#SoulSkin

[crimson-spine]

Hello! I love your artwork, and I really am excited about reading SoulSkin, but I can't seem to find anything about the book's release date. I was just hoping to ask when that may be?

Hi! Thank you so much! I actually just signed with a publisher to have it released in France!! I can’t disclose any information for now, as it is all extremely recent, but it will be available in bookstores in France and how well it sells there will impact its availability everywhere else.

[innervoiceartblog]

Everything you see has its roots in the unseen world.

The forms may change, yet the essence remains the same.

Every wonderful sight will vanish, every sweet word will fade,

But do not be disheartened,

The source they come from is eternal, growing,

Branching out, giving new life and new joy.

Why do you weep?

The source is within you,

And this whole world is springing up from it.

~ Rumi

Photo of Rose Wheeler in Emak Bakia directed by Man Ray 1926 ~ Via Man Ray's films

[phy-be]

SOULSKIN

Merry crisis to my love @crimson-spine !! Here’s her character from the awesome and creepy retelling of Donkey Skin she’s been writing! LOVE YOU!

[dexter-diesel]

Watch "New Souls Like Game: Lies of P - Scrapped Watchman Boss Fight | Krat City Hall" on YouTube

[crimson-spine]

YOU MADE A WHOLE MOODBOARD FOR MY WIP???? And expect me not to be on my knees?? I'm floored, it's gorgeous, I love it

the Beast x the Fool 🃏♥️👑

inspired by @crimson-spine 's book soulskin ❤️

[mermaidenmystic]

Reclaiming Her Soulskin with Selkies greeting card by Lucy Campbell

artist note: Based on the Selkie legend of the Seal maiden, reclaiming her stolen sealskin and returning to her underwater realm.

[o-wise-corvid]

Dathomir Daily

Thal’mālin (Soulskin)

- The ceremony where a young Zabrak is granted their tattoos, which are called the same thing.

- The process is in no way painful and is instead one of deep meaning and togetherness with their family.

- Traditionally, Nightbrothers have gathered mushling pods mixed with bone dust from their first hunt for their ceremonies and Nightsisters have acquired a piece of the Sleeper for theirs. Other clans have their own special ingredient that is unique only to their clan. This leads to tattoos varying in appearance such as in color, pattern, thickness, motifs, etc.

- A chalice is prepared, whether this be a permanent structure that is big enough to hold a person or one constructed, like a tub. This is filled with water and then the ink mixture is slowly stirred in.

- At the point when the water begins to glow a green or sometimes cyan hue, it is ready for the person to step in and be submerged.

- Most are dressed only so far as to preserve basic modesty so that the waters may reach all of their skin. Some forgo even that.

- When submerged, a parent usually holds the hand of the person, who is usually a juvenile. Their arm is partially submerged and it will be changed to show that their child reached this stage in their life, as this is important for them too, to have raised a child to survive their trial.

- Patterns begin to become more solid and clear on the skin with time; these will subtly change over the course of the person’s life to reflect milestones and important moments. Emotions and additions to family. Losses. But the basic pattern will remain the same. Tattoos among Nightbrothers are usually black or a deeper shade of their own skin color, but Nightsisters have traditionally sported more minimalist tattoos in purple, black, blue and even gold.

- In the total dark, these tattoos are bioluminescent and usually glow the color of a person’s eyes. Though they can change color and brightness to indicate mood. This is also unique to the individual.

Tag list: @alexeithegoat @thesitharts @crc-jedi-knight-serushna @hotshot9 @smoooothbrain @gran-maul-seizure @foreverchangingfandomsao3 @herbalinz-of-yesteryear @justalittletomato @stardustbee @storm89 @id-rather-be-a-druid @ohboi @and-claudia @eloquentmoon @dukeoftheblackstar @lune-de-miel-au-paradis

[quirkle2]

hi who wants excerpts from my wip fic recondite. don't answer that ur getting them anyway

Tome tuts, juts her lip out a bit into a pout as she stares at the rusted ceiling, arms crossed over her chest. Shigeo watches her watch the leaves sway there, hanging onto vines with skinny stems that the breeze pecks at. “Of course I’m a genius, I know this. It’s just… frustrating. It’s like I don’t even know what I don’t know.” Shigeo feels something in him pause, and he finds himself understanding those words in a visceral, molecular way, but he feels he’s linking them to unrelated things. Things that have nothing to do with math.

-

The energy in the room coils and bursts out like a water balloon, hard-hitting and sharp. Reigen yelps from behind him over the ear-splitting whine. Shigeo can feel an odd prickling of static along his skin in little dots, like acid spraying out from the fissures in the spirit’s bloated soulskin. Somehow he tastes every splatter even when none of it reaches his tongue—it’s a motley of sparkling water and freon, cold against his skin until the aftertaste gets uncomfortably warm and sweltering in his joints. His palms feel like dry ice. He hears Reigen make an odd noise, something between a whine and a gasp, as the rustling of clothing spells out one of his strange, quick squirms. “Holy hell, Mob—you didn’t have to go that hard!” One of the cardboard boxes in front of him sizzle and crack at the edges, some unknown chemical interaction between corrugate and psychic mana. A flap along the top falls off and hits the ground pathetically, smoking from pure heat and making a low crumble sound in his ears that sounds quite alien. He didn’t. And judging by the ever-so-slight tremor of the building, he’d say he shouldn’t have. He hadn’t even meant to, is the concerning thing.

-

“I just mean my powers… I didn’t mean for that to… ya’know,” Shigeo explains, and Teruki’s goofy persona softens into something more genuine, “They’ve been kinda weird today. I don’t know why.” His partner hums, sitting in the quiet music for a while. His fingers drum against Shigeo’s knee to the beat. “You have seemed… preoccupied, lately.” Shigeo cannot help but notice that he says it carefully. Like he’s afraid of using the wrong word. He can’t think of a synonym for preoccupied that could possibly offend him—he’s heard it all before, anyway, from other people. From people who didn’t care nearly as much as Teruki. No, Teruki isn’t like that. Teruki doesn’t think he’s oblivious. Something ugly pierces his gut there, at the thought, at the idea that Shigeo could think so lowly of his partner like that. Not everyone is out to get you.

-

“Are you doin’ alright?” Ritsu utters slowly, softly, and Shigeo thinks back to a few weeks ago, on Teruki’s (Reigen’s) couch, and how the answer he’d given to a very similar question had apparently been the wrong one. Ritsu asks this question a lot, though. And Shigeo never answers with anything but affirmatives. “Yeah,” he gives, because it feels impossible to say anything else. This feels like a ritual to him—Ritsu asks, Shigeo lies, they part ways. He doesn’t have it in him today to disturb the peace. “I’m fine.” He lets the answer hang in the air between them for a moment, lets it settle atop their shoulders like it always does, because the answer is light and made of helium and Shigeo wants it to retain that nothingness. It’s a nothing answer. It’s a nothing answer to a question about a nothing problem. Simple, really. He counts the seconds it takes Ritsu to say it. He makes it to seven and a half before his brother opens his mouth. “If you’re sure… but I’m always h—” —ere if you need me, Shigeo finishes in his head, recites it by heart. He knows. He knows Ritsu is here if he needs him. He appreciates it, he really does. But it’s a nothing problem, and it therefore needs a nothing solution.

[random-xpressions]

It took centuries for us to cross our paths and how am I supposed to be very normal about it, not jumping up and down out of sheer excitement that we have finally exchanged something in us with each other. I'll walk away dyed in the color of your soul and I hope you carry away a little fragrance of mine on your soulskin...

Random Xpressions

[riftstone-of-the-calm]

Soulskin looks so much better than "burgundy coat" and yet the stupid coat has better stats 😑😑😑

Edit: okay specifically I mean that I like the aesthetic of soulskin more because the coat does that flaring-out at the hips thing that I really don't like 😑

[crimson-spine]

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A post shared by Aude Z. (@crimson.spine)

A year ago, as I was struggling to work on my novel, despite making concept arts and writing daily, I doodled the main character, the princess Blanche, with who I assumed could be her father's jester. The character didn't even exist in the story yet, he came out of the blue, out of that sketch, but he put everything else into place. Something had been missing, and that "something" was a fool. Now, A year later, the book is written, and I'm looking into finding a publisher. There's nothing more I can do at the moment but wait, and I want to take this opportunity to thank you for the overwhelming support you showed me throughout the year. Writing this book was necessary, I had no other choice but to follow those characters into their world, but all your comments, your fanarts and even cosplays made the journey a million times better! I hope I'll be able to share their story with you soon ❤️

[innervoiceartblog]

“She's got the whole dark forest living inside of her.”

~ Tom Waits

[crosstheveil]

Sealskin, Soulskin

Story (written by Clarissa Pinkola Estés)

During a time that once was, is now gone forever, and will come back again soon, there is day after day of white sky, white snow... and all the tiny specks in the distance are people or dogs or bear. Here, nothing thrives for the asking. The winds blow hard so the people have come to wear their parkas and mamleks, boots, sideways on purpose now. Here, words freeze in the open air, and whole sentences must be broken from the speaker’s lips and thawed at the fire so people can see what has been said. Here, the people live in the white and abundant hair of old Annuluk, the old grandmother, the old sorceress who is Earth herself.

And it was in this land that there lived a man... a man so lonely that over the years, tears had carved great chasms into his cheeks. He tried to smile and be happy. He hunted. He trapped and he slept well. But he wished for human company. Sometimes out in the shallows in his kayak when a seal came near he remembered the old stories about how seals were once human, and the only reminder of that time was their eyes, which were capable of portraying those looks, those wise and wild and loving looks. And sometimes then he felt such a pang of loneliness that tears coursed down the well-used cracks in his face.

One night he hunted past dark but found nothing. As the moon rose in the sky and the ice floes glistened, he came to a great spotted rock in the sea, and it appeared to his keen eye that upon that old rock there was movement of the most graceful kind.

He paddled slow and deep to be closer, and there atop the mighty rock danced a small group of women, naked as the first day they lay upon their mothers’ bellies. Well, he was a lonely man, with no human friends but in memory—and he stayed and watched. The women were like beings made of moon milk, and their skin shimmered with little silver dots like those on the salmon in springtime, and the women’s feet and hands were long and graceful.

So beautiful were they that the man sat stunned in his boat, the water lapping, taking him closer and closer to the rock. He could hear the magnificent women laughing... at least they seemed to laugh, or was it the water laughing at the edge of the rock? The man was confused, for he was so dazzled. But somehow the loneliness that had weighed on his chest like wet hide was lifted away, and almost without thinking, as though he was meant, he jumped up onto the rock and stole one of the sealskins laying there. He hid behind an outcropping and he pushed the sealskin into his qutnguq, parka.

Soon, one of the women called in a voice that was the most beautiful he’d ever heard... like the whales calling at dawn... or no, maybe it was more like the newborn wolves tumbling down in the spring... or but, well no, it was something better than that, but it did not matter because... what were the women doing now?

Why, they were putting on their sealskins, and one by one the seal women were slipping into the sea, yelping and crying happily. Except for one. The tallest of them searched high and searched low for her sealskin, but it was nowhere to be found. The man felt emboldened—by what, he did not know. He stepped from the rock, appealing to her, “Woman... be... my... wife. I am... a lonely... man.”

“Oh, I cannot be wife,” she said, “for I am of the other, the ones who live temeqvanek, beneath.”

“Be... my... wife,” insisted the man. “In seven summers, I will return your sealskin to you, and you may stay or you may go as you wish.”

The young seal woman looked long into his face with eyes that but for her true origins seemed human. Reluctantly she said, “I will go with you. After seven summers, it shall be decided.”

So in time they had a child, whom they named Ooruk. And the child was lithe and fat. In winter the mother told Ooruk tales of the creatures that lived beneath the sea while the father whittled a bear or a wolf in whitestone with his long knife. When his mother carried the child Ooruk to bed, she pointed out through the smoke hole to the clouds and all their shapes. Except instead of recounting the shapes of raven and bear and wolf, she recounted the stories of walrus, whale, seal, and salmon.. for those were the creatures she knew.

But as time went on, her flesh began to dry out. First it flaked, then it cracked. The skin of her eyelids began to peel. The hairs of her head began to drop to the ground. She became naluaq, palest white. Her plumpness began to wither. She tried to conceal her limp. Each day her eyes, without her willing it so, became more dull. She began to put out her hand in order to find her way, for her sight was darkening.

And so it went until one night when the child Ooruk was awakened by shouting and sat upright in his sleeping skins. He heard a roar like a bear that was his father berating his mother. He heard a crying like silver rung on stone that was his mother.

“You hid my sealskin seven long years ago, and now the eighth winter comes. I want what I am made of returned to me,” cried the seal woman.

“And you, woman, would leave me if I gave it to you,” boomed the husband.

“I do not know what I would do. I only know I must have what I belong to.”

“And you would leave me wifeless, and the boy motherless. You are bad.”

And with that her husband tore the hide flap of the door aside and disappeared into the night.

The boy loved his mother much. He feared losing her and so cried himself to sleep... only to be awakened by the wind. A strange wind... it seemed to call to him, “Oooruk, Oooruuuuk.”

And out of bed he climbed, so hastily that he put his parka on upside down and pulled his mukluks only halfway up. Hearing his name called over and over, he dashed out into the starry, starry night.

“Ooooooomuuuk.”

The child ran out to the cliff overlooking the water, and there, far out in the windy sea, was a huge shaggy silver seal... its head was enormous, its whiskers drooped to its chest, its eyes were deep yellow.

“Ooooooomuuuk.”

The boy scrambled down the cliff and stumbled at the bottom over a stone—no, a bundle—that had rolled out of a cleft in the rock. The boy's hair lashed at his face like a thousand reins of ice.

“Oooooooruuuuk.”

The boy scratched open the bundle and shook it out—it was his mother's sealskin. Oh, and he could smell her all through it. And as he hugged the sealskin to his face and inhaled her scent, her soul slammed through him like a sudden summer wind.

“Ohhh,” he cried with pain and joy, and lifted the skin again to his face and again her soul passed through his. “Ohhh,” he cried again, for he was being filled with the unending love of his mother.

And the old silver seal way out... sank slowly beneath the water.

The boy climbed the cliff and ran toward home with the sealskin flying behind him, and into the house he fell. His mother swept him and the skin up and closed her eyes in gratitude for the safety of both.

She pulled on her sealskin. “Oh, mother, no!” cried the child.

She scooped up the child, tucked him under her arm, and half ran and half stumbled toward the roaring sea.

“Oh, mother! No! Don’t leave me!” Ooruk cried.

And at once you could tell she wanted to stay with her child, she wanted to, but something called her, something older than she, older than he, older than time.

“Oh, mother, no, no, no,” cried the child. She turned to him with a look of dreadful love in her eyes. She took the boy’s face in her hands, and breathed her sweet breath into his lungs, once, twice, three times. Then, with him under her arm like a precious bundle, she dove into the sea, down, and down, and down, and still deeper down, and the seal woman and her child breathed easily underwater.

And they swam deep and strong till they entered the underwater cove of seals where all manner of creatures were dining and singing, dancing and speaking, and the great silver seal that had called to Ooruk from the night sea embraced the child and called him grandson.

“How fare you up there, daughter?” asked the great silver seal.

The seal woman looked away and said, “I hurt a human... a man who gave his all to have me. But I cannot return to him, for I shall be a prisoner if I do.”

“And the boy?” asked the old seal. “My grandchild?” He said it so proudly his voice shook.

“He must go back, father. He cannot stay. His time is not yet to be here with us.” And she wept. And together they wept.

And so some days and nights passed, seven to be exact, during which time the luster came back to the seal woman’s hair and eyes. She turned a beautiful dark color, her sight was restored, her body regained its plumpness, and she swam uncrippled. Yet it came time to return the boy to land. On that night, the old grandfather seal and the boy’s beautiful mother swam with the child between them. Back they went, back up and up and up to the topside world. There they gently placed Ooruk on the stony shore in the moonlight.

His mother assured him, “I am always with you. Only touch what I have touched, my firesticks, my ulu, knife, my stone carvings of otters and seal, and I will breathe into your lungs a wind for the singing of your songs.”

The old silver seal and his daughter kissed the child many times; At last they tore themselves away and swam out to sea, and with one last look at the boy, they disappeared beneath the waters. And Ooruk, because it was not his time, stayed.

As time went on, he grew to be a mighty drummer and singer and a maker of stories, and it was said this all came to be because as a child he had survived being carried out to sea by the great seal spirits. Now, in the gray mists of morning, sometimes he can still be seen, with his kayak tethered, kneeling upon a certain rock in the sea, seeming to speak to a certain female seal who often comes near the shore. Though many have tried to hunt her, time after time they have failed. She is known as Tanqigcaq, the bright one, the holy one, and it is said that though she be a seal, her eyes are capable of portraying those human looks, those wise and wild and loving looks.

Overview

Soul initiation, illustrated by the tale of “Sealskin, Soulskin”, mirrors personal growth as we retrieve our stolen 'soulskin' or essence, akin to a seal pup’s maturation. Missteps along the journey are seen as opportunities for self-insight and growth.

The loss of one’s 'pelt' symbolizes disconnecting from one's inner self due to societal pressures or personal setbacks. To prevent this, conscious awareness of personal needs and setting healthy boundaries are necessary.

The narrative further depicts the dynamic between ego (the man) and soul (the seal woman), highlighting the ego's initial dominance and eventual submission to the soul. The symbolic child of their union signifies the challenging yet rewarding integration of these aspects, embodying our inner voice pushing towards self-realization.

We often struggle with societal constraints inhibiting our wildish instincts. This emotional stifling is like trying to fit into an ill-fitted suit, leading to a dried-out state devoid of 'moisture' necessary for creativity and life. Overcoming this demands a return to our intuitive nature, symbolized by the unconscious 'caller' guiding us back to our true selves.

Returning to oneself suggests an innate journey back to a familiar inner peace, a space of completeness, accessible to everyone. This personal 'home' is an environment of self-reflection and harmony, triggered by music, art, solitude, or nature. In this tranquil space, we can understand ourselves better, remember past experiences, and plan the future.

Neglecting this call can lead to a numbed sense of self and emotional discontentment. However, acknowledging this call, no matter how delayed, can catalyze transformative change, akin to rain on a parched landscape.

The frequency of these inward journeys varies for each person, influenced by their sensitivity, external engagement, and emotional resilience. They need careful balancing with daily life, as denying this internal journey can lead to emotional rifts and emptiness. Understanding and honoring our cycles of return to this inner 'home' leads to a harmonious existence. The difficulty lies in the necessity to return from these depths to our ordinary existence.

Our connection to this deeper consciousness is maintained through symbolic tools which represent our ability to shape our lives, rise from failure, and maintain our connection to 'home'. The promise is that by utilizing these psychic strengths, we'll feel infused with a sacred wind for singing. This singing represents speaking our truths and living in alignment with our soul.

Reintegration into daily life after such deep introspection might feel alienating, but this feeling is natural and temporary. The energies gathered during our deep psychic journey fuel our mundane life, and solitude serves as a bridge between these two worlds.

Traditionally found in secluded natural spaces, solitude is a time for healing, reflection, and connection with our unconscious mind. In this solitude, we call on our soul, asking for guidance and advice. This summoning can be achieved through various activities that resonate with us, requiring no special location or props, allowing us to carry our 'folded-up' solitude wherever we go.

Despite countless attempts to suppress or kill the wild spirit within us, it remains undying. It survives even when we operate out of sync with it, feeling exhausted but never eradicated. We can correct course, realign with our inner rhythm, and find our way back to our natural cycle. By acknowledging and respecting our distinct rhythms for work, play, rest, and creation, we safeguard our lives from the distortions imposed by others' demands or societal norms.

We intuitively know that we cannot thrive in a life that's not our own. We are like amphibians, capable of living on land but periodically needing to return to the water—our primal, spiritual home. The soul's path, as Carl Jung posited, leads to water—the spiritual sustenance we all need. These periodic returns, these moments of communion with our wild, innate spirit, are integral to our psychic ecology. It is through these encounters that we bask in the love and wisdom of our untamed selves.

[skyrim-forever]

*Sees anything with a jester* this is so Cicero x LDB coded

someone stop me before I have another wip

[fading-killer]

The dual nature of women ✧ Tenacious dog nature ✧ Achieving fierceness ✧ Facing the life/death/life ✧ La mariposa, Butterfly woman ✧ The feral woman ✧ Trying to sneak a secret life, split in two ✧ Injury to basic instinct, the consequence of capture ✧ Cringing before the collective, Shadow rebellion ✧ Dancing out of control ✧ At the executioners house ✧ Sealskin, soulskin ✧ Surfacing ✧ Womens innate ecology ✧ The pollution of the wild soul ✧ Righteous Rage ✧ Taking back the river ✧ Descansos ✧ Injured instinct ✧ The dismemberment ✧ The wandering ✧ The harrowing of the soul ✧ The realm of the wild woman ✧ The deep song

[kaesileigh]

A diary-esque reflection

...On facing the shadow...

Triggers: being ignored, feeling a lack of respect, condescension, feeling inadequate or incompetent.

This new job is challenging and triggering me.  Dealing with issues of power and control.  Respect.  I stop....and notice myself reacting (versus responding) from a place of insecurity.  Doubt.  Frustration.  Find myself questioning my abilities.  Envious of the affection and respect the staff seems to have for my assistant manager, but not me.  I recognize that a large part of this is my newness.  We don’t know each other.  I also must acknowledge what I find to be a repellant quality--the desire to be liked.  Needed.  Respected.  Also, the quality of envy. 

It’s tempting to continue suppressing these aspects of myself, but what happens when I do that?  I act, unconsciously from those places.  They poison my spirit.  Make me sick.  There are tinctures and natural herbs and remedies out there that come with warning labels of how to be consumed or used.  We must be MINDFUL of these sacred substances that have the power to heal but also to harm. Our shadows are like that--we can learn from them, use them as fuel and nutrition for growth, gain a unique power from them...or.  They can destroy us, corrode, rot us from the core.  We have a choice how we use our sacred medicines.  

I took a time out today and reminded myself to remember who I am.  Where I came from--”I am not myself without everything else.”  That I am a compilation of everyone and everything that I’ve ever encountered...and also, a more raw purity underneath all that.  Remembering that whatever I do needs to come from an authentic center.  A deep, wise center--a knowing.  This can be challenging for me as an enneagram fixated 4--trying on a different identity every other day.  I’ve learned over the years that despite whatever identity costumes, voices, dances, hobbies I am trying out today...I am able to do this while maintaining a tether to a solid center--a home.  Clarissa Pinkola Estes has a beautiful story (and also dark...many of her stories tend to have that shadow-element...which, I’m just realizing is perhaps what drew me so intensely to them...) in Women Who Run with the Wolves called Homing: Returning to Oneself (Sealskin, Soulskin).  This is a beautiful tale of the cycles of living and existing, straying from oneself, as is a normal tendency throughout life, and then finding our way home. There is an aspect, an “essential nature” that does not change.  An essential goodness, a purity...a lightness of spirit...a soul self that remains when all else is stripped away.  

I am learning that when I challenge myself, as I have recently with this job, I don’t need to adopt an entirely different way of being in order to do the job “right” and “well.”  I will find a way to do it within the parameters of my authenticity.  I will develop strengths to ever expand my capabilities and ability to handle challenges, take advantage of opportunities, leap at lessons, engage in more compassionate communication, and live life more intentionally and MORE FULLY!  I must remember the critical factors of PRESENCE and PATIENCE.  Patience with the process.  Patience with myself.  Patience with others.  Presence as often as possible (for everlasting presence is, arguable, not possible for those outside of monk-hood).  

Remembering that I am [usually] doing better at any given moment than I am allowing myself to acknowledge.  And when I am not, when I’m getting sucked into the whirlpool of chaos or dragging along the bottom with the pond scum, an acceptance of my predicament can allow me to more quickly find a way out.  I am starting to trust myself more.  Trust that I have the skills and inner wisdom to know what to do at any given moment.  It’s when I’m not tuned in, not listening, or not following my own deep wisdom, when I’m getting in my own way or being too over-reliant on external validation and direction, that I continue to flounder.  I am learning to be discerning in who I go to for advice, for a listening ear, for an embrace and to have my soul reflected back to me.  Learning to trust that I know what form of self care I need in order to address various situations.  (Not that I always listen).  But at least I know.  And tomorrow is a new day.  Every moment is an opportunity to make a different choice.  To make use of what we’re working with.  So this choice didn’t work in our favor?  A. Maybe it wasn’t meant to, B. Maybe we need to re-assess what is actually in our “favor” (what we want vs what is in the nature of our highest development), C. We can make a different choice AND it doesn’t mean there aren’t lessons to be gleaned from this one.  

And with that, I will let the mind rest.