Friday) St. Martin, (8 November) All Saints (1  November). Also on the eves of the following quarter days:

• Midsummer Day (24 June, the Nativity of St John the Baptist)

• Michaelmas (29 September, the Feast of St Michael and All Angels)

• Christmas (25 December)

According to Welsh folklore, their growling is loudest when they are at a distance, and as they draw nearer, it grows softer and softer. Their coming is generally seen as a death portent. 

[beatricecenci]

John Everett Millais (English, 1829-1896)

The Eve of Saint Agnes

[thelefthandandtherighthandpath]

St. Agnes painted by Guido Reni.

A painting of St. Agnes from the Albani Diocesan Museum.

St. Agnes of Rome

Feast Day: January 21st, the 28th of January was also a feast day for her before the changes made to the calendar. The 28th is believed to be her birthday so devotees could also celebrate this day.

Patronage: Girl Scouts, virgins, victims of csa, engaged couples, and Rome.

St. Agnes was from a noble Roman family and was noted as having a gentle disposition. In art this is shown by depicting her with or holding a lamb. Unusual for the period Agnes was raised as a Christian under emperor Diocletian. When she was around twelve years old, Agnes was approached by the governor's son Eutropius who wanted her to marry him. He offered her many gifts but she refused stating that she was devoting her life to God.

This rejection angered Eutropius who brought her to his father. She was urged to deny God, but she refused. As punishment she was to be dragged by her long hair, naked through the streets to a brothel. According to legend, as she was dragged through the streets her long hair grew and completely covered her body. When she was brought to the brothel an angel clothed her. When the men at the brothel tried to rape her were struck blind. A man who was struck blind by her begged her for mercy and his sight was restored. Agnes was condemned as a witch and was placed on a stake to be burned. In some versions the wood would not light or the fire would part and Agnes would be unharmed.

The vengeful suitor, Eutropius continued to demand her death so she was thrown to lions. The lions did not harm her and instead they attacked and killed Eutropius. Agnes life was finally ended by being executed with a sword. She was singing hymns while she was being executed. In art of her she carries a sword as a symbol of her martyrdom as well as the martyr's palm. Agnes was buried outside the city and the miracles continued after her death. Apparitions of St. Agnes appeared to her parents and her sister Emerentiana. When Emerentiana visited Agnes's grave a few days after her death she prayed over the tomb. As she prayed an earthquake and a hurricane occurred that killed many Romans. Emerentiana saw a vision of her sister. Emerentiana was later stoned to death by the people for refusing to leave the grave and condemning those who had murdered her sister. She was also made a saint. Another miracle attributed to Agnes was the curing of Constantine's daughter, Constantina who suffered from leprosy. The Church of Saint Agnes Outside the Walls was built over her tomb. Her sacred day is Friday.

Holy Sites: Church of Saint Agnes Outside the Walls and Sant'Agnese in Agone.

Potential Offerings: Water, a blue or white candle, a Christmas Rose, the poems about her by John Keats (The Eve of Saint Agnes) and Alfred Lord Tennyson (Saint Agnes Eve).

Petition: St. Agnes can be petitioned to protect abused girls but several rituals that deal with romantic relationships are associated with her. The following rituals are sourced from Judika Illes book of saints.

Note: These rituals are to be performed on St. Agnes Eve on the 20th of January.

Dream Divination #1

Sprinkle your urine three times over a sprig of rosemary and thyme.

Place one sprig in each of your shoes.

Place each shoe on either side of your bed, at the head of the bed.

Get into bed and chant: "Sweet Agnes, to lovers so kind, come and ease my troubled mind."

Go to sleep. You are supposed to dream of your true love or hear them whispering in your ear.

Be silent from the time you say the chant until you wake up in the morning and record your dream.

Dream Divination #2

Walk to your bed without looking behind you.

Get into bed, lie on your back with your hands behind your head.

Try to stay in this pose while sleeping and be silent until dawn. Your true love should be in your dreams and feast with you.

The Fast of St. Agnes

Fast all day on the 20th of January. Concentrate on your desires.

At night, get ready for bed. Take a bath and make sure the bed is made.

Be completely silent from this point forward.

Hard boil an egg. Cut it in half and scoop out the yoke. Fill the empty space with salt.

Put the two halves back together and eat it. You can leave the shell on the egg if you wish.

Walk backward to bed chanting:

Sweet Saint Agnes, work your fast

In my dreams, let this spell be cast

If ever I should marry a man or a man marry me

I hope this night his face to see!

7. Be silent until morning; the answer should appear in your dreams.

[inariedwards]

This is a selection of selfportraits from a series I made in 2011-2016. They're made with colour pencils on paper. In them I placed myself into various existing paintings and artworks. The series progresses from a fully finished drawing to the least finished drawing. The title of each work in the series is a female name (in lower case) and a body part. The body part in the title is always obscured in the image or not in the frame at all. Out of the fifteen portaits five are full body format, five are half figure and five are shoulders and up. Several of the works have very Mormon themes, and those are the ones I wanted to lift up here.

You can see the whole series on https://inariporkka.tumblr.com/portraits at the bottom of the page. That might not work on Tumblr app, might need to look at it on a browser.

agnes (arms)

The name comes from the Latin term Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God. The painting inspiration is Zurbaran, specifically his Agnus Dei and his Saint Francis. The arms of the figure are obscured by the lamb she carries. It is ambiguous whether she is sacrificing the lamb or rescuing it. There is a possible indication of female priestesshood going on here. The background is a reference to an abstract artist whose name escapes me. I can't remember what I was going for there with the chalk on blackboard look - unfinished plans, maybe?

josephine (knees)

The name comes from Joseph Smith of course, and the main reference painting is of course that famous one of the First Vision. The other reference is this Renaissance trend of making religious paintings and inserting the donor of the painting into the scene. Like there are paintings of like Bible scenes like the crucifixion or Mary holding Baby Jesus and then some Renaissance guy in there too with them. So I put myself into the First Vision, like  a donor. The figure is reading while kneeling behind a little... prayer box thingy that was in the original painting too, with the knees obscured. The idea there is that by reading other people's accounts of their experiences (such as Joseph Smith's First Vision) is like being there.

maria (shoulder)

The name is obviously a reference to Virgin Mary and the painting reference is to like early Renaissance/late Middle Ages iconography. Shoulders are hidden from view on one side by the veil and on the other by the baby leaning on the shoulder.

anna (loins)

I must admit I can't remember what the name is in reference to. But the painting is Whistler's Mother. I've drawn myself in place of the old lady in the original, my late dog is on the floor, and on the wall is my temple sealing diploma. On the left there is a white cloth - a curtain or the veil? The vibe is temple-y: either waiting to pass through the veil or having done it.

eva (nose)

The name refers to Eve. The nudity and the lush jungle all around (borrowed from Rousseau) suggest it's pre-Fall. Nose is hidden from view by the flower she sniffs. Since Mormons have a pretty different view of Eve compared to other Christians, it's kind of focused on just who she was, rather than eating of the fruit or any of those central story beats.

sara (neck)

The name refers to Sarah, the wife of Abraham. This is the most unfinished drawing in the series. To me it's about exaltation (hence the crown) and not being reasy for it yet. This one is also the first one in the entire series, so it follows the system the least - for example it's not as such a remix of a particular painting, just inspired by Botticelli in general, like the hair, really.

@personshapedsplder @lingering-sunrise

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Agi Says It's Starlight. Right Now.

And here's a little fic under the cut ;)

Estinien Varlineau knew something was off when she received a package at the Mist house, let out a scream of joy, and ran upstairs.

Perhaps “off” is the wrong word. “Deeply concerned” is more accurate. “Unsettling” works too.

“Mummy’s planning something, Es.” He muttered, watching their daughter crawl in circles around him. “She’s got that…look. You know the one.”

Esme continued to babble happily.

“Aye, she’s up no good I agree.” Crossing his scarred arms over his chest, he smiled at their daughter.

“OH MY FUCKING GODS! LOVE, YOU MUST SEE THIS!” Agnes yelled as she bounded down the stairs. Esme stopped crawling and squealed, pointing at her mother.

Estinien froze.

She sauntered to him wearing her very short Starlight dress that shows off her Starlight ham thighs but instead of the usual tights and boots, she had on reindeer hooves, mittens, and antlers. With a bloody red nose, for Fury’s sake. “It’s that time of year again, my grumpy dragon.” She practically sang and did a twirl for him. “Doesn’t Mummy look so pretty, Esme? And don’t worry, my little love, I have a dress and accessories for you too!” She picked up the baby (is she still a baby if she’s over a summer old?) and cooed at her. “You’re going to look so fucking cute in your Starlight outfit. Even more than last year!” Turning to her husband, she giggled. “Oh dear, I think your father needs a moment.”

Varlineau, this isn’t all bad. On the positive side you’ve got Agi in a hot dress showing off her legs and thighs. Her tits look amazing in everything she wears. She is, as always, undeniably adorable and pretty.

On the other hand, Starlight is her favorite holiday, and she lets literally everyone, man and creature alike, know it. She bakes a billion things, but few of them are ours. And fuck…she’s going to make me dress up.

“I can see the wheels creaking along in your head, love.” Agnes teased and gave Esme’s tummy a tickle.

His face was in his hands as she laughed. “Agi, you know I love you so much…but it’s not even the month of Starlight!! We barely just got over All Saints’ Wake!”

Agnes smiled ruefully. “Well, I did promise myself that this year would be more relaxed than last year. Starlight Eve and the day itself it’ll just be the three of us.” She frowned and kissed Esme’s head. “I know so much of last year was overwhelming for you. I-I…you should enjoy it in your own way, and I shouldn’t accept every invitation I receive.”

I truly am the luckiest man on the star. Estinien lifted his head and for a second, admired his wife. There are none more blessed than I. Because of her. All because of her.

“Love?”

He blinked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Sorry. Was just thinking,” he smirked as he walked and circled her. With his lips against an ear, he whispered, “Thinking about how beautiful you are, my angel.” And give her a nice ass tap. As a treat!

Giggling, she rolled her eyes. “Gods, you are something else, Estinien. So grateful to be free during Starlight and so turned on by your wife in a Starlight reindeer ensemble. What a combination!” Agnes gave him a quick peck before handing him Esme. “Though I should say technically it won’t be the three of us.” Her eyes are twinkling. What’s she planned? “It’ll be the five of us.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Five? Your mother and…?”

Aymeric?

Y’shtola?

Waters? No, he wouldn’t come without Urianger.

G’raha?

Not Little Lord Alphinaud and Alisaie.

TATARU??!?!

Her hands rested on her soft belly. “Five. We’re having twins, love. Y’shtola saw two little balls of aether this time.” She smiled at him just like she did when I proposed. Fury, how radiant she was then and continues to be. “Our little family isn’t going to be not so little anymore.”

Glancing at Esme, who was staring back up at him with the cutest fucking smile in the world, he grinned. “You hear that, Es? You’re going to be a big sister twice! How about that, eh?” I MADE TWINS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wrinkling her nose, she removed the reindeer headband and put her glasses back on. “I think she’s very excited…but what about you?”

He grunted. “Woman, as if you have to ask. I’m very happy, my sweet.” I. MADE. TWINS. They shared a brief kiss and then Estinien laughed heartily as Esme giggled. “Es, Mummy’s having twins! Could she tell what they are?”

She shook her head. “Not yet, love. In another moon or so I think. Why, do you have any preferences?”

“Nay, only that they’re healthy. We could have a dozen sons or daughters, it matters not. The only thing that matters is you. You’re the one having them after all.” He looked at Esme. “Mummy has them, so Mummy decides when she’s done having them. Got it, little one?”

His wife chuckled. “Oh good gods, it’s never too early to teach that I suppose. Hey,” she offered him a warm smile. “I love you.”

“As I ever love you.” Always and forever, Agi.

[jeanmoreaux]

*✧ — FEBRUARY 2023 WRAP UP

not much to add other than that the number of rereads is more than a third of my reading this month, which really surprised me bc it didn’t feel like it. the new stuff i read was quite good—nothing under a three star, which is great! oh, yeah, and ofc fuck jkr (read the books in preparation for a children’s & ya lit course. has not paid off yet, even though the books were on the general syllabus. not much else to say on the topic; i think we all know the good and the bad this series has to offer lol.)

2023 goal: 40/100 books

as alway, feel free to drop book recs, questions, or opinions in my inbox; i am always happy to talk to you about books!

* –> newly added to my favorites shelf

follow my goodreads | follow my storygraph | previous wrap ups

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein by Kiersten White | 4.5★ | review

Elektra by Jennifer Saint | 3.25★

Dig. by A.S. King | 4.75★

* The Razor's Edge by W. Somerset Maugham | 5★ | review

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys | 3.75★ | review

The Hidden Face of Eve by Nawal El Saadawi | no rating

The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak | 3.75★ | review

Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë | 4.25★ | review

The Book of the Most Precious Substance by Sara Gran | 4★

The Last Tale of the Flower Bride by Roshani Chokshi | 4.75★ | review

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

rereads

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling | no rating

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling | no rating

Why We Broke Up by Daniel Handler | 4.5★ | review

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling | no rating

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia | 4.5★

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern | 5★ | review

[nightanimals]

The Eve of Saint Agnes

The Eve of Saint Agnes by John Keats

Illustrated in nineteen etchings by Charles O. Murray Hathitrust

Read online Representative Poetry Online - UToronto

Versions of The Eve of St. Agnes - Wikisource

Harry Clarke : The Eve of St Agnes : an introduction for young people Borrow on Archive

[brookston]

Holidays 1.28

Holidays

American Immigration Lawyers Association Day of Action

Christa McAuliffe Day

Clash Day

Data Privacy Day

Data Protection Day (EU)

The Diet of Worms Anniversary Day (1521)

Global Community Engagement Day

Gone-ta-Pott Day [every 28th]

Great Mental Health Day (UK)

International Data Privacy & Protection Day

International Lego Day

International Make Your Point Day

International Mobilization Day Against Nuclear War

International Reducing CO2 Emissions Day

Jackhammer Day

José Marti Memorial Day (Cuba)

Julian Felipe Day (Philippines)

King’s Name Day (Sweden)

Live Your Fantasies Day

Love Among the Nations Day

Make Your Point Day

National Army Day (Armenia)

National Day to Combat Modern Slave Labor (Brazil)

National Film Day (Argentina)

National Gift of the Ladybug Day

National Kazoo Day

National Pediatrician Day

National Spieling Day

Number Please Day

Paul Jackson Pollock Day

Polana Asteroid Day

Pop Art Day

Poplar Day (French Republic)

Rattlesnake Roundup Day

Science Day (Belarus)

Serendipity Day [also 1.18]

Ski Tow Day

Space Shuttle Challenger Disaster Anniversary Day

Streetlights Day

Telephone Exchange Day

Thank a Plugin Developer Day

Welcome Home the Heroes from Iraq Day (St. Louis, Missouri)

World Day for the Abolition of Meat Day

World Geoffroy’s Cat Day

World Lewy Body Dementia Day

Youth Climate Action Day (Indiana)

Food & Drink Celebrations

National Blueberry Pancake Day

Nature Celebrations

Black Polar Day (Courage; Korean Birth Flowers)

Daisy Day

Double Daisy Day (Bellis perennus plenis)

Independence, Flag & Related Days

Botany Bay (Founded; Australia; 1788)

Democracy Day (Rwanda)

Roschfallen (Declared; 2014) [unrecognized]

New Year’s Days

New Year’s Eve (Chu Xi; China)

Tet Eve (Vietnam)

4th & Last Tuesday in January

A.F.R.M.A. Fancy Rat & Mouse Day [Last Tuesday]

National Plan for Vacation Day [Last Tuesday]

National Speak Up and Succeed Day [4th Tuesday]

Taco Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Target Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Tater Tot Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Tell the Truth Tuesday [4th Tuesday of Each Month]

Thai Tuesday [4th Tuesday of Each Month]

Teriyaki Tuesday [Last Tuesday of Each Month]

Transformation Tuesday [Last Tuesday of Each Month]

Trivia Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Two For Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Up Helly Aa Day (Scotland) [Last Tuesday]

Weekly Holidays beginning January 28 (Last Week of January)

Spring Festival Golden Week (China) [thru 2.3]

Festivals Beginning January 28, 2025

Holtville Carrot Festival (Holtville, California) [thru 2.9]

Hotel, Motel & Restaurant Supply Show of the Southeast (Myrtle Beach, South Carolina) [thru 1.30]

International Kolkata Book Fair (Kolkata, India) [thru 2.9]

International Production & Processing Expo (Atlanta, Georgia) [thru 1.30]

Lerwick Up Helly Aa (Lerwick, Scotland)

Unified Wine & Grape Symposium (Sacramento, California) [thru 1.30]

Washington Oregon Potato Conference (Kennewick, Washington) [thru 1.30]

Western Idaho Ag Expo (Caldwell, Idaho) [thru 1.29]

Feast Days

Agnes (Christian; Saint)

Alan Funt Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Amadeus of Lausanne (Christian; Saint)

The Apocalypse (Pastafarian)

Black Pepper with Everything Day (Pastafarian)

Charlemagne (Christian; Saint)

Colette (Writerism)

Cyril of Alexandria (Christian; Saint)

Day of Rules: Eunomia’s Day (Pagan)

Ernie (Muppetism)

Every Man’s Day (a.k.a. Rénrì 人日; China) [7th Day of 1st Lunar Month]

Fearn (Alder; Tree of Pre-Eminent Lineage; Celtic Book of Days)

Glastian of Scotland (Christian; Saint)

John of Reomay (Christian; Saint)

Joseph Freinademetz (Christian; Saint)

Julian of Cuenca (Christian; Saint)

Margaret, Princess of Hungary (Christian; Saint)

Muhammad (Positivist; Saint)

Nodens (God of Dreams & Visions; Celtic Book of Days)

Paulinus of Aquileia (Christian; Saint)

Peter Nolasco (Christian; Saint)

Peter Thomas (Christian; Saint)

Thomas Aquinas (Christian; Saint)

Thyrsus, Leucius, and Callinions (Christian; Martyrs)

Valerius (Christian; Saint)

Witch’s Day (Starza Pagan Book of Days)

Lunar Calendar Holidays

Chinese: Month 12 (Ding-Chou), Day 29 (Ding-You)

Day Pillar: Fire Rooster

12-Day Officers/12 Gods: Success Day (成 Cheng) [Auspicious]

Holidays: Spring Festival Eve (China)

Secular Saints Days

Alan Alda (Entertainment)

John Barclay (Literature)

Acker Bilk (Music)

Marcel Broodthaers (Art)

William Seward Burroughs (Inventor)

Ernest William Christmas (Art)

Ernie (Muppet)

Colette (Literature)

Ismail Kadare (Literature)

David Lodge (Literature)

Sarah McLachlan (Music)

Alice Neel (Art)

Claes Oldenburg (Art)

Sam Phillips (Music)

Jackson Pollock (Art)

Arthur Rubenstein (Music)

Robert Stroud (Science)

Elijah Wood (Entertainment)

Robert Wyatt (Music)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Fortunate Day (Pagan) [6 of 53]

Lucky Day (Philippines) [5 of 71]

Umu Limnu (Evil Day; Babylonian Calendar; 5 of 60)

Premieres

Amphigorey, by Edward Gorey (Illustrated Book; 1972)

A Blaze of Glory (Aesop’s Film Fable Cartoon; 1928)

Blue Valentine (Film; 2011)

Boobs in the Woods (WB LT Cartoon; 1950)

Carnegie Institution (Scientific Research Organization; 1902)

Coast Guard (U.S. Military Branch; 1915)

College (Oswald the Lucky Rabbit Cartoon; 1931)

The County Fair (Aesop’s Film Fable Cartoon; 1928)

Cryptozoo (Animated Film; 2021)

Dope (Film; 2015)

The Duck Hunt (Disney Cartoon; 1932)

Fantasy Island (TV Series; 1978)

The Flat of the Land or A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moose (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S5, Ep. 251; 1964)

Flee (Animated Film; 2021)

For What It’s Worth, by Buffalo Springfield (Song; 1967)

Ham-Ateur Night (WB MM Cartoon; 1939)

Hide and Shriek (Casper Cartoon; 1955)

How to Be a Sailor (Goofy Disney Cartoon; 1944)

The Ice Age: Adventures of Buck Wild (Animated Film; 2020)

I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover, by Jean Goldkette (Song; 1927)

The Invisible Monster (Animated TV Show;Jonny Quest #20; 1965)

It’s an Ill Wind (WB LT Cartoon; 1939)

I’ve Been Lonely Too Long, by The Rascals (Song; 1967)

The Last of Chéri, by Colette (Novel; 1926)

La Vie Commence Demain (Film; 1951) [1st X-Rated Film]

Love Is Here and Now You’re Gone, by The Supremes (Song; 1967)

Mack the Knife or Operation: Moose (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S5, Ep. 252; 1964)

The Mechanic (Film; 2011)

The Moonflower Vine, by Jetta Carleton (Novel; 1962)

Mr. Spaceship, by Philip K. Dick (Short Story; 1953)

My Cherie Amour, by Stevie Wonder (Song; 1969)

My Favorite Duck (Blue Ribbon Hit Parade Cartoon; 1950)

Northwestern University (School; 1851)

The Peril of the Prussianism (Paramount-Bray Pictograph Cartoon; 1918)

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen (Novel; 1813) [#2]

Red Rock West (Film; 1994)

Riding the Rails (Betty Boop Cartoon; 1938)

Scrambled Eagles (Goldwyn-Bray Pictograph Cartoon; 1921)

Scratch a Tiger (Ant and the Aardvark Cartoon; 1970)

Seal Skinners, featuring The Captain and the Kids (MGM Cartoon; 1939)

Shadow Theory (Krazy Kat Cartoon; 1928)

The Shining, by Stephen King (Novel; 1977)

A Silent Voice (Anime Film; 2019)

Sissy Sheriff (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1967)

Speeding Ticket (London, UK: 1896)

Sullivan’s Travels (Film; 1942)

Tales of the South Pacific, by James A. Michener (Short Stories; 1947)

Too Hop To Handle (WB LT Cartoon; 1956)

The Travels and Adventures of Three Princes of Sarendip (Fairy Tale; 1722)

Twas But a Dream (Hearst-Vitagraph News Pictorial Cartoon; 1916)

University of Washington (School; 1861)

The Vacuum Gun, Parts 3 & 4 (Underdog Cartoon, S3, Eps. 35 & 36; 1967)

Way Down Yonder in the Corn (Columbia Favorites Cartoon; 1954)

We Are the World, recorded by Supergroup USA for Africa (Song; 1985)

You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth (Fleischer Screen Songs Cartoon; 1938)

Today’s Name Days

Caroline, Karoline, Manfred, Thomas (Austria)

Toma, Tomislav (Croatia)

Otýlie (Czech Republic)

Carolus, Karl, Magnus (Denmark)

Kaarel, Kaarli, Kaaro, Kalle, Karel, Karl, Karli, Karro (Estonia)

Kaarle, Kaarlo, Kalle, Mies (Finland)

Manfred, Thomas (France)

Karl, Karolina, Manfred, Thomas (Germany)

Haris, Palladios (Greece)

Karola, Károly (Hungary)

Tommaso, Valerio (Italy)

Kārlis, Spodris (Latvia)

Gedautas, Leonidas, Nijolė (Lithuania)

Karl, Karoline (Norway)

Agnieszka, Augustyn, Flawian, Ildefons, Julian, Karol, Leonidas, Piotr, Radomir, Roger, Waleriusz (Poland)

Efrem, Iacob, Paladie (Romania)

Alfonz (Slovakia)

Tomás (Spain)

Karl, Karla (Sweden)

Edward (Ukraine)

Carlotta, Charleen, Charlene, Charlotta, Charlotte, Charmaine, Manfred (USA)

Today’s National Name Days

National Amy Day

National Tina Day

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 28 of 2025; 337 days remaining in the year

ISO Week: Day 2 of Week 5 of 2025

Celtic Tree Calendar: Luis (Rowan) [Day 8 of 28]

Chinese: Month 12 (Ding-Chou), Day 29 (Ding-You)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025) [Jia-Wu]

Coptic: 20 Tubah 1741

Druid Tree Calendar: Cypress (Jan 25-Feb 3) [Day 4 of 15]

Hebrew: 28 Teveth 5785

Islamic: 28 Rajab 1446

J Cal: 28 White; Seventhday [28 of 30]

Julian: 15 January 2025

Moon: 1%: Waning Crescent

Positivist: 28 Moses (1st Month) [Muhammad]

Runic Half Month: Elhaz (Elk) [Day 7 of 15]

Season: Winter (Day 39 of 90)

Week: 4th & Last Week of January

Zodiac:

Tropical (Typical) Zodiac: Aquarius (Day 9 of 30)

Sidereal Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 14 of 29)

Schmidt Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 3 of 27)

IAU Boundaries (Current) Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 9 of 28)

IAU Boundaries (1977) Zodiac: Capricornus (Day 10 of 28)

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 1.28

Holidays

American Immigration Lawyers Association Day of Action

Christa McAuliffe Day

Clash Day

Data Privacy Day

Data Protection Day (EU)

The Diet of Worms Anniversary Day (1521)

Global Community Engagement Day

Gone-ta-Pott Day [every 28th]

Great Mental Health Day (UK)

International Data Privacy & Protection Day

International Lego Day

International Make Your Point Day

International Mobilization Day Against Nuclear War

International Reducing CO2 Emissions Day

Jackhammer Day

José Marti Memorial Day (Cuba)

Julian Felipe Day (Philippines)

King’s Name Day (Sweden)

Live Your Fantasies Day

Love Among the Nations Day

Make Your Point Day

National Army Day (Armenia)

National Day to Combat Modern Slave Labor (Brazil)

National Film Day (Argentina)

National Gift of the Ladybug Day

National Kazoo Day

National Pediatrician Day

National Spieling Day

Number Please Day

Paul Jackson Pollock Day

Polana Asteroid Day

Pop Art Day

Poplar Day (French Republic)

Rattlesnake Roundup Day

Science Day (Belarus)

Serendipity Day [also 1.18]

Ski Tow Day

Space Shuttle Challenger Disaster Anniversary Day

Streetlights Day

Telephone Exchange Day

Thank a Plugin Developer Day

Welcome Home the Heroes from Iraq Day (St. Louis, Missouri)

World Day for the Abolition of Meat Day

World Geoffroy’s Cat Day

World Lewy Body Dementia Day

Youth Climate Action Day (Indiana)

Food & Drink Celebrations

National Blueberry Pancake Day

Nature Celebrations

Black Polar Day (Courage; Korean Birth Flowers)

Daisy Day

Double Daisy Day (Bellis perennus plenis)

Independence, Flag & Related Days

Botany Bay (Founded; Australia; 1788)

Democracy Day (Rwanda)

Roschfallen (Declared; 2014) [unrecognized]

New Year’s Days

New Year’s Eve (Chu Xi; China)

Tet Eve (Vietnam)

4th & Last Tuesday in January

A.F.R.M.A. Fancy Rat & Mouse Day [Last Tuesday]

National Plan for Vacation Day [Last Tuesday]

National Speak Up and Succeed Day [4th Tuesday]

Taco Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Target Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Tater Tot Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Tell the Truth Tuesday [4th Tuesday of Each Month]

Thai Tuesday [4th Tuesday of Each Month]

Teriyaki Tuesday [Last Tuesday of Each Month]

Transformation Tuesday [Last Tuesday of Each Month]

Trivia Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Two For Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Up Helly Aa Day (Scotland) [Last Tuesday]

Weekly Holidays beginning January 28 (Last Week of January)

Spring Festival Golden Week (China) [thru 2.3]

Festivals Beginning January 28, 2025

Holtville Carrot Festival (Holtville, California) [thru 2.9]

Hotel, Motel & Restaurant Supply Show of the Southeast (Myrtle Beach, South Carolina) [thru 1.30]

International Kolkata Book Fair (Kolkata, India) [thru 2.9]

International Production & Processing Expo (Atlanta, Georgia) [thru 1.30]

Lerwick Up Helly Aa (Lerwick, Scotland)

Unified Wine & Grape Symposium (Sacramento, California) [thru 1.30]

Washington Oregon Potato Conference (Kennewick, Washington) [thru 1.30]

Western Idaho Ag Expo (Caldwell, Idaho) [thru 1.29]

Feast Days

Agnes (Christian; Saint)

Alan Funt Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Amadeus of Lausanne (Christian; Saint)

The Apocalypse (Pastafarian)

Black Pepper with Everything Day (Pastafarian)

Charlemagne (Christian; Saint)

Colette (Writerism)

Cyril of Alexandria (Christian; Saint)

Day of Rules: Eunomia’s Day (Pagan)

Ernie (Muppetism)

Every Man’s Day (a.k.a. Rénrì 人日; China) [7th Day of 1st Lunar Month]

Fearn (Alder; Tree of Pre-Eminent Lineage; Celtic Book of Days)

Glastian of Scotland (Christian; Saint)

John of Reomay (Christian; Saint)

Joseph Freinademetz (Christian; Saint)

Julian of Cuenca (Christian; Saint)

Margaret, Princess of Hungary (Christian; Saint)

Muhammad (Positivist; Saint)

Nodens (God of Dreams & Visions; Celtic Book of Days)

Paulinus of Aquileia (Christian; Saint)

Peter Nolasco (Christian; Saint)

Peter Thomas (Christian; Saint)

Thomas Aquinas (Christian; Saint)

Thyrsus, Leucius, and Callinions (Christian; Martyrs)

Valerius (Christian; Saint)

Witch’s Day (Starza Pagan Book of Days)

Lunar Calendar Holidays

Chinese: Month 12 (Ding-Chou), Day 29 (Ding-You)

Day Pillar: Fire Rooster

12-Day Officers/12 Gods: Success Day (成 Cheng) [Auspicious]

Holidays: Spring Festival Eve (China)

Secular Saints Days

Alan Alda (Entertainment)

John Barclay (Literature)

Acker Bilk (Music)

Marcel Broodthaers (Art)

William Seward Burroughs (Inventor)

Ernest William Christmas (Art)

Ernie (Muppet)

Colette (Literature)

Ismail Kadare (Literature)

David Lodge (Literature)

Sarah McLachlan (Music)

Alice Neel (Art)

Claes Oldenburg (Art)

Sam Phillips (Music)

Jackson Pollock (Art)

Arthur Rubenstein (Music)

Robert Stroud (Science)

Elijah Wood (Entertainment)

Robert Wyatt (Music)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Fortunate Day (Pagan) [6 of 53]

Lucky Day (Philippines) [5 of 71]

Umu Limnu (Evil Day; Babylonian Calendar; 5 of 60)

Premieres

Amphigorey, by Edward Gorey (Illustrated Book; 1972)

A Blaze of Glory (Aesop’s Film Fable Cartoon; 1928)

Blue Valentine (Film; 2011)

Boobs in the Woods (WB LT Cartoon; 1950)

Carnegie Institution (Scientific Research Organization; 1902)

Coast Guard (U.S. Military Branch; 1915)

College (Oswald the Lucky Rabbit Cartoon; 1931)

The County Fair (Aesop’s Film Fable Cartoon; 1928)

Cryptozoo (Animated Film; 2021)

Dope (Film; 2015)

The Duck Hunt (Disney Cartoon; 1932)

Fantasy Island (TV Series; 1978)

The Flat of the Land or A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moose (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S5, Ep. 251; 1964)

Flee (Animated Film; 2021)

For What It’s Worth, by Buffalo Springfield (Song; 1967)

Ham-Ateur Night (WB MM Cartoon; 1939)

Hide and Shriek (Casper Cartoon; 1955)

How to Be a Sailor (Goofy Disney Cartoon; 1944)

The Ice Age: Adventures of Buck Wild (Animated Film; 2020)

I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover, by Jean Goldkette (Song; 1927)

The Invisible Monster (Animated TV Show;Jonny Quest #20; 1965)

It’s an Ill Wind (WB LT Cartoon; 1939)

I’ve Been Lonely Too Long, by The Rascals (Song; 1967)

The Last of Chéri, by Colette (Novel; 1926)

La Vie Commence Demain (Film; 1951) [1st X-Rated Film]

Love Is Here and Now You’re Gone, by The Supremes (Song; 1967)

Mack the Knife or Operation: Moose (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S5, Ep. 252; 1964)

The Mechanic (Film; 2011)

The Moonflower Vine, by Jetta Carleton (Novel; 1962)

Mr. Spaceship, by Philip K. Dick (Short Story; 1953)

My Cherie Amour, by Stevie Wonder (Song; 1969)

My Favorite Duck (Blue Ribbon Hit Parade Cartoon; 1950)

Northwestern University (School; 1851)

The Peril of the Prussianism (Paramount-Bray Pictograph Cartoon; 1918)

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen (Novel; 1813) [#2]

Red Rock West (Film; 1994)

Riding the Rails (Betty Boop Cartoon; 1938)

Scrambled Eagles (Goldwyn-Bray Pictograph Cartoon; 1921)

Scratch a Tiger (Ant and the Aardvark Cartoon; 1970)

Seal Skinners, featuring The Captain and the Kids (MGM Cartoon; 1939)

Shadow Theory (Krazy Kat Cartoon; 1928)

The Shining, by Stephen King (Novel; 1977)

A Silent Voice (Anime Film; 2019)

Sissy Sheriff (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1967)

Speeding Ticket (London, UK: 1896)

Sullivan’s Travels (Film; 1942)

Tales of the South Pacific, by James A. Michener (Short Stories; 1947)

Too Hop To Handle (WB LT Cartoon; 1956)

The Travels and Adventures of Three Princes of Sarendip (Fairy Tale; 1722)

Twas But a Dream (Hearst-Vitagraph News Pictorial Cartoon; 1916)

University of Washington (School; 1861)

The Vacuum Gun, Parts 3 & 4 (Underdog Cartoon, S3, Eps. 35 & 36; 1967)

Way Down Yonder in the Corn (Columbia Favorites Cartoon; 1954)

We Are the World, recorded by Supergroup USA for Africa (Song; 1985)

You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth (Fleischer Screen Songs Cartoon; 1938)

Today’s Name Days

Caroline, Karoline, Manfred, Thomas (Austria)

Toma, Tomislav (Croatia)

Otýlie (Czech Republic)

Carolus, Karl, Magnus (Denmark)

Kaarel, Kaarli, Kaaro, Kalle, Karel, Karl, Karli, Karro (Estonia)

Kaarle, Kaarlo, Kalle, Mies (Finland)

Manfred, Thomas (France)

Karl, Karolina, Manfred, Thomas (Germany)

Haris, Palladios (Greece)

Karola, Károly (Hungary)

Tommaso, Valerio (Italy)

Kārlis, Spodris (Latvia)

Gedautas, Leonidas, Nijolė (Lithuania)

Karl, Karoline (Norway)

Agnieszka, Augustyn, Flawian, Ildefons, Julian, Karol, Leonidas, Piotr, Radomir, Roger, Waleriusz (Poland)

Efrem, Iacob, Paladie (Romania)

Alfonz (Slovakia)

Tomás (Spain)

Karl, Karla (Sweden)

Edward (Ukraine)

Carlotta, Charleen, Charlene, Charlotta, Charlotte, Charmaine, Manfred (USA)

Today’s National Name Days

National Amy Day

National Tina Day

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 28 of 2025; 337 days remaining in the year

ISO Week: Day 2 of Week 5 of 2025

Celtic Tree Calendar: Luis (Rowan) [Day 8 of 28]

Chinese: Month 12 (Ding-Chou), Day 29 (Ding-You)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025) [Jia-Wu]

Coptic: 20 Tubah 1741

Druid Tree Calendar: Cypress (Jan 25-Feb 3) [Day 4 of 15]

Hebrew: 28 Teveth 5785

Islamic: 28 Rajab 1446

J Cal: 28 White; Seventhday [28 of 30]

Julian: 15 January 2025

Moon: 1%: Waning Crescent

Positivist: 28 Moses (1st Month) [Muhammad]

Runic Half Month: Elhaz (Elk) [Day 7 of 15]

Season: Winter (Day 39 of 90)

Week: 4th & Last Week of January

Zodiac:

Tropical (Typical) Zodiac: Aquarius (Day 9 of 30)

Sidereal Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 14 of 29)

Schmidt Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 3 of 27)

IAU Boundaries (Current) Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 9 of 28)

IAU Boundaries (1977) Zodiac: Capricornus (Day 10 of 28)

[usmaradiomagazine]

ON AIR - Saturday 21 December 2024 at 7:00pm (CET) - usmaradio.org ‘I want to eat the earth’

A sonic almanac from the New School of the Anthropocene

NSOTA is a radical experiment in alternative education, away from marketisation and arcane specialism towards co-sensing systems change through creative practice.

This is an ecological transmission of DIY ethics, non-hierarchical structures, radical networks, interconnected sensing through sound, text, voice, spoken word, human and more-than-human collaborative practice, patchwork group thinking, and radio art.

This episode is created for the December solstice, a time of extreme dark or light in either direction, a hunkering down in the wet earth or a baking out in the hot sun. The piece is composed by Stephen Shiell using original material from NSOTA scholars.

Scholar contributions:

Stephen Shiell - with guests Rina and Laura

A piece created as part of Camp FR’s ‘Free Radio Pyrenees’ residency, including Stephen's field studies from Mount Agnes (Stephen P McGreavy BBB-4 VLF receiver), hydrophone recordings from the River Garbet and the town pond (David Rothenburg hydrophones), field recordings of a water viaduct (Lom Geofon), a duet with a thyme bush full of pollinators and a bullroarer, exploring the vibrations of this early transmission device, a nighttime thunderstorm (Lom Usi-Pro omni-directionals).

Rina sounded the ski lift using a geophone with personal interactions, and Laura mixed found sound from a tourists camping trip or the area, with voice and synth.

Rhona Eve Clews chats symbolic teeth, mouths and lipstick dreams with artist friends, plays ukulele on Christmas eve, recalls a Fijian airport in December, and completes the solstice session with the OOO of fireworks in Montreal.

Stephen Shiell field recording of a pile of wood ants, Dartmoor

Chris de Sel ‘Cold War Autumn Regime’ - on a walk from Battersea to Blackfriars bridge, from angst about a climate crisis to a preoccupation with geopolitical power struggles. 

Sk.ye recites ‘a extract from ‘Notebook’ a work in progress, and plays a clarinet rendition of a fragment of music composed by Rahsaan Roland Kirk

Lu(Lu)Lu ‘There was beauty to their strange distortion’, a piece inspired by the shifting balance in darkness and light at this time of year

Blanc Sceol (Stephen Shiell & Hannah White) ‘We go on together’, a melancholy lament for our times born of collective and personal grief

Stephen Shiell field recording of frogs, beetles, larvae, boatman, caddis fly, plant photosynthesis from a pond Saint-Aignan in France

Clare Whistler recites her poem ’52 Accords’ from ‘Accord’ an Eco Body collective project

Michael Timmerman creates a sonic space where technics, the world of insects, birds, rain, thunder, searching and fleeing human steps and the poetry of Paul Celan interact in ways that is unlikely to provoke a unified response. The opening chord progression may be just that – a kind of hope for progress. But it is also melancholic. Unfinished. Not progressing, just fading. There is possibly also horror, dismay. The sax just repeats as if it could move on to a melody or something else uplifting. That initial note may be all we have.Simon McClelland Morris ‘Beating the Boundary’ is a sonic response to the idea of the parish boundary – a semi-fictitious territory that acted as a demarcation line for the church and head family in the parish, and a way of control and extraction from people within the boundary line

[bequia3]

Saint Agnes Feast Day - January 21st

St. Agnes is the patron saint of virgins. A beautiful girl of a wealthy Christian family back in the year 304 CE, she was martyred at the age of thirteen because she refused the advances of a high-born Roman suitor. From then, on January 20th, the eve of St. Agnes feast day, when properly implored by a virgin, St. Agnes reveals in a dream the man the virgin will marry. It’s real, look it up. As…