#a few of these are poems so i just did the first stanzas | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mareastrorum · 1 month ago

Note

and 8.? Very related, might be the same thing.

1. the character everyone gets wrong

It's hard for me to gauge how many people actually hold a particular fandom opinion about a specific character. A lot of the C2 characters fit here, as do some C3 people, so I'll go for one that isn't discussed as often.

I think a lot of people get Caduceus wrong because his arc was fairly subtle in the stream. He went from a passive believer in the Wildmother to a cleric acting upon the world in her name. In the beginning, he was always looking for signs and waiting for someone to tell him what to do. He liked that.

But in a world like Exandria, Caduceus needed to become someone who would make decisions and choose a path, and he did. He was the first one to learn about Cognouza. He insisted on learning more about it. In every discussion, he insisted every time that it was aberrant, wrong, and had to be stopped. Early Caduceus never would have done that, but by the time the Nein got to the end game, he was ready for it.

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

I'm going to be honest, I almost went with a tamer answer, but this is the "choose violence" ask game, and it’s Indigenous People’s Day, so here's the answer that's going to invoke carnage.

The Nine Eyes of Lucien was a terrible book. It sucked for many reasons, but the key one that has soured more as time goes by is that Brevyn Oakbender is a white savior.

First: what is a white savior? A white savior is a trope in western media where a white character saves a minority character (or a group) from the plight of being naturally inferior. It’s been around for a few hundred years now, and it gained prevalence in the U.S. in the slave trade era. A more well known historical example is the poem The White Man’s Burden, which was one of many works justifying colonization because white supremacists reasoned that was how indigenous peoples could be included in the modern, proper, Christian culture of whites. For those who don't want to click links, here's the first stanza of the poem:

Take up the White Man's burden— Send forth the best ye breed— Go bind your sons to exile To serve your captives' need; To wait in heavy harness On fluttered folk and wild— Your new-caught, sullen peoples, Half devil and half child.

Man, that sure would be on the nose for tieflings, wouldn’t it?

More recent works involving the white savior trope tend to focus on middle-class white characters (especially women) acting charitably towards minorities (especially Black characters) as a way to highlight how good white people are for fixing the problems minorities face. Most importantly, there is little, if any, criticism aimed at white characters or the systems of oppression that benefit them and which caused the problems in the first place. Instead, those social ills are typically reframed as failures by individuals, who are also conveniently minority characters. It's just that the "it's because they're not white" part isn't said aloud much these days.

Not every white character in a story about minority characters is a white savior. The purpose is what matters. Characters are narrative devices to tell a story, so why is this white character in the story? What do they add to the plot, characterization, and themes? If the white character is constantly portrayed as superior and benevolent towards the inferior minority characters, and the plot progression is directly tied to the decisions, actions, and roles of the white character, then that is a white savior story. A lot of stories about white people standing up to racism, bigotry, and systemic oppression tend to fuck this up because the creators choose to make the white character the hero. White savior stories are about how great white people are, not about the minorities they deign to help. It is not something an author does accidentally. It takes effort to structure a story that way.

In all honesty, this trope tends to fly under the radar because most audiences just aren’t examining things critically or from a critical race theory perspective. I wasn’t even sure that had been what I’d read until I read through TNEOL a second time the following week. I first noticed this because each time I read a derivative work of any kind (even licensed ones or adaptations like novelizations), I am extremely critical of new characters. Why did the author add someone new? What does this character add that could not be achieved with pre-existing characters? There is always a reason for it, and it’s not always bad, but that reason informs my opinion of the work overall.

In the case of Brevyn Oakbender, the only unique trait she added that could not have been achieved with a pre-existing character is that she is blonde, blue-eyed, light-skinned—white. Literally everything else about her personality, behaviors, roles, and actions could have been achieved with any of the other Tombtakers because almost all of their facets were unknown in canon.

If Brevyn was only supposed to be a self-insert, it really wouldn’t be that big of a deal. Representation is generally a good business decision in media, especially when the target audience matches with that background, and—let’s be real—white people are more likely to buy books featuring white people. While I won’t presume to map Lucien onto any particular minority group, a tiefling with purple skin and red eyes is definitely not an analogue for a white character, and neither is Cree, a black-furred tabaxi. While Tyffial, Zoran, and Otis are arguably white (lighter skin tones, specifically), they are also “other” enough (elf, goliath, halfling) that it wouldn’t give some white audience members that same feeling of having a main character who they can reflect themselves onto. But, wait: why not use Jurrell? The only thing set in stone about Jurrell was the name and that they had died after Lucien (which wouldn’t be too hard to set up as a tragedy appropriate for the book). But Jurrell isn’t a very white name is it? Enter an Aryan girl with a clearly white first and last name. If that was all there was to it, I’d have chalked that up to PRH setting expectations to achieve sales and not thought all that much of it. That level of incidental white race emphasis is just business in the U.S.

Except that in TNEOL, Brevyn is also responsible for every positive development in Lucien’s life and is the catalyst for the plot moving forward. Lucien only causes problems and Brevyn solves them, right up until she dies for him.

Lucien’s canon backstory isn’t touched upon in the stream except for the most recent 2 years. The stream only covers that (1) he grew up in Shadycreek Run, (2) people were unkind to him because he is a tiefling, (3) he somehow joined the Claret Orders and became a ghostslayer, (4) he led the Tombtakers away from the Orders, which had become “clouded”, (5) the Tombtakers were active for about 5 years before Lucien died, (6) they did illegal acquisitions, bodyguarding, and thieving, as well as expeditions into Molaesmyr, (7) Vess DeRogna hired them to escort her to Eiselcross and the ruins of Aeor, (8) during that expedition, Lucien kept a book that Vess felt was rightfully hers, (9) after agreeing to a trade for the book, Vess DeRogna killed Lucien during a ritual to travel to Cognouza, (10) Lucien’s soul was shattered and eventually reconstituted once Molly died, and (11) he is the Nonagon chosen by the Somnovem. Everything else was implication at best or unknown.

As a prelude: It’s not reasonable to constantly attribute all plot developments to the protagonist. Overdoing it can come off as very “Mary Sue” because the protagonist would somehow be the only person in the world that can make change happen. It’s also a little strange for a character not to want to settle into some type of normalcy. Even in a TTRPG story, there has to be some goal, and it might be as simple as securing a “wander the world and do quests for money” type of life. Plot stagnation is about whether the story is moving forward, not whether the characters have something to do with their time. Thus, external forces must be a catalyst for changes in at least a few situations to avoid both Sue-ishness and plot stagnation. Among many options, new characters are often introduced to move the story along when an existing character otherwise would not take action. They might be a quest giver, a new ally/rival/enemy, or a new party member. Thus, it is perfectly reasonable to expect some plot developments to be attributable to characters other than Lucien even though he is the protagonist in the book, and it’s totally reasonable for a new character to come in and handle some of that.

So here are the plot changes caused by Brevyn:

She heals Lucien from a potentially lethal injury, and he falls in love with her at first sight;

Brevyn's mother provides Lucien with room and board (which had not been offered previously), thereby side-stepping all survival issues caused by being a poor, homeless orphan in Shadycreek Run;

Lucien and Cree join the Claret Orders based on Brevyn’s recommendation;

Lucien, Cree, Otis, and Brevyn leave the Claret Orders to work for the Cerberus Assembly (specifically, Vess DeRogna) because of a referral extended by Elias de Corvo specifically to Brevyn;

Tyffial, Jurrell, and Zoran—who had been squatting in Brevyn’s mom’s home—teamed up with the group to steal Brevyn’s mom’s bones from a crypt, and that incident is the reason they came together and are named the “Tombtakers”;

Lucien doesn’t lose the Somnovem’s book during a cave in, resulting in him becoming the Nonagon.

For a story where Lucien is supposed to be the protagonist, that’s an incredible number of key plot advancements that were directly caused by a supporting character. The same supporting character. The sole white character. That's also not getting into the little details like she's the reason that Lucien uses twin black scimitars, that he wears shirts to show off cleavage, that he likes butterfli— wait, I said I wasn't going to get into those details. Moving on.

Why weren't any of those plot developments a result of actions or choices by Lucien or any of the other Tombtakers? I’ll briefly examine each of those, because these choices matter. They weren’t made in a vacuum, but Roux insisted in her interview that she had broad leeway to do with the story as she pleased. She made conscious decisions about what the story would be. So what does that tell us compared to the alternatives she could have chosen?

The meet cute over a trap bomb was why Lucien was interested in Brevyn in the first place, and their romance was barely touched in the book other than some flirting and brief references to how Lucien felt about her. The result is that it felt like part of a checklist, which is disappointing given how much set up was done to explain why Lucien got a bomb to the face and Cree didn’t. We also know Cree as the cleric of the Tombtakers, but Brevyn is the one that heals Lucien. We could hand wave that away as Cree not yet developing those abilities, but there’s also the simple fact that blood hunters don’t have healing abilities. So not only does Brevyn have skills that the reader expected from a different character, she is also an exceptional character with abilities not available to others like her. And sure, Lucien could have fallen in love at first sight in some other way, but this set up emphasizes his carelessness and helplessness, and it establishes Brevyn's unique level of charity, empathy, beauty, and skills right off the bat.

Next, we address the fact that Brevyn and her family gave Lucien a modicum of stability. How Lucien survived as a destitute orphan on the streets of Shadycreek Run could have made for an interesting backdrop to a lot of character development, especially the negative aspects of his personality. The only real reasons not to use that to frame Lucien’s character development at that time are (a) word budget within the novel, and (b) what themes can be explored in that circumstance. By introducing a white family to house Lucien, the situation becomes “good-hearted white people extend a hand of charity to a murderous, reckless colored boy” instead of “destitute boy struggles to survive after escaping abuse and is refused aid because of racism.” Neither makes Lucien look good, per se, but one definitely makes white characters look good, and it saves on word count. It also conveniently lets Roux minimize the issue of racism in Lucien’s background.

Given that the Claret Orders is a secretive group, it makes sense that the most common way that anyone would be recruited is a chance encounter with an existing member. There is no LinkedIn or job board recruiting people to undergo a secret ritual and learn to fight monsters. Conveniently, Brevyn is already a member and was visiting her mother at the exact time that Lucien showed up with a hole in his face, and somehow, she came to the conclusion that referring him and Cree to join the Orders was a good idea. We don’t know why she thought that because the book didn’t elaborate. Another option could have been another character meets all three of them and recruits them together. Any of the other Tombtakers could have been used for that purpose, and it would even start the thread about how they fostered that connection into their eventual mercenary group. However, that might have required some exposition or side plot, and then Brevyn wouldn’t have been elevated over Lucien or Cree by age, experience, and competency.

Once at the Claret Orders, there had to be a reason that Lucien and the Tombtakers-to-be chose to leave. In the stream, Cree had said that Lucien led them away and alluded to some sort of disagreement between the group and the Orders, but that was done away with. Instead, Lucien languished at the Orders and had no plan for his future, then left once Brevyn received a job recommendation from Elias de Corvo, and she asked Lucien to come along. Why pass up the other Tombtakers for this? Why couldn’t it have been a job that turned into a new path? This retcon is particularly disappointing because Lucien’s acquisition of skill and experience as a blood hunter would have been a good point to seed character development, both for a coming of age timeline and in this early arc of the novel. However, this was another opportunity to cement how charitable and respected Brevyn is, and that was more important to Roux than any of the other threads to be explored in that section of the book. After all, Brevyn was recommended by the most famous blood hunter in Exandria to work for the most powerful group of mages in the empire, and most importantly, none of the other Tombtakers were—especially not Lucien. The white girl is superior yet again.

The Tombtakers’ group name is a pretty obvious reference to grave robbing, and the fact that Lucien was pleased to refer to the group as that in the stream suggests that he liked the name. It came off as tongue-in-cheek and demonstrated a lack of shame from each of the members. The origin could have been an inside joke, a petty rebellion against the need for a mercenary group to have names, or any number of reasons. However, the origin Roux chose is that the group formed by stealing bones from the Jagentoths, not because they actually rob graves as a profession, nor because of anything to do with pillaging the heritage of elves in Molaesmyr. After all, that would be villainous, and Brevyn—a white person—is a member, so the Tombtakers needed to be neutral or good, not evil. Thus it’s a kind-hearted mission to put a white woman’s remains to rest and help the grief-stricken white protagonist side character. Because the key part of white savior stories is that the white savior is good, and that cannot be maligned by a negative reference to grave robbing.

The problem with adding a new Tombtaker is that the character also needs to disappear before canon events and there needs to be a reason that no one refers to that person by name in the stream. Thus, it was obvious from the start that Brevyn would either leave the group on poor terms or die. The former would require more plot and word count, so it’s no surprise that we got the latter. Lucien discovered the Somnovem’s book in the ruins of Aeor, but subsequently the group had to flee a cave in. While running, Lucien (a dexterity-based ghostslayer, which is a subclass with the signature ability to literally move through solid matter—like a ghost) tripped, then Brevyn grabbed him and dragged him along (because we need to know that she is not only stronger than him, but she is also more agile and faster), and he dropped the book. Once they got to an apparently safe location, she ran back, grabbed the book, and was crushed by the cave in. Even Brevyn’s death was orchestrated to emphasize her martyrdom and consideration of Lucien, who inexplicably failed at the exact things he should excel at. Out of all the ways Brevyn could have died, Roux chose to have her die in a way that makes her look good and Lucien look incompetent. It couldn’t just be that he discovered the book that would doom him; his interest in the book had to get a white character killed before he ever opened it, which conveniently doubles as a justification for the Tombtakers resorting to villainy. Now there’s no need to explain why such a positive influence in Lucien’s life had not prevented any of the canon events. Instead, it implies that things wouldn’t have gone so badly if the white character had still been around to guide everyone else.

Of course, later, both Molly and Cree attempt to invoke Brevyn's memory to dissuade Lucien from his path as the Nonagon, because obviously there's no other positive role models in his life. In fact, they also argue that if he would just mourn her properly, that would help him realize he's on the wrong path—positing that even his decision to try to take over the world is also because of Brevyn. Specifically, the lack of Brevyn and Lucien's inability to cope without her. Finally, even his decision to stop the fight at the very end is also tied to her memory. The white girl isn't even there for any of that, and Roux made absolutely sure that we knew that every positive choice Lucien made or could have made was because of Brevyn.

There isn't a single decision that Brevyn made in TNEOL that was wrong unless we conclude that her decisions to help/save Lucien were wrong. Wow. Wait a minute. In fact, that's objectively correct. If Brevyn had just let Lucien die or not given him a helping hand at any point in the story, the whole plot with Lucien as the Nonagon never would have happened, and the world would have been saved by his sheer incompetence. Let me rephrase that: the only wrong decisions the white character made were to help the non-white protagonist.

WOW.

So, hey, if you are an aspiring writer who happens to be white, and you plan on writing a story about characters that aren't white, maybe don't insert a white savior. Just don’t do it. That'd be great if you could avoid being that blatantly racist. I would truly appreciate it. If you manage that, then congratulations, you have already managed to write a better story than New York Times best-selling author Madeleine Roux’s The Nine Eyes of Lucien, because at least you aren’t resorting to white supremacist tropes to appeal to a primarily white audience in the 2020s.

In closing, the common fandom opinion that TNEOL was a good story is wrong. TNEOL sucked, Roux is either racist or happy to use racist tropes for money, and I feel bad for the CR team that this is what they got for taking a chance on a villain novel.

Happy Indigenous People’s Day. :D

Choose violence ask game.

#my asks #ask game #the nine eyes of Lucien #TNEOL #was any of the above necessary exposition? no #but the game was to choose violence #SO I DID

19 notes · View notes

some-stars · 2 months ago

Text

Did y'all know it's bizarrely and inexplicably difficult to find the full text of Dylan Thomas's "Altarwise by owl-light" online? A bunch of places have what they claim is that poem but it's only the first few stanzas. I eventually found one (1) PDF of his complete poems, and then I had to extract it from the PDF except I didn't have all the tools I use at work to make that take about three minutes total. FYI if you ever need to process a PDF thru your browser, the IT guys at my work (a very large, very risk-averse corporation) have us use ilovepdf for some tasks that acrobat can't do (but it can also replicate various adobe functions), so I'd recommend that as the least-likely-to-damage-your-computer free option.

ANYWAY the point is, this poem is SO good and SO important and SO cool, and it shouldn't be so incredibly hard to find, so here it is. It's long. I strongly suggest reading it aloud, and don't try to understand anything the first time through, just let it happen to you and really experience the words.

Altarwise by owl-light

I. Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way house The gentleman lay graveward with his furies; Abaddon in the hangnail cracked from Adam, And, from his fork, a dog among the fairies, The atlas-eater with a jaw for news, Bit out the mandrake with to-morrow’s scream. Then, penny-eyed, that gentleman of wounds, Old cock from nowheres and the heaven’s egg, With bones unbuttoned to the half-way winds, Hatched from the windy salvage on one leg, Scraped at my cradle in a walking word That night of time under the Christward shelter: I am the long world’s gentleman, he said, And share my bed with Capricorn and Cancer.

II. Death is all metaphors, shape in one history; The child that sucketh long is shooting up, The planet-ducted pelican of circles Weans on an artery the gender’s strip; Child of the short spark in a shapeless country Soon sets alight a long stick from the cradle; The horizontal cross-bones of Abaddon, You by the cavern over the black stairs, Rung bone and blade, the verticals of Adam, And, manned by midnight, Jacob to the stars. Hairs of your head, then said the hollow agent, Are but the roots of nettles and of feathers Over these groundworks thrusting through a pavement And hemlock-headed in the wood of weathers.

III. First there was the lamb on knocking knees And three dead seasons on a climbing grave That Adam’s wether in the flock of horns, Butt of the tree-tailed worm that mounted Eve, Horned down with skullfoot and the skull of toes On thunderous pavements in the garden time; Rip of the vaults, I took my marrow-ladle Out of the wrinkled undertaker’s van, And, Rip Van Winkle from a timeless cradle, Dipped me breast-deep in the descended bone; The black ram, shuffling of the year, old winter, Alone alive among his mutton fold, We rung our weathering changes on the ladder, Said the antipodes, and twice spring chimed,

IV. What is the metre of the dictionary? The size of genesis? the short spark’s gender? Shade without shape? the shape of Pharaoh’s echo? (My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper). Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry? (Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow). What of a bamboo man among your acres? Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy? Button your bodice on a hump of splinters, My camel’s eyes will needle through the shroud. Love’s reflection of the mushroom features, stills snapped by night in the bread-sided field, Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures, Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.

V. And from the windy West came two-gunned Gabriel, From Jesu’s sleeve trumped up the king of spots, The sheath-decked jacks, queen with a shuffled heart; Said the fake gentleman in suit of spades, Black-tongued and tipsy from salvation’s bottle. Rose my Byzantine Adam in the night. For loss of blood I fell on Ishmael’s plain, Under the milky mushroos slew my hunger, A climbing sea from Asia had me down And Jonah’s Moby snatched me by the hair, Cross-stroked salt Adam to the frozen angel Pin-legged on pole-hills with a black medusa By waste seas where the white bear quoted Virgil And sirens singing from our lady’s sea-straw.

VI. Cartoon of slashes on the tide-traced crater, He in a book of water tallow-eyed By lava’s light split through the oyster vowels And burned sea silence on a wick of words. Pluck, cock, my sea eye, said medusa’s scripture, Lop, love, my fork tongue, said the pin-hilled nettle; And love plucked out the stinging siren’s eye, Old cock from nowheres lopped the minstrel tongue Till tallow I blew from the wax’s tower The fats of midnight when the salt was singing; Adam, time’s joker, on a witch of cardboard Spelt out the seven seas, an evil index, The bagpipe-breasted ladies in the deadweed Blew out the blood gauze through the wound of manwax.

VII. Now stamp the Lord’s Prayer on a grain of rice, A Bible-leaved of all the written woods Strip to this tree: a rocking alphabet, Genesis in the root, the scarecrow word, And one light’s language in the book of trees. Doom on deniers at the wind-turned statement. Time’s tune my ladies with the teats of music, The scaled sea-sawers, fix in a naked sponge Who sucks the bell-voiced Adam out of magic, Time, milk, and magic, from the world beginning. Time is the tune my ladies lend their heartbreak, From bald pavilions and the house of bread Time tracks the sound of shape on man and cloud, On rose and icicle the ringing handprint.

VIII. This was the crucifixion on the mountain, Time’s nerve in vinegar, the gallow grave As tarred with blood as the bright thorns I wept; The world’s my wound, God’s Mary in her grief, Bent like three trees and bird-papped through her shift, With pins for teardrops is the long wound’s woman. This was the sky, Jack Christ, each minstrel angle Drove in the heaven-driven of the nails Till the three-coloured rainbow from my nipples From pole to pole leapt round the snail-waked world I by the tree of thieves, all glory’s sawbones, Unsex the skeleton this mountain minute, And by this blowclock witness of the sun Suffer the heaven’s children through my heartbeat.

IX. From the oracular archives and the parchment, Prophets and fibre kings in oil and letter, The lamped calligrapher, the queen in splints, Buckle to lint and cloth their natron footsteps, Draw on the glove of prints, dead Cairo’s henna Pour like a halo on the caps and serpents. This was the resurrection in the desert, Death from a bandage, rants the mask of scholars Gold on such features, and the linen spirit Weds my long gentleman to dusts and furies; With priest and pharaoh bed my gentle wound, World in the sand, on the triangle landscape, With stones of odyssey for ash and garland And rivers of the dead around my neck.

X. Let the tale’s sailor from a Christian voyage Atlaswise hold half-way off the dummy bay Time’s ship-racked gospel on the globe I balance: So shall winged harbours through the rockbirds’ eyes Spot the blown word, and on the seas I image December’s thorn screwed in a brow of holly. Let the first Peter from a rainbow’s quayrail Ask the tall fish swept from the bible east, What rhubarb man peeled in her foam-blue channel Has sown a flying garden round that sea-ghost? Green as beginning, let the garden diving Soar, with its two bark towers, to that Day When the worm builds with the gold straws of venom My nest of mercies in the rude, red tree.

-Dylan Thomas

#poetry #it is definitely about jesus but beyond that. couldn't tell you. one of my top ten poems of all time nevertheless.#there is one particular line that is going to make you stop short with a squealing tire sound effect #i do not apologize for this line but it is going to be disruptive to your poetry trance #it would also make for an AMAZING interpretation in tattoo form

10 notes · View notes

goodluckclove · 2 months ago

Text

New Migration Patterns Prologue

I am revamping what I have so far of book two (which is currently 160k), which starts with a new prologue. It's four prologues, actually. The first is from the perspective of a sixteen year old Eddie Gallows.

TW for implied parental abuse. Thank you to @mercuryytheraven for writing a perfect angsty poem on Eddie's behalf.

I FORGOT I HAD A TAGLIST HAHA. let me know if you want on or off, or if you want a picture of my cat Bob.

@inadequetecowboy @kuebiko-writing

@cartoonghosts @atlasthecactus

@aroaceghosties @booksntea6982

@xarrixii @mushroommanchanterelle

@whoevenknowswhatimwriting @fukurouonthesea

Prologue

A week before his seventeenth birthday, Eddie Gallows sat at his desk and stared at the open page in his poetry journal. He had a chewed ballpoint pen held loosely in one hand and the ghost of David Byrne singing into his ears from the chocolate-brown confines of his first-generation Zune.

There was other work he was supposed to be doing, he reminded himself. He had to finish his slides for a presentation in Chemistry.He also was days behind in finishing Albert Camus’ The Stranger – a short enough book that, for some reason, made him sick to his stomach every time he read more than a few pages at a time. And on top of all that there was his admissions essay, the 600 words Eddie had to use to pitch his value as a member of the Communications undergraduate program at his local, Academy-approved university.

Of course, he’d have to remind himself what a communications major even did.

Inspired suddenly by a keyboard riff in the music he’d heard a dozen times before, Eddie pressed pen to paper and began to write.

There is a bird in the woods

Its wings are broken and its voice is raw

still, it sings

for it does not know silence.

Eddie paused, staring at the stanza. Briefly, he was pleased with himself. The feeling faded quickly. Eddie let out a soft sigh and turned to stare out of the bay window of his bedroom. Even though the oak tree he grew up watching had been cut down for years, he still wasn’t used to the view it left behind. It felt slightly too open in a way that unnerved him, like a sudden silence in the woods.

For some reason at this point in the year, all he could ever think to write about were birds.

He crossed out bird and replaced it with child. He turned it sings to he sings, then replaced it with they sing before suddenly feeling even weirder and forcing himself to move on.

It remembers traces of a time Before,

(He had one of those dreams again last night that was mostly feelings and color and a voice.)

When the world was warm and soft and new,

(It wasn’t bad. The feelings were warm and bubbly. The voice was comforting and spoke lovingly to him, though he now couldn’t make out the words it said.)

and Spring would sing it to sleep every night.

(The color was blue. Always blue – a particular shade of blue that haunted him for as long as he cared to remember.)

Behind him there was a knock at the door. Eddie quickly snapped to attention – straightening his posture and fumbling off his headphones.

“Come in,” he said.

Genevieve, his mother, opened the door. She clung to the doorway as a cobweb might, head cocked to the side and a bleary look in her eyes. In the few moments of silence between them he caught a whiff of sickly, rotting flowers.

“Did you burn something in the kitchen?” She asked him.

He looked down at the half-finished grilled cheese on the plate beside his notebook. One side was just past perfectly golden-brown, and the other was black in a way that made the cheddar inside taste like something fished out of the fireplace. He looked back at his mother and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”

Part of him thought – or maybe hoped – that would be the end of the conversation. It wasn’t. She lingered there, eyes grazing his bedroom before settling back on him with the same reverence she treated any other piece of furniture.

“Halfway through the year,” Genevieve remarked.

“Um – yeah. Just about.”

“I hope you’re taking it seriously. I’ve heard this is the point in one’s education where you really have to...take things seriously.”

Eddie tightened his jaw and nodded again. “Uh-huh,” he said.

Genevieve’s attention drifted. Her eyes looked a little bloodshot. She seemed in that moment to be a great distance away. Eddie resisted the urge to fidget in his seat.

“You know you won’t always have me to take care of you,” she said.

A low murmur of confusion rose up in Eddie’s chest. It shifted briefly into something else, something stronger and potentially more effective, but it couldn’t quite get there. It just stayed weak. Just stayed uncertain.

“What do you mean?” He said, his best attempt at a protest.

Her focus returned and she looked at him. Actually looked at him, which was an increasing rarity these days. Eddie felt the muscles in his forearm clench and pressed his lips tight to keep from grimacing at the feeling it gave him.

“I don’t know,” she said, her tone a little too casual for his own comfort. “I guess I don’t know why I said that.”

She stayed there for a few moments longer, wavering slightly. Then she left. Once she was alone again Eddie allowed himself a deep breath, and he slumped forward and put his head in his hands. He gave his uneven, half-arched curls an anxious scratch and huffed again.

He missed the bruises. The physical aggression. It made more sense than this.

Looking back at the fragment of poetry in front of him Eddie was gradually weighed down with shame.

What a disgusting thing to think, he told himself.

He closed the book then and put it in the drawer of his desk. It stayed there, unopened, for years afterwards.

#writeblr #writing community #writing excerpt #songbird elegies #novel excerpt #indie author

10 notes · View notes

art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament · 1 year ago

Text

SET FIFTEEN - ROUND ONE - MATCH THREE

Excerpt from illustrated edition of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (1972 - Errol Le Cain) / "La Mort de Marat (The Death of Marat)" (1793 - Jacques-Louis David)

EXCERPT FROM ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER: This image is representative of all of part 4 of the poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and is a part of a larger illustrated edition. However, I absolutely adore this piece on its own. Yes, it has the elements from the poem, but it adds so much mysticism to that section. I love the colors, the darkness and the blue with the splashes of color, and the albatross standing out, almost separate from the piece, in its blocky triangle with the red blood-like strings moving to the woman. I love how the ring of circles look like the phases of the moon, and gives me a sense of time passing, even with how immediate (i guess?) the albatross and the woman's interaction feels. Also, the ship becomes a ship of the dead, with the rotted sails and the hull of the dead crew. And then back at the center of it all is the Albatross. It also is just very 70s to me, and feels a little nostalgic, like an old fantasy novel cover or something. Its great on its own, and as an illustration of a poem, it picks up on the literal and the metaphors and themes of the epic. It just delights me. I would definitely recommend the poem, its a great epic about a stranded sailor and his doomed ship.

Something I just realized, writing this, is that there is no narrator visible, which I love. The poem is in first person, and I think that translates to this image. Obviously the reader is not the mariner, but there is a closeness that occurs with that tense. Same with this, the viewer is not on the ship, but outside of it, but we are viewing the scene from almost "over" the albatross, making that our focal point, and the albatross is what draws us into the rest of the scene. I love it.

(Sorry for the weird crop, I was trying to even out the curl from the page.)

Also, here are a few stanzas from part IV, (easily placed to be deleteable lol), for fun.

Alone, alone, all, all alone, / Alone on a wide wide sea! / And never a saint took pity on / My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful! / And they all dead did lie: / And a thousand thousand slimy things / Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea, / And drew my eyes away; / I looked upon the rotting deck, / And there the dead men lay. ...

Beyond the shadow of the ship, / I watched the water-snakes: / They moved in tracks of shining white, / And when they reared, the elfish light / Fell off in hoary flakes.

And I blessed them unaware. / The self-same moment I could pray; / And from my neck so free / The Albatross fell off, and sank / Like lead into the sea. (@travelingsmithy)

LA MORT DE MARAT (THE DEATH OF MARAT): The first time I saw it was in a history textbook in junior high and when the teacher wasn't looking I tore the page out and used it as a bookmark in my diary for years. It looks the way pipe organ music feels. I want to fold it up and put it in my chest. (@ambientcrows)

(This is an illustration from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner book by Samuel Taylor Coleridge published in 1972 by The Arcadia Press, London. The illustration was done by Errol Le Cain. Only 100 copies of the book were printed.

"La Mort de Marat (The Death of Marat)" is an oil on canvas painting by Jacques-Louis David. It measures 162 cm × 128 cm (64 in × 50 in) and is held by the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium. A replica, done by the artist's studio, is also on display at the Louvre.)

#art that fucks you up tournament #polls #atfyu polls #id in alt text #cw blood #quite possibly the only set of images that are not cropped whatsoever

74 notes · View notes

darkmagicmirror · 1 year ago

Text

I've been thinking about @spicyviren 's post about Claudia preventing the sun from rising (and they made a more in-depth post today as well, which is also very good!), so last night I got curious and Googled mythology and eclipses because what if the eclipse actually happens and it's not just Viren's dream? And we know TDP likes mythological references. So...

This is so fascinating because of the "I swallowed her" comment Aaravos makes in Janai's dream.

A demon (or dragon, or-- (etc)) is eating the sun?

(*Personally, I don't think Janai's dream is necessarily accurate for telling us what happened -- but Aditi getting "eaten" by someone especially a dragon wouldn't surprise me.)

And speaking of "swallowing"...

And some of the other mythological explanations mentioned in the article I linked are also really interesting:

(The highlighting was done by Google, so it's not necessarily more important.)

And canon material, especially the Ripples short specifically, reflects a few themes here:

Abandonment - the humans are essentially abandoned by the stars (and the sun is a star): "It cannot be, wept others. The stars would not betray us!" - after the "star" falls from the sky and changes the land.

Crisis/existential threat - "With its impact came a long and terrible night: The earth bled! The seas churned! The sun and moon hid for weeks behind the sky’s screaming storm!" (Also bolded for emphasis because the sun hiding? The fact the moon does too is interesting, but the sun specifically is called out later: "And when the long, dark night had finally passed—for the sun must always rise, mustn’t it?" VERY interesting considering the sunrise mentions in S5.)

Eclipse as an act of creation - though much of the story talks about the calamity, there's also how "[the stars] had rejoiced to look down upon their newborn sea."

The Sun and Moon coupling and creating more stars - this is more of a stretch, but the Sun and Moon did get hidden together, and the Sea (of the Castout) serving as a mirror of the stars... like they're duplicating the stars, though only in image.

Mischievous acts - I personally think Aaravos is mischievous, so hmm.

One side note on the second-to-last point: if Viren learns the Star arcanum, which is very rarely understood, could that, too, be analogous to creating another star?

Anyway this all implies that perhaps a similar eclipse occurred before, when Aaravos had fallen and the Sea of the Castout was created? And we know how the Rise Again short story, which is about her pseudo-resurrection of her pet cat, correlated to S4 opening with Claudia having brought her father back to life, sort of in a repeating history sense. Aaravos's Patience story foreshadowed the fact that all he could do in S4 is wait and bide his time. Ripples could foreshadow S5 being that first "touch" that sets off greater change... and, like with the resurrection, perhaps history repeating itself, in a sense, with a potential upcoming eclipse?

And another interesting line: "The sky opened its maw and spat from its black jaws a tiny star."

It's not exactly black, but I know some people say the ridges here look like teeth...

Also, even though Sol is referring to his blindness, these lines about the Sun "never [rising] again" and an "eternal night" fit into similar themes to the eclipse and the Ripples short.

Also, just going back to the abandonment theme of the eclipse really quick--

The Midnight Star poem also talks about the stars abandoning humanity. "Elarion, unworthy whelp, / Wept as the stars turned black the sky, / They donned their masks / They turned their backs / And left Elarion to die."

(I have more to break down about that entire stanza in another post; I just want to point out the bolded parts for now.)

Now, most of these are references to the past... so what about now?

If I were to guess on how the same themes I compared to the Ripples story might apply to "current" series events...

Abandonment - Claudia feeling abandoned by Aaravos (as mentioned in the Lost Child short)? Or, alternately, Aaravos feeling abandoned (by either Claudia, after she had to flee from the battle, and/or Viren, after his rejection)?

Crisis/existential threat - IMO the biggest threat is Karim potentially joining up with Sol Regem right now. Though some would say Aaravos being close to being freed could be the threat/crisis here. But I'm an Aaravos apologist, so I am not part of that group LOL

Eclipse as an act of creation - Claudia regenerates her missing leg, perhaps?

The Sun and Moon coupling and creating more stars - Viren Star arcanum?

Mischievous acts - Aaravos again.

All of this to say-- I don't think the eclipse is just for show/because it looks cool, but if we consider the mythological beliefs surrounding eclipses, it ties in significantly to the story.

Also I leave you with a few last bits from the article that just remind me of TDP things:

"In many cultures, the darkening of the sun meant the gods were very, very angry with humanity, and about to inflict some punishment. Often, that meant that in order to appease them, you had to kill someone."

That reminds me of the stars seeming to punish humanity for daring to use magic... which is also when Aaravos gets cast down?

"The Greeks thought an eclipse meant that the gods were about to rain punishment down on a king, so in the days before an eclipse, they would choose prisoners or peasants to stand in as the king in the hopes that they’d get the eclipse punishment and the real king would be saved. Once the eclipse was over, the substitute king was executed."

This is so far off, but it reminds me of Harrow anyway? Mostly with the soulfang serpent idea of switching Harrow with someone else. Interesting.

"For the Inuits, the sun and moon weren’t a married couple but brother and sister. At the beginning of the world they quarreled, and the sun goddess Malina walked away from her brother, the moon god Anningan. Anningan continued to chase after her, and whenever he caught up to her, there was an eclipse."

Which reminds me of the line in Strangers, the short from Soren's perspective, where "Claudia had appeared and he’d done it again, a little boy chasing after his sister..."

A lot of it is probably coincidence, but it's still really interesting!

53 notes · View notes

kom-poetry-channel · 11 months ago

Text

Conans Kongesang

This poem comes from the two first-published Conan stories, The Phoenix on the Sword and The Scarlet Citadel, both of which feature chapter epigraphs some of which are attributed to "The Road of Kings". (Possibly a work by the mad poet Rinaldo whom Conan so admires? But if so, it must be from very early in his kingship, before Rinaldo was corrupted by Thoth-Amon’s Lovecraftian horrors, as it seemingly takes Conan’s perspective.) The stanzas beginning "When I was a fighting-man" and "What do I know of cultured ways" head chapters 2 and 5 of "Phoenix"; "Gleaming shell" down to "Halls of Hell" is in chapter 2 of "Citadel". Thus the poem as presented here reverses the, as it were, conanical order; but as they are chapter epigraphs Howard may well have presented them out of order. In any case it works best this way with the intellectual critique of inherited kingship at the start, and the snarling defiance of "Rush in and die, dogs" at the end to remind the reader of what Conan would have in place of inheritance.

Read enough science fiction, or even Internet, and you'll come across Howard's epigraphs in any number of places - SM Stirling has William Walker quote the "fighting man / mighty king" stanza just before he dies of poisoned wine - but I only recently came across the three extracts put together as a single poem, and was sufficiently struck that I had a rhyming first-draft translation a few hours later. The most difficult couplet was "Right Divine / price of mine", and "mins pris" is accordingly the most awkward phrasing in the Norwegian; moreover, "blod fikk råde" is really not quite the same as "blood was the price", and could just as easily describe the inheritance that Conan is railing against. But no matter, all translation is to some extent re-writing and the essential idea does get across, I think. I'm especially pleased with the alliteration (one-upping Howard just a bit) of "forgylling, fusk og fornuft" and "snedig tunge ... sverdets sang". All those sibilants make a very good defiant hiss for the cornered king's last stand, allowing of course that talking is a free action.

The images are all taken from the Truman adaptation of these Conan stories (along with "Hour of the Dragon", which contains many of the same plot points), published by Dark Horse Comics. I'm quite impressed with the adaptation to the comic format, even the addition of the framing story wherein an elderly Conan narrates these events to the scribe Pramis. The switch from omniscient third-party narration to Conan's retrospective is sometimes a little awkward, as when we see Thoth-Amon quarrel with Ascalante and recover his ring from Dion - events which Conan could not well have witnessed. His voiceover wisely makes one short reference to how he managed to "piece together the details of their plans" from confessions and from Rinaldo's journals, and then ignores the issue entirely. A worse problem is when Howard's narration makes some outside observation of Conan's state of mind, which the adaptation is then forced to have Conan speak as his own insight, as for example "I suppose the instinct of sovereign responsibility might, at times, enter even a red-handed plunderer such as me, eh?" This is not quite verbatim from Howard's "Thus subtly does the instinct of sovereign responsibility enter even a red-handed plunderer sometimes.", but sits much more awkwardly in the mouth of the red-handed plunderer himself. And the awkwardness becomes actively funny when Conan is made to say "the superstitions of my people once again assailed me". I suppose it's possible that the elderly king no longer believes what the middle-aged adventurer did, but even so, most people don't refer to their supernatural beliefs (even former ones) as "superstitions"! But no matter, these are quibbles. Withal it is quite good both as comic and Conan.

Norwegian text:

Det glitrer hult i eldgammel løgn, om konger av guders nåde; som kroner fikk i odel og arv, mins pris, at blod fikk råde! Tronen jeg vant med svette og blod - selge den? Aldri jeg vil! Ikke for løfte om hauger av gull, eller trussel om helvetes ild!

En gang var jeg hærmann, det drønnet i trommer for meg; folket strødde gullstøv foran hvor jeg rei. Men nå, når jeg er konge, lusker de bak min rygg, med dolker rundt hvert hjørne og gift i alle brygg.

Hva vet jeg om det dannede liv, dets forgylling, fusk, og fornuft? Jeg som er født i et nakent land og oppvokst i renkefri luft? Snedig tunge, spissfindige ord, de segner for sverdets sang. Kom, bikkjer, og dø - jeg var en mann, før jeg vant konges rang!

English text:

Gleaming shell of an outworn lie, fable of Right Divine You gained your crowns by heritage, but Blood was the price of mine. The throne I won by blood and sweat, by Crom I will not sell For promise of valleys filled with gold, or threat of the Halls of Hell!

When I was a fighting man, the kettle-drums they beat The people scattered gold dust before my horse's feet. But now I am a mighty king; the people hound my track With poison in my wine cup and daggers at my back.

What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie? I who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky? The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing. Rush in and die, dogs — I was a man before I was a king!

#poem #poetry translation #english to norwegian #robert e howard #conans kongesang #the road of kings

13 notes · View notes

knife-moth-mc · 1 year ago

Text

Welcome To Haven

(a post-mortem of my Arc 1 poem)

One for the lost Two for the seeker Down in the void Where minds grow yet bleaker Trust for a monster Doubt for a curse A weapon or answer For wanting or worse Fear for a secret Friendship for guilt And for those who try To ease the world's tilt A hope for the future A cry for the past A play for the present Roles still being cast No respite for any With something to ask No choice without harm done For this thankless task No truth and no progress No blessing but doubt No hand to hold onto The hand reaching out This debris gathers No matter the cost Where none are forsaken Nor truly are lost

I told Gawain I would write this something like a year and a half ago now. I'd apologize that it took me so long but honestly I'm just glad it's done at this point.

@gawaininred enjoy!

So, first things first. This poem is clumsy. I don’t think it’s bad, by any means—I’m incredibly proud of what I did here. But this was a new thing for me, so I tried to make it easier by loosening rhythm and syllable constraints, and having relatively short lines. I think in the end this hurt me more than it helped me, which is why the arc 2 poem is so much stricter and more complicated.

One for the lost Two for the seeker Down in the void Where minds grow yet bleaker

I wasn’t at all sure where I was going with my plot at first—it wasn’t until the second stanza that I started to pull the bones of it together—so I gave myself an easy and ambiguous start. You can go pretty much anywhere from “one for the lost”! My original intention was simply to evoke the nursery rhyme that starts with “one for sorrow” (there are multiple versions with different second lines). I realized almost immediately that the poem was going to be a bit long to stick with that faithfully all the way through, but it’s still at the heart of the poem all the way through. Interestingly, I remembered later that I had started another poem with “one for the lost” a few years back. The full first line of that one is “One for the lost who no longer miss home”. Make of that what you will.

The “two” in “two for the seeker” refers to the two surviving cats, Dove and Moira. I knew right away that I was going to work them into lore, but I didn’t know exactly how until much later on. The seeking, of course, refers to the more general search for answers, as well. This is the stream in which everyone immediately goes to the place they were told to avoid, just in case there’s something interesting there, after all. Ending the line with a trochee was intended mainly as a challenge to myself, because I knew I was locking myself into a very limited pool of words to end the final stanza with.

“Down in the void” is ironically a pretty light-hearted stream given the gravity with which the void has come to be treated on Haven. At the time, though, I didn’t put that much thought into it.

The stanza ends with an unnecessarily long line—“where minds grow bleaker” would have worked just as well. But it felt very important to me to stress that the bleakness was not a new state, simply a worsening one. Would I change it now? Maybe. The difference in meaning feels less notable to me now than it did then. But I think it adds a little something—at the very least, the implications that c!Moth’s state of mind is already in some way unstable by this point.

Trust for a monster Doubt for a curse A weapon or answer For wanting or worse

The monster is Moth, obviously, but it’s also c!Sleep. I like to play with ambiguity in my titles, something I’ve leaned harder into during my second arc. Moth and c!Oz trust each other, to some extent. Meanwhile, Moth and Sleep trust each other immediately (Moth more so than Sleep). It’s not a naive trust, though; Moth is well aware that Sleep is a monster. It knew right away that Sleep was like it. It trusts him more freely and deeply because of that, which is a dubious choice, but Moth is at this point so terrified of someone learning its secret that having someone who knows but doesn’t care comes as an incredible relief.

This early in Haven, Moth’s secret hasn’t been explicitly stated on screen. The title referring to it as a curse is a nod toward how it sees itself. As for the doubt… this is when Moth’s spiral starts, I think. C!Gawain has such a strong theme of right vs wrong that Moth, in its aspect as someone desperate for approval, latches onto that simplistic worldview and doesn’t let go.

Both the weapon and the answer refer to Bird. They’re a mercenary, and Beanie has been doing a fantastic job of playing the nuances of that as an identity—how it shapes you, how you grow into it. As far as the answer goes, this is the stream in which c!Moth puts out a hit on its on-and-off tormentor, K. This doesn’t end up being a very good answer to its problems, but it’s very solidly an answer that ends up driving the conflict moving forward.

“For wanting or worse” is the title I’m proudest of as a title. It frames the act of wanting as something negative, and that’s a major theme to this arc. C!Moth has a tendency to put itself to the side, to prioritize the people around it over itself. It knows what it wants, deep down inside, but the struggle to admit that takes… honestly, until arc 2. There’s a specific moment in arc 2 where it finally plainly says what it wants. Until then, desire is something that it can only be scared and ashamed of.

Part of the tragedy of this arc is that as Moth comes to terms with what it wants, and starts trying to set boundaries about that, the people around it read its behavior as another example of it putting others before itself.

Fear for a secret Friendship for guilt And for those who try To ease the world’s tilt

“Fear for a secret” is pretty straightforward. Someone knows its secret, and it’s scared—at this point in the story, it’s pretty sure that Gawain is the only person who can meaningfully kill it. But I’m glad that this line goes to this stream; if fear and secrets are to be associated with any part of this arc, it should be the part full of sick desperation and attempts to curtail the spread of a painful truth.

The next line doesn’t have much thought behind it if I’m being honest. Moth feels guilty. Sleep is its friend. This is followed by “and for those who try,” which I am much more satisfied with. It’s not a plot-heavy stream, but it is full of people trying to be good to each other. What is that worth? Well, things could have gone any way at this point. I just wanted to highlight that the love was there. The final line of this stanza completes the thought with the idea of trying to make things better, make things right.

A hope for the future A cry for the past A play for the present Roles still being cast

Moth meets c!Angel and they hit it off great, but Angel wants to leave Haven and assumes everyone agrees with her. Moth doesn’t. The hope for the future is yet another thing to be afraid of. Conversely, it indulges in its fear of the past, allowing August to convince it to jump into the void where it experiences a memory of the person it’s hurt most. The title is also a bit of a joke, due to the fact that I did cry during this stream.

With future and past explicitly mentioned, I knew I had to do a line about the present, and I chose “play” as a word here because it evokes fun as well as struggle. The fun aspect is important because this is the stream in which Moth meets c!Renn, the living doll; the struggle aspect is a nod to the many Havenites making plays for control around this time if not on this stream.

The meat of “roles still being cast” is Moth confidently telling c!Jackdaw that it’s possible to choose to be a good person, something that it’s still trying to convince itself of. I think that this is the title that most speaks for itself in the context of its stream.

No respite for any With something to ask No choice without harm done For this thankless task

This is the stream in which it’s revealed that Anathema, the person whose body Moth is living inside, is still alive, ever present and aware. There’s no respite for him, and no respite for Moth, who now feels even more pressure to do right by Anathema but still lacks a way forward.

It asks its friends for understanding and support, and is denied. They see it as being self-sacrificing. Absolutely not! Doesn’t it know it’s valued? Doesn’t it know it’s loved? They rush to reaffirm it, and alienate it in the process.

Miserable and alone, it meets Sylph, who tells it that the iron golem walled up in the villager trading hall is hurt by being trapped. Moth, who is deeply uncomfortable with iron, tells Sylph to free the golem, effectively preventing itself from entering the hall itself. If harm has to be done, then Moth will take on that harm itself. Denied a chance to pursue its desires, it hurts itself in a mockery of what it wants.

The thankless task is, honestly, existing. Moth feels more helpless than ever. It doesn’t want to die, but it doesn’t want to keep the status quo, either. It’s treading water. It’s putting unsustainable effort into what others take for granted. The only person to meaningfully reach out to it is August, who gives it hope in the form of a possible timeshare of the body, but in a way that’s a thankless task as well—it knows Anathema won’t want to agree to the timeshare, and it considers him justified in his objections.

No truth and no progress No blessing but doubt No hand to hold onto The hand reaching out

Moth lies to Aster about whether it has potions, a moment that stuck out to me so much I named the stream after it. In the next stream, it meets Lux, the wannabe king of Haven. Moth is disappointed in Lux’s, well, everything, and decides it does not support him in this whatsoever.

The latter half of this stanza involves Moth reaching out for meaningful connection. It… kind of finds that, but not to the degree it really needs.

This debris gathers No matter the cost Where none are forsaken Nor truly are lost

I originally wrote this line as “this detritus gathers” and was promptly informed that I was pronouncing detritus wrong. I’m still upset about this. But debris serves the same purpose, namely labeling the stream in which Moth acquires TNT by participating in blowing up a(n admittedly abandoned) village.

On the other hand, I wrote the rest of this stanza before the streams in question, since we had already pretty tightly plotted what was going to happen, and I couldn’t be more pleased with how well it all fits. “No matter the cost” is the title of a stream in which someone declares that they’re unilaterally instating their vision of society above any objections, for one. I knew that Moth and Sleep were going to argue about their philosophies, but not to that degree!

This is followed by the bitter, ironic “where none are forsaken,” in which both Moth and Anathema are in fact forsaken. Moth begs for help in this stream, to the point of tears, and is only rebuffed. This refusal is completely unrelated to it—Gawain had recently run into problems of their own—but it doesn’t know that. All it knows is that one more person is trying to control what options it has. One more person is deciding against its will to enforce what they think is best for it.

And we come full circle, ending the poem with the same word that helped open it: lost. No one in this stream is truly lost, as the title says. Anathema, who doesn’t even know how long he’s been trapped in this hell, is set loose upon Haven; Moth is forced out of the light in his stead, but that can’t last forever, can it?

#haven smp #contains major spoilers for my first Haven SMP arc!#i'm still really proud of myself for writing this all approximately in real-time as the arc progressed #astoundingly coherent given that I didn't know how it would end until months after I started it

5 notes · View notes

straighttohellbuddy · 2 years ago

Note

Okay, I'm always interested in learning more about 'but you're talking in your sleep'. Obviously lvjy song and the mc's/your interest in literature are two important story details. How did you decide to intertwine those? Like, did you read you are jeff and decide to make a fic off of it, or did was it the songs that inspired it? Why did you decide to do both? Idek if this makes sense, tbh. But I'd love to know your though process, in general, regarding that fic.

oh YO this is perfect I love you im gonna ramble for a bit !!

also context; read but you're talking in your sleep (Wilbur/Sister-Innit!Reader)

So initially I was hyperfixated on Pebblebrain when it came out (weren't we all) and my song flavour was Oh Yeah, You Gonna Cry? and the very first idea I had was about the reader and Wilbur being best friends and former FWB after the reader starts dating a fuckboi, which I realised I've already kind of talked about here, but I'm happy to reiterate that the line 'say my name in her sleep/i thought you knew her better than me' and Wilbur just being the cockiest motherfucker without a shred of self awareness that he is very in love with the reader and that's the main reason he hates her boyfriend (who is also just a tool).

the idea to intertwine the lvjy and specifically siken is so unbelievably self indulgent; he's my favourite poet and has been for years, and Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out has been my favourite poem for a very long time. as for You Are Jeff, i can't remember exactly, but I think I saw the first few lines of the last stanza in like a webweave while I was looking for inspiration and I realised 'you're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you he loves you, but he loves you' is the most precious, perfect summary of reader & wilbur's dynamic in the fic. this was also the basis of the part of the reader's characterisation where they always used allusions/implications/other people's words when they were afraid of speaking the truth. a few of these moments that i want to point out;

the first one is of course Do I Wanna Know?

literally all of the lyrics for this song. i tried to pick a few but holy shit all of this song -- the first time the song's mentioned when it's Y/N's karoke choice and then immediately calling Wilbur right after they'd chosen it I think the key lyrics are; 'Have you no idea that you're in deep? / I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week / How many secrets can you keep? / 'Cause there's this tune I found / That makes me think of you somehow an' I play it on repeat / Until I fall asleep, spillin' drinks on my settee

the second time the song is mentioned is when Y/N and Wilbur go out to a pub with his flatmates in brighton and she starts humming it when they head to his bedroom, and it's just the whole second verse; So have you got the guts? / Been wonderin' if your heart's still open / And if so, I wanna know what time it shuts / Simmer down an' pucker up, I'm sorry to interrupt / It's just I'm constantly on the cusp of tryin' to kiss you / I don't know if you feel the same as I do / But we could be together if you wanted to

the one that personally might break my fucking heart that Y/N is very familiar with Jubilee Line, which is already a fucking bleak song especially since she lives in London, and later has some implications about how if she didn't leave London she was going to jump in front of a train, but there's a little moment in the first chapter when she's on the phone with Wilbur right before she decides to come visit him -- “I’m everywhere. My mind’s everywhere. The walls shout back, I didn’t realise they could do that, or start the argum- I’m not making sense. I’m sorry.” -- it's such a blink and you'll miss it allusion but she's making a point to hide the truth she knows about Mark and her relationship by reference Jubilee Line and the lyrics 'shout at the walls because the walls don't fucking love you'.

In the final part, when Wilbur comes to pick up Y/N from the french cafe, and she's quietly moved by how much he cares about her in a way other people in her life seem not to -- before turning and beaming at him, thanking him again for coming all this way, adding that he didn’t need to worry; ‘no cause for concern’ is how you worded it, deliberate. -- Because 1) 'We ain't gonna hurt you' but also, as much as there is a more romantic final chorus to that song, she is also like 'you could knock the wind out of my breath / you could knock the teeth out of my head / and still it's no cause for concern' like she loves this boy who drove to another country for her, he can do whatever he wants forever in her books.

and one other one off the top of my head is the fact that the name she'd hidden Wilbur as in her phone is Pandora as a reference to the text conversation when they'd reconnected, yes, but also because He Gives Her Hope.

and now, on this already long post, im going to talk about the lovejoy lyrics that were "inspired" by Y/N in the fic (when its really the other way around)

Sex Sells gets an in-canon one; But the song he’d written about how Mark doesn’t love you he just loves that you’re his, that you hate him but you keep going back to him for reasons Wilbur still doesn’t fully understand, and now on top of it all you know that Wilbur can’t stop fucking thinking about it, about you, even when he’s trying to sleep? It’s accurate, and everything tastes like ash in his mouth for several bitter moments. How’d it go again? How’s it feel to be so loved, yet so alone? He’s got his answer, can hear it in your sobs as you sit on the steps of your boyfriend’s apartment two hours away.

So lets go through Pebblebrain

Oh Yeah, You Gonna Cry? is obviously a huge one lol, with a lot of what i drew Fucking Mark from;

You got the same eyes as your father / And you carry the same kind of temper too / But what a shame for the people of the community -- which ties directly in with another of the songs i'll get to, and this line from a flashback; “It’s a good school, though, I’m glad I got in, and Mark, he’s- he’s really sweet. It’s brave of him to move, even though I’m on campus and he’s not; none of his family’s lived outside of Nottingham for generations,” the face you’re making is close to a smile, to anyone else they might mistake it as such, but there’s a wrinkle in the bridge of your nose, a tightness at the edge of your smile, “he’s training to go into the same line of work as his dad, he’s just glad he can do it here,” you laugh, but there’s no humour in it.

But I quite like your girlfriend! / How the fuck 'd she end up with you? -- i think this speaks for itself

And she told me that she fuckin' hates you -- regarding the moment; Later, he’ll ask the question that’s been plaguing him, ask if you even like your boyfriend. Later, you’ll be wrapped up in his sheets, stretched out on his bed as your whole face scrunches like you’ve bitten a lemon, and he’ll have no idea what you mean when you tell him that that hasn’t mattered in a very long time.

the whole song is about Mark in this fic. the whole song. i love it so much.

Model Buses could also be arguably about Mark in some respects but I've held myself back from putting that thought into the fic.

I don't think Concrete has any real connections to the fic either, however.......

PERFUME, BAYBEEEEEEE

in the context of the fic, it's written mostly after the reader goes home from brighton after their affair with wilbur where they're clearly in love with each other and he's struggling to deal with that in a healthy way by writing the song. i could add analysis for LITERALLY EVERY LINE but i wont. just know it's all Y/N

It's 3:45 (AM) / And I just bite my tongue / Update me on your life / And now you've found the one / But I don't like his eyes -- hence his building almost resentment whenever they call him when drunk and insisting that mark's not as bad as he seems

And I can still smell her perfume -- because it's on his damn pillows.

You say your ex-boyfriend's a policeman / Well, I say you need better standards -- you remember how i said a line in OYYGC links to another song, well it's this, now, because with Y/N talking about Mark training to go into the same field as his dad, we also get this reveal, despite not drawing attention/connecting it to the earlier mention of Mark's chosen career being the same as his dad's; “Mark’s dad’s been chief of police in our town for as long as I can remember,” Tommy says with a sigh.

Why can't you be a dick? / Why must you be so nice? / It's hard for me to move on / When I don't really hate you / (I don't really hate you) -- this one's a lot of things, it's Wilbur fully acknowledging that he should not be cool with Y/N cheating emotionally and physically on her partner but still making peace with it despite the turmoil the situation has caused him. it's also him kind of frustrated at how despite Y/N rightfully calling him out for writing such a spiteful song as Sex Sells, they didn't take it as badly as they could have, and so he acknowledges that he doesn't actually believe what the song is saying about them. it's ALSO a deliberate echo of this moment; “I wish I could hate you more for this, but I don’t,” you mumble, soft and a little forlorn, heart not in your words as his aches. He should have kept that song to himself, like his gut had told him to.

You'll Understand When You're Older is an interesting one because I appreciate the actual meaning of the song a lot, but i also like adding my own to it, so the context here is it's half inspired by the Y/N situation and half by current events;

It must be nice to be the reason / His work, it ain't so bleak / That must be what motivates you -- there's spite here as he considers how little Mark appreciates Y/N and her love and kindness, with the veiled implication of 'if Wilbur were in Mark's situation these lyrics would be sincere'.

All he needs is to see you smiling / And well, you light up his whole week -- that implication and subtext moves straight up to text here. Wilbur is just talking about himself here.

Imagine thе kind of things he'd do to you / If there wеren't so many cameras -- calling back to their almost moment when Y/N had sat in on Wilbur's stream in brighton, refusing to reveal their identity;

“If you’ve got something to say,” insufferably smug, he watches you puff out your cheeks. Averting your gaze, you flip him off, hand in frame for the camera to see, “sook,” he teases, “just say what’s on your mind.” For a moment, your mouth drops open as if you’re about to say something, to call his bluff, but your gaze flicks to his webcam. What’s on my mind, you mouth pointedly when you look back to him; something about your expression has turned bashful for reasons he can’t quite fathom. You glance quickly at the camera again before shaking your head, you wish, you mouth, but can’t quite look him in the eye. There’s a serious moment where he considers ending the stream, because this feels like it could be a moment, a chance. He’s a hypocrite, he can’t begin to say what’s on his mind, won’t give himself the chance, getting back to his stream after another brief moment and a deep breath.

and of course;

And you're keeping a dark secret / But you're talkin' in your sleep -- Y/N loves Wilbur, not her longterm boyfriend. wilbur knows this because she talks in her sleep. <3

The Fall again isn't relevant.

and finally, in the fic, a lot of the lyrics and vibes were completed not too long after Y/N and Wilbur reconnected, before Are You Alright was even released, but Wilbur will never in his life (in this fic lol) admit that It's All Futile! It's All Pointless! was a heartbreaking hybrid of his own feelings/experiences, and kind of who Y/N had become in the two years since they'd seen each other, also what he had seen a little bit of after she reconnected with Mark when she and Wilbur had first met, while wilbur still tries to act like he's not in love with her. but it is, and he is.

HOLY SHIT OKAY THATS SO MANY WORDS but also a lot of that ive been holding onto for SO LONG and im so glad i got the chance to talk about it. seriously anything else abt the fic you wanna talk about because I love it TO DEATH. every day i fight the urge to explain the entire 46 song fic playlist. i lov u.

#wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur imagine #wilbur soot imagine #bytiys #shut ur pretty mouth

26 notes · View notes

enigmatist17 · 7 months ago

Text

My Sanctuary (Part 4)

Part 1 2 3

Spike finds that he really likes Caritas.

No, he's not a fan of the singing portion when it comes to himself, but it's nice to find a joint that doesn't mind a vampire nursing a drink in the corner. He found a table with a decent view of the stage, but enough out of the way to avoid the eyes of whoever was singing onstage. Lorne would swing by every so often, sometimes asking if he wanted to sing, other times just making idle chitchat until he was inevitably called away. The green demon even encouraged Spike to start writing after catching Spike writing scraps of poetry on random receipts he likely swiped from random tables, only giving a small smile whenever the vampire questioned how he knew of his old habit.

The free blood was a bonus.

Tonight was a bit of a slow one, the currently singing chaos demon singing a mellow song as patrons relaxed in the sanctuary. It was the kind of night that was warm in just the right way, work and the real world a distant reminder in favor of drinks and singing. Spike was at his normal table, a journal he had picked up a few days back open and being written in as Spike tried his best to make some sort of poem that didn't sound like the ramblings of a madman.

Sadly, it did, but he'd get better eventually.

"How goes it?" Lorne hummed as he appeared across the table, the vampire barely reacting as he finished a stanza.

"Not my best work, too much screamin' tonight." He muttered, scratching out the last few words with a scowl.

"It'll pass lemon drop; they always do." Lorne smiled, the vampire glancing up with a soft expression before grumbling and looking back at his work. "Oh, but I do have a surprise for you."

"Oh?"

"Mhm, the very underage surprise is standing at my bar." Blue eyes snap up, looking past Lorne and at the curved bar near the stairs until he lands on a familiar figure clutching a backpack close as she scans the crowd.

"Dawn?" For a moment, all Spike does is stare, a wave of protectiveness soon sending him across the room when some random vampire looks at the teen with interest. The teen finds herself suddenly yanked away and behind a familiar figure, the snarl Spike sends at a vampire she hadn't even seen sending their hands up.

"Whoa, I didn't see she was taken, sorry man!" The other vampire quickly decides that being across the room is their best bet at staying alive, and Dawn has a chance to exhale before Spike rounds on her with wide eyes.

"What are you doing here pet?"

"I came here to find you." If he had been human, Dawn was pretty sure Spike would have had a heart attack the way he stared, eyes wide as saucers.

"And find him you did, sweetheart." A green demon in a red suit made Dawn jump, the man bowing with a small smile. "Welcome to Caritas. You can call me The Host or Lorne."

"Um, thank you." She gave a nervous smile in return, looking around the karaoke bar. "It's funny, I heard this was a good place to get help, and I guess it is."

"I'm glad I could help then, huh?" the demon chuckled, snapping his fingers at the bartender. "If you could, dear, she looks like she could use a good smoothie and maybe something to eat."

"Right away." The bartender nodded before moving to the other side of the bar, Spike finally feeling safe enough to shift back to his human face now they were alone. "Spike, why don't you dolls get set up at your table, and I'll drop by soon."

"Right..." Dawn feels her hand being taken as Spike herds her to his table, the vampire muttering under his breath as he steals a seat from a nearby table for her. "Sit." For once, Dawn listens, watching the barely blonde pace back and forth for a moment before resuming his own seat, finally focusing his attention on her.

"Your hair is curly." It's the first thing Dawn blurts out, setting her bag on the table with a small smile, biting her lip when Spike flinched at her sudden comment. "I like it."

"...thanks?" Keeping up his regimen had been taxing on the best of days, so he'd just kept dying the tips of his hair the best he could, wanting something of who he'd built himself to be still visible.

To keep William safe and tucked inside.

"I missed you." Those eyes focus on her, wracked with so much guilt and pain Dawn nearly lets out a gasp, having never seen so much raw emotion from him before. "Spike...?"

"I didn't mean to be away so long..." The vampire ducks his head, looking at his lap with a hiss. "Made the girl upset, so upset, bad William, bad bad bad -"

"Enough of that, sweetcheeks." Lorne's hand on Spike's shoulder stopped his mumbles; Dawn was confused as she looked at Lorne for some sort of answer. "Sorry, sweetie. When his soul acts up like this, it's best to try and nip it in the bud or ride it out."

"He has a soul?" Her question is a whisper as the demon looks at her in surprise, Spike silent as he looks at the table. Lorne just gives her a sympathetic look before going to grab her drink and food, and besides the partons singing on stage, neither of them says a word as she eats. Dawn wasn't as surprised as she should have been, she thought as she drank the best smoothie she'd ever had, knowing that he had gone for what he thought was best for her.

"Did you come alone?" Spike closed the book that was in front of him as he took in her appearance, able to smell dozens of strangers and cheap polyester from what was most likely a bus ride hanging around the teen.

"I got on a bus, I have time before anyone notices." Dawn fiddled with the zipper to her bag as she watched the various demons mill around the room. "I couldn't wait any longer, I had to see that you were okay."

"You could 'ave been hurt." Slipping off his chair, Spike puts his journal in Angel's borrowed coat pocket before offering a hand to Dawn. "Come pet."

"Are we going to Angel's place?" She slipped her backpack on before taking his hand, her grip a little bit tighter than usual. They bid Lorne goodbye before going up to street level and emerging in the parking lot.

"Yes, you'll be safe there." His voice is soft as they start walking, and some vampires who had been just hanging out by the street scatter when Spike snarled their way.

"But I'm always safe with you." Dawn sticks close to Spike's side as they walk through L.A.'s nightlife crowd, a little in awe of how lively it was compared to home. No one seemed to care about demons walking amongst humans here, a small crowd of human and demon kids playing with chalk in front of a 24-hour convenience store as Spike directs her across the street with a slight tug.

"No, not right now," He muttered, taking his familiar route back to the Hyperion. "Too many screams, could lose you in the crowd, could lose you to them, and I can't let it happen."

"Lose me to who?" Spike jerks his head toward her as they stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and she can see the guilt again. "I'm not going anywhere..."

"How do I know this?" Dawn gently pulls Spike out of the way of the foot traffic, the two sitting on a bench that had seen better days.

"Because you taught me how to fight and be strong, the voices aren't going to have it that easy, not one bit." She squeezed his hand with a teary smile, and he reached over with his free hand to gently cup her face. "I'm happy you're okay, we haven't heard from you and I was so scared..."

"I wanted to come back when I was whole, not missing with bits that can't be seen, blood and screams where you deserve songs and flowers." Spike sighed as he ran his thumb across her cheek. "The bad boy doesn't deserve to come home, not yet pet."

"You're not a bad boy." Dawn moved close so she could hug the vampire as tight as she could, Spike moving his arm so it rested across her back. "Please come home, please?" She can feel Spike inhale and then sigh, for her sake she realizes with a choked sob, and then move so he can slide his other arm under her legs.

"Come on, let's go." He let her adjust before continuing his journey, the hotel soon within view, and luckily conflict-free as he headed for the lobby.

"Hey Spike, welc—Dawn?" Cordelia's surprised voice gathered the teen's attention, and she waved from her spot in Spike's arms.

"Hey Cordelia, you look good." The former classmate of her sister laughed as she was joined by a man and woman Dawn had never seen before, both curious as they took in the girl in Spike's arms.

"Gunn, Fred, this is Dawn Summers." The three of them emerge from behind the massive former check-in desk as Spike sets Dawn down, the teen straightening her clothes before taking his hand back.

"Hi!" She flashed a slightly shy smile as Fred offered her hand with a matching one.

"I'm Fred, Fred Burkle if you want my last name." The Texan shook her hand before withdrawing with an awkward bounce. "Nice ta meet ya!"

"Same here, Charles but everyone calls me Gunn." His handshake is more relaxed, leaving Dawn grinning a bit as she takes them in.

"It's awesome to see you guys have extra hands, having only three people battle demons and stuff all the time has to be taxing. Speaking of, where is Wesley?"

"He and Angel are sharpening some of the blades in the basement, the nerds." Gunn rolled his eyes, motioning behind him. "Want to come?"

"Yes please." Dawn nodded and squeezed Spike's hand, the vampire shrugging and following after as the group headed down some stairs to a massive basement. They hear some laughter over the noises of a grinding stone, Wesley watching Angel pantomime some past fight as he sharpened the sword in his hands, the vampire "stabbing" some foe before acting out a dramatic death to the point where he fell to the floor.

"Bravo bravo!" Dawn laughed; Angel quickly sat up as Wesley nearly lost his hold on his weapon, the stone slowing to a stop as she laughed with the other three surrounding her. "Encore!"

"Uh, hey Dawn." Angel gave an awkward wave, glad he couldn't blush as the teen wormed her way past Fred to give him a hug. "When did you get into L.A?"

"Uh, an hour ago? I was supposed to get here sooner, but the bus had to stop for gas, and then I had to find the bar someone suggested I use, but I'm here now!" She pulled back from the hug to wave at Wesley, noting the Watcher was right beside Angel. "Hey Wesley."

"Dawn." He tipped his head, not really having too many memories of the younger Summers. "Glad you got here unscathed."

"Well, I am for now, but I'm in for a hell of a reckoning when I get home." She winced, looking back to see Spike giving her a slightly disapproving look.

"Hey, you hate the waiting game, I get it." Cordelia hummed, tucking some hair behind her ear. "C'mon, let's go pick out a room for you, because you're not going anywhere tonight, unless Giles is going to come get you in that crappy car of his."

"Oh, he got a new one. It's red and not about to rust apart." Dawn giggled. The two headed up arm in arm as everyone else watched their retreating back in amusement.

---

Dawn ended up sleeping in Spike's room, the teen quietly snoring while Spike cradled her sleeping form. She and the investigations crew had stayed up most of the night before trading stories, the adults concerned no one had called when morning came, but figured someone would after she'd fallen asleep.

The two of them had shared tears after closing the door to his suite, Dawn hugging Spike so hard she was worried about breaking him as she sobbed. As much as it had been nice to have the others always around, becoming a small village to help raise and care for Dawn, he was the only one who'd truly made her feel safe. Spike hadn't been expecting to cry himself at the sound of her sobs, his initial panic fading as he realized he'd missed the little Bit as well, something he never thought could happen.

He missed this little firebrand of a human, missed her so much he almost drowned until they both fell exhausted.

It was now two days later, and despite his misgivings, surely the Scoobies should have noticed Dawn was gone by now. He slowly untangled himself from her scrawny limbs and went for her backpack that had been tossed on the coffee table when they'd first come up, figuring it had been long enough. The first thing he saw when he opened it was familiar leather, the sight making him smile for the first time in ages. His quest for a cell phone was forgotten as he pulled his duster out and gave it a once-over, rubbing his thumbs over his second skin before slipping it on. After reveling in his duster's familiar weight and smell, Spike returned to his task as he fished out her red phone with a slight shake of his head. He debates who to call first, and decides that Giles would be the better figure, sitting on the couch as the phone rings.

"Dawn?!" Spike blinked at the voice he hadn't expected, hearing some sort of scratching in the background.

"It's Spike." He can hear a sharp intake of breath before the noise pauses, the connection too weak for Spike to pick up anything. "What you doin' answerin' the Watcher's cell warlock?"

"Is Dawn safe?" Ethan's voice was trembling with barely concealed rage, something twisting in the pit of Spike's gut as he sat up straight.

"She's fine, what's wrong?" Ethan is about to respond when he hears a scream, a proper scream of rage that sounds like it is coming from a certain Watcher in the background. "What's wrong warlock?!"

"Spike?" Dawn's sleepy voice caught his attention, the teen sitting up as she rubbed her eye. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know pet, I -"

"Buffy was brought back."

The world goes silent as the words ring in Spike's head, chest rising and falling as he tries to process what he's been told. He can feel Dawn come to him, take the phone from his hand, and step away, only to start crying a few moments later.

After her first sob, the poor coffee table is flung across the suite along with her bag, followed by the couch and soon a random chair, as Spike lets out a roar of...of...he doesn't know what feeling is trying to win out, but he screams it out all the same. He stops flinging furniture when Angel grabs his hands from seemingly nowhere, falling to the floor like a cut marionette as he just screams, vision blurred by tears as his sire holds him. Someone is talking to Dawn as Spike works on focusing his breathing, rage suddenly boiling from under the surface as he comes to mind who would be bloody stupid enough to raise the dead. Angel nearly loses his grip as Spike tries to jerk after more furniture, sending them both crashing to the ground.

"That stupid bloody fucking witch!" He snarls, trying to wrench his way out of the iron grip his sire had on him after Angel had pinned him down with no success. "Magic ALWAYS HAS CONSEQUENCES!"

"Spike you have to calm down!" Cordelia knelt within his view, afraid to touch the vampire for fear of being bitten.

"Let him get it out." Angel snapped, anger coloring his own words as he kept Spike from injuring himself or others as he screamed in Fyral. "Get Dawn out of here, now." Dawn resisted being dragged out of the room, screaming as Gunn hoisted her up and over his shoulder, hitting him as hard as she could as she tried to go back to Spike to no avail. By the time they've made it a floor down is when the sobs start back up, pressing her face into Gunn's sweatshirt as she lets out ugly noises of pain, the fight completely gone by the time they've brought her to their offices on the lower level.

They can hear Spike's muffled screams as the vampire tries to fight free of his grandsire.

"Two days, and not a single person thought to call her sister?" Wesley was aghast as he spoke into her phone, the former Watcher nigh on murderous.

"Rupert and I had been summoned to a Council meeting, and we only returned a few hours ago!" Ethan was angry, yet his tone was laced with heartache at all the screaming he'd heard on the other end of the phone. We would have stopped her, believe you me. This magic is dangerous and unpredictable, the foolish girl!"

"Is...how is Buffy?" The name sounded wrong coming out of his mouth, and everyone was silent except Dawn, who continued to sob as she clung to Gunn.

"...she came back human, if that was your question."

"Ah..."

There wasn't much else to say.

"When we...calm Spike, we will figure out travel accommodations." Wesley cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the idea of sending Spike back so early. "I don't think we could convince him to stay."

"Likely not." Ethan agreed, and the angry shouting on his end finally went silent. "We've got her at Ripp-Giles's place."

"Understood." With a click, the call was over. Dawn looked up from her spot on the floor after pulling away from Gunn.

She was so bloody small.

"What now?" She looked at him for an answer Wesley didn't have, and the Brit looked at her with a soft expression as he knelt in front of her.

"Once Spike has calmed down, we'll figure it out, but do you need anything for now?"

"I could use some water." Dawn replied with a quiet sigh, hugging her legs close as Fred went to grab a bottle for her. Cordelia sat beside the smaller girl just as Fred returns, slipping an arm around her shoulders as Dawn drained the bottle without a sound.

"What happened?" Her voice has a bit of a tremble to it as Dawn looks up at Wesley, who was decidedly avoiding her gaze. "I heard you talking, b-but I didn't catch much of it."

"I—" The man removed his glasses with a whispered curse no one caught, and Dawn idly wonders if he'd start cleaning them like Giles does. "Willow did a very powerful and very dark resurrection spell the night Giles, Ethan, and you left. I'm assuming you chose that night because you'd have been caught otherwise."

"Yea, the Council called them away and I just...slipped out." Dawn fiddled with the plastic in her hands, looking at the floor now. "I didn't know what they had planned, honest!"

"We know sweetie." Cordy gave her a small squeeze. "Even before I graduated, Willow was starting to get more brazen with her magic, but this? I have no words."

"Trust me, Spike is saying them all for you." Gunn frowned. I may not know a whole lot about magic, but even I know there's always a price to pay for everything."

"It might be a good idea to send Angel back with Spike and Dawn," Wesly sighed, placing his glasses back on. "Aside from obvious reasons, extra hands might be useful if there is some sort of blowback from her spell. Also, he has a car."

"Um, I hate to rain on your parade and everythin', but is it wise to send Spike back to Sunnydale?" Fred picked at one of her nails when everyone glanced over. "He's not exactly Mr. Basket Full of Marbles."

"I'm not going back without him." Dawn shook her head, looking up at the now silent hotel above them. "I can't."

"You heard the lady, sounds like a plan." Cordelia shrugged, the rest of the Investigations crew exchanging glances.

None of them were stupid enough to get between the Slayer of Slayers and the current Slayer's sister.

#buffy the vampire slayer #angel the series #spike btvs #lorne #dawn summers #angel #angel btvs #charles gunn #fred burkle #cordelia chase #wesley wyndam pryce #william the bloody #personal #ethan rayne

4 notes · View notes

megan017 · 10 months ago

Note

Heyyy I just wanted to say that I really really enjoy reading your poems!! You're truly a great poet and please keep it up because you're doing amazing 💙!! I'm truly thankful and grateful for the tags and it's such an honor and it warms my heart and makes me really emotional that you consider me and tag me in your poems, you have no idea how happy it makes me feel. So thank you so so much, endlessly 🫶🏻✨. I don't know you personally, but you're an amazing person Megan and you deserve a lot of love and appreciation. I hope you find happiness in life, I hope you reach all of your goals cuz you truly deserve all the best. And just wanna tell you something, even though we don't talk that much, but I truly consider you a close friend and I'm thankful for you. Please always keep on writing poems, they are amazing!!! And I hope one day you release your own book of poems ♡⁠˖. I'm your number one fan and I'll always support you and support your writings!!! Sending you much love and big hugs 🫂✨.

Song recommendation 🎧

Have a wonderful day / night <3

First of all-

AAAAAAAA I WAS SO HAPPY TO SEE YOUR RETURN, I MEAN, YEAH OF COURSE YOU HAVE YOUR OWN LIFE AS WELL WITH ALL THE BUSY STUFF (formulated shortly and poorly :') ) BUT STILL, I WAS LIKE:

WHEN I SAW THE NOTIFICATION POP UP, SAYING "animehideout liked your post" THEN I READ YOUR COMMENTS AND WENT:

Aaaaaaaa hewo :3

At the moment my last 2 braincells are fighting for their dear life and won't multiple as they should.

Second of all, I was just depressing (listening to my vent playlist, basically) and aaaaaa, not only did I become happier, but you also made my undiagnosed but present depression dance.

Third of all, and most importantly, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH AND FEEL SO F------ HONORED THAT YOU LIKE MY POEMS AND SUPPORT ME SO MUCH, MY HEART IS ABOUT TO BURST (I teared up<3), ALSO, YOU CONSIDERING ME AS A CLOSE FRIEND, OOOH HOLY SPIRIT (who is never present around me), MY BRAIN SHUT DOWN, IN A GOOD WAY, LIKE, HELLOO? :DD

By the way, a book is planned, I just first have to become a psychologist with PhD and/or an English teacher.

Also.... I'm in dept to you in so many ways. The affection I get from you, aaaaaah, but most importantly, the 14 stanza masterpiece I made as optional school work. While I have to take notes of my poems in my exercise book as well. Just not in the upcoming few days, ALSO I WANNA WRITE RANDOM HEADCANNONS AND SCENARIOS, ONE SHOTS AND I DON'T KNOW TT

Aaaaa so many plans, but none done

AAAAAND, also (I need an "also" counter at this point-) I'm glad to see that I didn't cause any problems or anything by tagging you🩷

💚;3💚

💙:3 <3💙

#🎀megansbs🎀#I'M NOT OKAAAAYY HELLOO???!!! <333

4 notes · View notes

honeyviscera · 1 year ago

Text

i saw a post about "how did you get into writing" and i was going to reblog but i realised this is too long winded for tags lol. anyways in terms of writing poetry, i remember it started back when i was in seventh grade, and i started to write haikus on small post-it notes. i ended up losing a lot of them, so i decided to start a poetry notebook. i would write very short poems in it, or rather, stanzas, just whenever inspiration struck. it wasn't until like grade 8 that i remember writing my first Good Poem, that is, the first poem that i was really satisfied with, the first poem where i wrote it and was amazed i had written something like that. it was called "whimsical mind". i remember reciting it to my friends i was so excited about it. throughout the rest of junior high, i would carry that notebook around, and write little poems in it. eventually, around the end of grade 9, i switched to writing my poems in google keep (basically a notes app, but you can sync on your computer, organise with tags, etc) because it was faster to write on the computer rather than in a tiny notebook.

for all of high school, i just kept on writing. in grade 10, i wrote a very long free-verse prose poem, "the sea". it was the first poem i had written that was that long. previously, all the stuff i wrote was really short, split into stanzas, only a few words in each stanza etc. but "the sea" changed how i wrote poetry. (it was also the inspiration for my old url, the-ancient-ocean.) there was a shift after that, my poems became a lot longer, more winding. more complex. sometime in grade 11, i got into writing body horror, because i needed a way to talk about my mental state. using anything other than my own body for a poetic device felt too distant, or detached.

i can kind of trace the overall theme of my poetry-- when i started back in grade 7, i wrote about the world, its beauty, observation.... then i began to write about immortality and existentialism..... "the sea" was kind of a waypoint between those two themes. then, from existentialism to..... body horror. there's another poem that i can't think the name of, that was a transition between those two as well. (i'm remembering the line "string your bones together, needle and thread, remember, you're already dead. it sucked the life from you.") my body horror poems are my favourite.... it's where my new url comes from, too.

anyways now all i know how to write is body horror. again, anything else feels too detached......... too impersonal. anyways that's how i got into writing lol. it's been about 7 years.... wow.

#ocean.mp3

4 notes · View notes

silverforestry · 1 year ago

Text

Just remembered the time me and a few people I know made a “friendship book” for a friend of ours filled with art and poems and cards and stuff as a way of saying “we love you, pls don’t kys”

And I wrote a two-stanza poem about healing from trauma and seeking a brighter future

And then she sort of distanced herself from us after a few months and started obsessing over gender identity and relationships (which was hurting her and causing her to dissociate a ton) and getting into some really weird stuff, so I wrote a second part to that poem and it was about self-destructive habits and I submitted it to my school’s literary magazine.

Anyway, y’all are the first to see the whole poem together as intended. The first two stanzas were my portion of the friendship book (there’s been some stylistic editing), the last two were in my high school’s literary magazine. “But” is in brackets because it did not appear in the publication.

Broken Things and Breaking Wings

By Anna Silva Silvestre

Broken wings now graze the sky

As fallen feathers whisper woes

Fade to nothing, asking why

With answers only Heaven knows

So one more flap and one more leap

As one more feather fall in vain

All the while, the darkness creeps

And leaves another dismal stain

But as the tides approach the shore,

Waxing with the rising moon,

A graceful flap sees new wings soar

For light and time, they heal all wounds

Black marks now bathed in warmest light

Those questions, feathers now rescind

With broken wings reaching new heights,

The sky sings reason in its winds

[But] feathered wings of empty strength

Will never take you very far

For wings of that fragile sort of length

Are apt to suffocate in tar

The skies, they cry for broken wings

That long to join eternal song,

But open not to tinfoil kings

Who toast with poison sweet and strong

The many faces in their glint

Are dimming shards of squandered days

Spent leaping for the night sky's mint,

While dripping of that pitch-black glaze

Starlight drowning in those pools,

Our avian is rendered blind

By tinfoil shine and plastic jewels

To which her focus is confined

#whisper ramblings #poem #text post #text poetry #silverpoetry

4 notes · View notes

ra-tutubixi · 2 years ago

Text

Twin Topils, or, The Little Ruler List that Could

To begin a long, gruelling series of posts, I find it fitting to provide some manner of context beforehand.

Tollan (Xikokotitlan) in general is a bit of a historical clusterfuck, its history plagued with hundreds of years of accumulated exaggeration and further hundreds of interpreted and reinterpreted, lost and word-of-mouth'd sources. So as with many things, the truth is that no history will be truly complete, not with the materials we have today, probably never.

But one can, with a little scrawling madly at 12am, a good pen and a blank page, get closer to something old and forgotten: who the hell ruled Tollan before its demise.

Our journey begins with a long account of the years as perceived in Kwawtitlan. So the text is called, uh, Annals of Kwawtitlan.

It presents us with appearances of various rulers of various places, walking through time at a pace of its Xiwpoalli years, occasionally calling back to older events, occasionally retelling poems and prose stanzas of things said to have happened.

Walking back and making note of names, we arrive at the following list for the rulers of Tollan:

It should be noted that this is indeed a wiki table, albeit with an odd offset of 52 years from the original. This is intentional, I'd gone and did the walk back sometime ago but never bothered to reflect it on the wiki page, simply noted it in a final parenthesis to its introductory line.

Whichever the case, making a list of just this one source would be... irresponsible at best. There are other sources, the most popular of which are Ixtlilxochitl's various lists, five texts he wrote over the course of his life. These are all differently-dated, but they serve us well in most cases:

Ixtlil lists entirely different names except for one, Wetsin, though his dates are rather more distant into the past, getting somewhat closer as he writes more and (presumably) gathers and moves around now-lost sources.

What's notable about his lists is that the first one, within the Historia de la Nación Chichimeca, ends with a certain Topiltsin that's preceded by an Istakkaltsin. As time goes on, he adds changes a few names: Tlakomiwa to Mitl, Istakkaltzin to Tekpankaltsin, Xiwsaltsin to Xiwtlaltsin, and adds an Ix- to the beginning of Tlilkuechawak. He also seems to have discovered a new ruler, Mekonetsin, who he initially thought to have been another name for Topiltzin. He was instead his son, whose mother was a certain Xochitl, who we suggest had participated in the civil war of their time and deposed Topiltsin, whereafter she ruled for an unspecified number of years, then their son after her passing. This table doesn't include her for some reason.

Notes and parallels abound, but for now we will turn to Chimalpain's rather short list of rulers: Wemak (993-1029) and Akxitl Topiltsin Ketsalkoatl (1029-1051). He merely lists, it appears, those closest to the people he wrote this about, in a certain Brief memory of the founding of the city of Colhuacan. Chimalpain had made a few mistakes elsewhere, apparently shifting a few rulers to the period of the one who preceded them. Thus, tentatively, his list would need to be re-evaluated as pertaining to a few years later, at least 22.

Most other lists are rather close to the two first ones, but there is one with a curious divergence. The Anónimo Mexicano lists the first five all the same (Chalchiwtlanetl, Ixtlilkwechawak, Wetsin, Totepew and Nakaxok, who here is mangled as Nakaskayotl), but it jumps straight to Mitl, entirely skipping Istakkaltsin and Mekonetl. After Mitl, the regular order seems to come back with Xiwtsalli, but then we learn she ruled for only four years, after which a regency council was installed. We are not told for how long did such a situation exist, but we are informed that a certain Tekpankaltsin ruled after its dissolution, and that he was the very last monarch of the city.

There is little more that we can use for our reconstructions, but three more sources are pivotal in orienting us. Torquemada, in his Monarquía Indiana, presents to us the knowledge that Tekpankaltsin also bore the name "Topiltsin," while the Annals of Kwawtinchan (by another name, the Historia Tolteca-Chichimeca) inform us that the last ruler of Tollan was Wemak, he whose iron fist caused instability and who became subject of the second coup in the city's history, and that a certain Wewetsin lineage of Nonoalka-chichimekah had a quarter of the city after being one of a few primary chichimeka groups to move to the area. Finally, the Codex Xolotl provides note that Tollan had been completely abandoned by 1175, a date generally supported by archaeological findings at the city reported by Healan et al.

It would appear that some common sources were used here.

Firstly, the most primordial one. Both the AnaKwaw and Ixtlilxochitl's final list have 9 rulers, a few of which appear to be variant readings of certain glyphs: Mitl ("arrow") may be an abbreviated glyphic form of Tlakomiwa (meaning "possessor of wooden arrows"), which in turn is Mixkoatl's signature representation:

We could go on about the apparent snake around his right elbow resembling the convention for drawing masakoah, horned snakes, but this information is not entirely useful for us beyond "neat, might be whence the masatsin came from." Also disclaimer bc ik this is actually from somewhere in the Puebla-Tlaxcala area: he hath the same traits in the Telleriano-Remensis. I just like this one a little more :)

Anyway, another name with a variant may be Xochitl, being merely "Xochitl" in Ixtlilxochitl (heh heh) and "Matlakxochitl" (10-flower, a calendarical name) in the AnaKwaw, where she directly succeeds Se Akatl.

Akxitl, meanwhile, may be a conjunct case of mangling, abbreviation and variant readings: it may very well be reconstructed as Ak[atl]-xitl, but the latter part is seldom used in names Just Like That. Instead, that may be a slight mangling of xiwitl, a word whose glyphic form is a turquoise circle, but which can be quite easily confused with the turquoise dots that make a number count when alone. Thus, a single blue dot and a reed may very well be read as Akaxiwitl, but also as Ce Akatl. (Note: i didn't come up with all of this — the Se Akatl : Aka[tl]-xiwitl theory was proposed by a fellow scholar who goes by Jan online. Thx @261jan)

It may not have been a single ancestral source, but at least two or perhaps three (one went to AnaKwaw author(s), one to Anón. and Ixtlil, while Chimal may have an additional one that Ixtlil also consulted later on) that were involved, co-temporally produced and recording events that were basically the same, but with slightly differing glyph usage and timing.

It's easy to deduce a closer connection between Ixtlilxochitl, Chimalpain and the Anónimo, although then we'd need to take a closer look at who consulted who here.

The only one who tells us who he read outright is Chimal. Most of his' are primarily Chalko and particularly Amakemekan and Tenanko (such as the [seemingly] Título Primordial written by Rodrigo de Rosas Xohecatzin, his father-in-law), but there are a few that come to mind as likely candidates: his two "small and veritable books" — which, by the sound of them and the apparent lack of focus on lineage or years, may have been historical-cartographical works resembling the Xolotl and Huamantla codexes —, and two glossed genealogies. He had two more written sources, a Xiuhtlapohualamoxtli (an annal) with an apparent exclusive focus on Amakemekan, and the aforementioned Título dealing with the innards and local delimitations of the same place. Additionally, we have word of two oral testimonies he solicited, one on the provenance of a genealogy and the other on the lineage of a Chalka noble.

It is quite possible he first got the names from such genealogies, particularly those concerning Kolwakan, while the dates he may have confirmed with the Xiwtlapowalamoxtli. We know this because his dates for certain rulers in all his other lists prior to a certain point in time, notably those from Kolwakan, seem to occasionally backslide into what other sources suggest are instead the periods of their predecessor; Tollan, seemingly, also has this quirk within Chimal's writings.

The Xiwtlapowalamoxtli, then, is our likely culprit. This work was congealed from various sources, and indeed may have utilized a source that Ixtlil later got his hands on, or which his sources in turn did.

The Anónimo and Ixtlil are rather analogous rather clearly; geographically, the former appears to have been produced in the general area of Tlaxcala, which overlapped and bordered in a few places with Akolwakan, the realm where Ixtlil lived and whence he harvested his sources.

Unifying all this info, at last, we may begin to reconstruct a list of who the hell did rule Tollan, although approximate.

The Six Kings of Legend

Chalchiwtlanetl, 511-562

Ixtlilkwechawak, 562-614

Wewetl, Lineage-maker; 614-666

Ilwitimal, Totepew ("our lord"); 666-718

Nakaxok, 718-770

Divided City, 770-826

Mixkoamasatl/Tlakomiwa, First Theocrat; 826-874

Theocracy, the Heavenly Monarchs

8. Se Akatl ("Akxitl") Ketsalkoatl, 874-880 9. Matlakxochitl, 880-ca. 927 10. Mekonetl, ca. 927-983 11. Xiwtlalli, 983-987

Instability, Lieges of Rubble

12. First Regent Council, 987-1000 13. Second Regent Council, 1000-1029 14. Wemak, Stone King; 1029-ca. 1070s? 15. Third Regent Council? ca. 1070s-ca. 1100s 16. The Last Prince, 1100s-ca. 1150? 17. Second Divided City? ca. 1150-1172

Of course, the first 7 periods are 52-years long or about. They are symbolic periods, and are mostly meant symbolically. Though evidence for a Tollan at all can be glimpsed as early as the Late Formative/Preclassic, it becomes larger and more relevant when the mid-500s roll up, which is right around our starting date here. Within these symbolic periods, the Divided City is of particular note, as it most likely represents a period of both great change, instability and parallel power between its components, being more of a "confederation" than a proper "unified polity," though this was in a rather small area of course. Wewetsin may have been a sort of unified, mythicized leader of the Nawa migrants pouring in from the west and into the Mezquital, where some would stay in, indeed, a quarter of the city, while others would walk on and take ideas with them from the nascent trading and cultural centre south, eventually contributing to a sort of "International Style" for Epiclassic Mesoamerica — they themselves would introduce a few things where they went, including most possibly the chacmool altars, as they appear quite earlier in Chalchihuites than anywhere else, albeit in a rather indecorous form. Ilwitimal meanwhile may have begun the construction of Tula Grande, while the period of instability under Nakaxok and the Divided City may have unfluenced the shift from Tula Chico, while TG was mostly finished in its first phase by Mixkoamasatsin, the first lord of the "renewed" Tollan in its totality.

After his rule, it appears all rulers adopted the title of Tekpankaltsin, "who dwells in the palace," while specific provenances (such as Se Akatl's training and ordainment at the temple of Ketsalkoatl, associated with the wind and everything inked white) may have also been used as the basis for titles, such as Se Akatl's alternate name, Istakkaltsin ("dweller of the white house").

Either within his period or upon the ascension of Mekonetl, Tollan's rulers began styling themselves as Topiltzin, "our honoured prince;" all these titles may have induced some confusion and mix-ups in authors with only fractional context, who perhaps read mentions of certain names in specific periods and, instead of noting them as different names for the same people, may have both separated and unified certain rulers as they believed truest — Mekonetl as the first and the Forgotten King as the last Princes, then these both and Wemak and Se Akatl as Palace-Dwellers.

Se Akatl Istakkaltsin, for his part, may have been overambitious in attempting to quickly deal with the difficulties caused by his father's movement of the city and just generally bad times; if his story is to be read in the flourish of songs and poetry, he may have turned to alcohol and other pleasures, neglecting the military and economic needs of a city in the middle of a region-wide sociopolitical transition.

Notable are the inclusions of both Matlakxochitl and Xiwtlalli in most sources, as Nawa sources post-Etetl expansion tend to omit such notable figures on the basis of their own systems, even within their own lineages — Atotostli and Ilankweitl are paramount examples of quite notable but often-erased queens. Matlakxochitl for her part was quite the political manoeuvrer: while Se Akatl's position was crumbling by the minute, Xochitl involved herself in the plots to bring him down, managing to instead replace him and rule for an unknown amount of years, reducing unrest and paving the way for some short stability that seems to have earned Tollan its reputation as a centre of culture and prosperity towards its later years. Xiwtlalli did step down for reasons that remain uncertain, and not much is known about her rule. Perhaps, if we choose to interpret her name in specific ways, she brought great wealth and prosperity to hr land as well, if for a short time.

In her place then sat a Regent Council, better organized than the one which preceded Wemak and with slightly more input from each unit of the city, probably named something-coatl after Mixkoamasatl, paralleling the founding of a new order of sorts.

Wemak, Xiwtlalli's son, had to wait a long time for his crown. Perhaps here he developed a propensity for throwing tantrums and being greedy, attempting to eat the world all for himself. This, it appears, made more than a few quite angry, and thus he was ousted. Many left the city for good, and in many places he's thus called the final king of the place. And the Regency resumed. The Last Prince, unnamed and basically unknown, knew he had it hard. He may have come from the same context as Se Akatl, or perhaps this too is merging from old sources. He too eventually fell to the city's problems, divided between those who had stayed since the beginning and those who found it relatively easy to leave their residence once more. So the city crumbled into a deep, factional state, and he simply left after realizing he had basically no power to do anything for it. He left, perhaps sea-wards, perhaps to the Royal Family's old allies in Kolwakan, and perhaps he vowed to return. In his wake, all who remained would leave as well, sooner or later.

Some say he went to Cholollan and got himself into politics there. Cholollan, however, rather outspokenly despised Tollan, for both rose immensely in power after Teotiwakan's demise. Trade was strictly forbidden between the two centres and their dependencies, so it passed through a market kingdom in Anawak Metstliapan, on the coast of the Valley of the Five Lakes. This was Cerro Portezuelo, a site a little to the south of Tetskoko, possibly the Otumba Chimalpain mentions as one of the three regional hegemons of Tollan's age.

And with that, we can wrap this up at last, and prepare for the shitfest to come when we touch on such figures as Maarten and Mautner, and understand the mytho-historical relevance of this place. All in good time, all in good time.

Sources:

José Rubén Romero Galván (1977): Las fuentes de las diferentes historias originales del Chimalpahin

Dan M. Healan, Robert H. Cobean, & Robert T. Bowsher (2021): Revised Chronology and Settlement History of Tula and the Tula Region

Keith Jordan (2016): From Tula Chico to Chichén Itzá: Implications of the Epiclassic Sculpture of Tula for the Nature and Timing of Tula-Chichén Contact

Hanns J. Prem (1999): Los reyes de Tollan y Colhuacan

Alonso Bejarano & Pedro de San Buenaventura (n.d) via Primo Feliciano Velázquez (1992): Anales de Cuauhtitlan

Domingo Francisco de San Antón Muñón Chimalpahin Quauhtlehuanitzin (ca. 1631) via Víctor M. Castillo F. (1991): Memorial breve acerca de la fundación de la ciudad de Culhuacan

Unknown (n.d) via Richley H. Crapo & Bonnie Glass-Coffin (2005): Anónimo Mexicano

— via Paul Kirchoff, Lina Odena Güemes & Luis Reyes García (1976): Historia Tolteca-Chichimeca

— (ca. 1450s?): "Codex Xolotl"

Juan de Torquemada (1615): Monarquía Indiana, book I, chapter XIV

#the tula series (tm)#middle classic #epiclassic #middle postclassic #effortpost outtakes #it'd be a whole effortpost if it wasn't just 5 pages but whatever #ಠ_ಠ #< tfw using ixtlil *and* torquemada

6 notes · View notes

moinsbienquekaworu · 2 years ago

Note

i am about to sleep but i wanted to ask what your favorite poem is? will you tell me about it? what you love and why it’s your favorite? do you like any of its translations? i love you. i hope you have a good day 🥰

(⁠〒⁠﹏⁠〒⁠) beloved thank you for the question!!! As per usual I am incapable of choosing just one of a thing, so I actually have two favourite poems, one in french and one in english (because poetry in french and in english can be pretty different since the codes and models and expectations aren't always the same!) They're the two poems I can recite and know by heart haha.

The english one is Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost. I really like the last stanza (like everyone else) but also just the way when you say it out loud it does feel like a quiet moment watching the snow fall all on your own. I found it recently accompanying a fic (two different fics actually but the second time I knew it) and it entranced me!

The french one is Chanson d'Automne by Paul Verlaine. It's a classic in France, some of its lines were used as a signal for saboteurs during WWII and there's an urban legend it was used to signal the landing in Normandy. I personally had to learn it by heart in primary school (I think in 4th grade?) and it just stuck with me. I like it for the way it feels to me and the images it evokes, but also just because it was the first poem I learnt by heart and being able to recite a poem is an easily overlooked comfort of life (insert those posts and quotes about art being vital and what we need to be able to turn to in dark or light times)

Other poems I like include Remords Posthume and L'Albatros by Baudelaire, Le Dormeur du Val by Rimbaud, Le Déserteur and Je Voudrais Pas Crever by Boris Vian, Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden, and Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath. The french ones I studied in school, and I found the english ones on my own (I feel like I found both in Johnlock fics?? but I might be wrong about Funeral Blues, it's been years) I included english translations where I could for the french ones, and they're not necessarily incredible but they should let you get the vibe. If one of them speaks to you I can try to explain what makes it tick! My personal anecdotes with those because that's half the fun: we had to analyse Remords Posthume for literature class with my best friend K, and what's really cool about it is the last line, "et le ver rongera ta peau comme un remords", because it plays on the homonymy between ver, the worm, and vers, the line of poetry, meaning she will be devoured physically by worms since she'll be dead but also that his verses, his poem, will make her feel remorse; I like the albatross analogy because I was a weird kid who felt comfortable with books but not with my peers; Le Dormeur du Val is extremely extremely sad and beautiful and I think Rimbaud was a very interesting guy; technically Le Déserteur is a song and not a poem but I first saw the text without knowing that so for me it's a poem forever now, and I love talking about the original versus final ending thing; the YouTube channel Le Mock did an excellent reading of Je Voudrais Pas Crever and it's a jewel, I love it so so much; Funeral Blues was the first english poem I ever liked (or maybe read honestly) and I wrote it on the cover of my 10th grade english notebook (because the teacher was great and said that if we forgot to do our homework he wouldn't punish us if we could recite a poem for him, so I wrote it down and tried to learn if by heart in case I forgot my homework); and Mad Girl's Love Song features in a fic I read a few weeks ago and I just think it's neat. I probably forgot some but those are the ones I remember right now (edit: ADA LIMÓN!! I FORGOT ADA LIMÓN!!! Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds (the I can't help it, I love the way men love poem) hit me in the chest the first time I read it and it's so so good)

My favourites (and most of the poems I like actually) are pretty popular because I'm not really into poetry that much on my own. I get attached to poems once I see how they work inside and analyse them, but I don't sit down and decide to analyse some poem from Les Fleurs du Mal at random because it feels like homework, and I don't go looking for poetry because I'm very hit or miss (I get bored at long winded descriptions in those 4-part 7-pages poems and a lot of things trip up my instinctual Pretentiousness Radar™, and while it's not necessarily accurate it does turn me off poems). So I just stay with the basics, but that's fine, because the comfort of carrying poems with you is there whatever the poem is y'know?

Also question, do americans learn poetry in school? I assume you must analyse some in literature class, but I don't know if you learn poems when you're young. I know we also do lots of La Fontaine's Fables, though I personally never did, but learning poems to recite in primary school is a thing almost everyone has done here I think.

#i just like. literature and literary analysis. when it's like poetry and it rhymes. when there's literary devices for a reason.#i'm an english lit major for a reason!!!#thank you for reminding me of what i like in literature my classes are so boring it's hard to remember sometimes #also the sheer joy of explaining poems i like to people who don't know them #like i could not explain le dormeur du val to a french person because they already know it and associate it with boring literature classes #but you don't! because you weren't forced to spend hours of lit classes on it in 8th grade whether you liked it or not!#it's like - yes they're well known poems but they're popular for a reason y'know #oh an honorary poems are some songs. like mistki's songs? that's poetry. that's just poetry!#it's like le déserteur - it's a song but isn't it poetry too? when the text follows the same rules? when you can analyse it the same?#actually all because of you feels like a poem too. if you know what i mean?#and dans ma ville on traîne by orelsan reminds me of a primary school poem - l'école by jacques charpentreau #it's all poetry and it's so cool and i love it #OH and racine's plays. they're not Poetry poetry - they're plays - but they rhyme in their entirety and follow a specific pattern #that's poetry!! that's just poetry!!!!#if you want me to get phèdre out and read you some racine i would be delighted to it's so nice to listen to #there's a rhythm to it and it becomes much easier to understand once you say it out loud - like shakespeare #anyway. LITERATURE.#wow i have a ramble tag now #wow i have an asks tag now #i love the way men love indeed

4 notes · View notes

it-all-begins-with-a-dream · 26 days ago

Text

AI Illustrations - W. A. Auden Edition (part 2)

Welcome to part 2 of my hyperfixation du jour! Here's part 1 if you're interested!

Disclaimer: I do not support the idea of using AI tools for any sort of illustration, be it a printed or online work. What I'm about to show you is merely a silly idea I decided to play around with for a little while and share the results. This is just for fun, please take it as such.

Now comes the part where I show you what happens when you put W.H. Auden's entire Lady Weeping at the Crossroads into DeepAI's image generator and ask it to create illustrations in Art Nouveau, Gothic Literature Art and Stained Glass Window styles.

Art Nouveau style:

Gotta love that floating tree on the left :) So this is basically the barest hint at the very beginning of the poem but the colors capture the atmosphere quite well.

Gothic Literature Art style:

Again, this is just the first few lines but there's the ocean in the background which is an improvement!

Stained Glass Window style:

The lady fused with the hawk but at least now we have a real crossroads with the ocean on one side and the tree on the other and the Sun in the back. This is not bad at all! It certainly contains more elements from the poem than the others.

Now, at this point you would think that my curiosity was sated, my hyperfixation calmed and my stupid ideas were gone. You would be wrong.

I proceeded to ask ChatGPT to interpret each stanza of the poem and tell me what they are all about. Then, I put those interpretations through DeepAI again and I only did it in Art Nouveau because I might be crazy but I'm not a monster.

So here's the entire poem, again :)

Lady, weeping at the crossroads, Would you meet your love In the twilight with his greyhounds, And the hawk on his glove? ChatGPT: A serene twilight scene at a crossroads, with soft purples and oranges in the sky. In the foreground, a lady in a flowing dress stands with tears in her eyes, embodying both sadness and hope. To her side, a figure in a classic hunting outfit holds a hawk perched on his gloved hand, while two elegant greyhounds rest at his feet. The atmosphere is poignant yet filled with the anticipation of reunion.

Look at that! We have a lady! We have some crossroads! We have her love! We have a greyhound (kinda)! We have a hawk! We even have some goddamn telephone poles completely ruining the vibe!

Bribe the birds then on the branches, Bribe them to be dumb, Stare the hot sun out of heaven That the night may come. ChatGPT: A dramatic, sun-drenched landscape with vibrant colors of a blazing sun hanging low in the sky. In the foreground, a figure stands beneath a tree, looking upward with a contemplative expression. Birds perch on the branches, their beaks closed as if silenced. The atmosphere feels charged with tension, as if the figure is daring the sun to retreat. Shadows begin to lengthen, hinting at the approach of night, creating a contrast between the bright day and the promise of dusk.

Very nice and here is our recurring little problem again: whenever DeepAI sees the word "figure" by ChatGPT it instantly defaults to a man-shaped entity. There will be more of this.

Starless are the nights of travel, Bleak the winter wind; Run with terror all before you And regret behind. ChatGPT: A desolate landscape under a dark, starless sky, conveying a sense of isolation and despair. In the foreground, a lone traveler, bundled against the biting winter wind, runs with a look of urgency and fear on her face. The stark trees around her bend in the harsh wind, and behind the traveler, shadows loom, symbolizing regret and past choices. The atmosphere is filled with a haunting stillness, emphasizing the weight of both the journey ahead and the memories left behind.

This is a lovely image, although the footsteps are a little funny and very interesting that even though we are still in Art Nouveau style the MC is now wearing modern clothing.

Run until you hear the ocean's Everlasting cry; Deep though it may be and bitter You must drink it dry, ChatGPT: A rugged coastline where tumultuous waves crash against jagged rocks under a moody sky. In the foreground, a figure runs along the shore, her hair and clothes whipping in the wind. The ocean looms large, its deep blue waters reflecting the tumult of emotions described in the poem. The figure's expression is one of determination, as if she is both drawn to and apprehensive of the ocean's power. In the background, the horizon blurs, suggesting the vastness and depth of the sea, hinting at both challenge and the allure of what lies beyond.

This one looks so shitty that I almost gave up on this whole endeavor. Luckily for you, I'm insane so I got over it quite quickly.

Wear out patience in the lowest Dungeons of the sea, Searching through the stranded shipwrecks For the golden key, ChatGPT: A mysterious underwater scene, illuminated by beams of light filtering down from the surface. In the foreground, a figure dives among the remnants of shipwrecks, surrounded by rusting treasures and corals. The dungeons of the sea are dark and foreboding, creating an atmosphere of both danger and wonder. The figure’s expression reflects determination and hope as she searches through the wreckage for the elusive golden key, while ghostly silhouettes of past sailors might drift in the shadows, hinting at the history and stories buried beneath the waves.

Theeeere we go! Interesting to note that the three DeepAI versions all depicted this stanza to be above the water in a seaside cave or on the water's surface. Maybe ChatGPT does have some fresh opinions to offer.

Push on to the world's end, pay the Dread guard with a kiss, Cross the rotten bridge that totters Over the abyss. ChatGPT: A dramatic scene at the edge of the world, where a precarious, crumbling bridge stretches over a dark, swirling abyss. In the foreground, a figure stands resolutely, preparing to cross, her gaze fixed ahead. The "Dread guard" could be imagined as a shadowy figure at the entrance of the bridge, waiting, while the figure prepares to pay the toll with a kiss—perhaps a gesture of courage or sacrifice. The sky above is stormy and tumultuous, reflecting the emotional intensity of the moment, while jagged cliffs loom on either side, emphasizing the precariousness of the journey.

That dread guard just doesn't want to be seen, does it. Love the angle tho, it's nice to see the bridge from the front even if it doesn't lead anywhere.

There stands the deserted castle Ready to explore; Enter, climb the marble staircase, Open the locked door. ChatGPT: A grand, yet eerie, deserted castle bathed in soft moonlight. The castle's stone walls are overgrown with vines, hinting at years of neglect. In the foreground, a figure stands at the entrance, gazing up at the imposing marble staircase that spirals upward, inviting yet foreboding. The staircase glimmers subtly, drawing the eye. Above, a heavy locked door looms, adorned with intricate carvings that suggest hidden secrets within. Shadows dance in the corners, creating a sense of mystery and anticipation, inviting the viewer to imagine what lies beyond.

I just love how tiny he is :)

Cross the silent ballroom, Doubt and danger past; Blow the cobwebs from the mirror See yourself at last. ChatGPT: A grand, silent ballroom, its once-lavish decor now draped in dust and cobwebs. Moonlight streams through tall windows, illuminating the empty space. In the center, a figure hesitantly crosses the floor, her footsteps echoing in the stillness. As she approaches an ornate, tarnished mirror, she reaches out to blow the cobwebs away. The reflection reveals not just her physical self, but a deeper realization—perhaps hints of past struggles and newfound clarity. The atmosphere is heavy with both melancholy and the promise of self-discovery, as shadows linger in the corners, representing lingering doubts and dangers now behind them.

This is probably the most detailed version of this stanza but we really seem to be losing the Art Nouveau style :(

Put your hand behind the wainscot, You have done your part; Find the penknife there and plunge it Into your false heart. ChatGPT: An intimate, shadowy corner of the ballroom, where the elegant wainscotting hints at hidden secrets. In the foreground, the figure stands with one hand reaching behind the panel, her expression a mix of determination and sorrow. A glimmering penknife rests within the shadows, symbolizing both a tool of revelation and a means of release. The atmosphere is charged with tension, as if the act of plunging the knife into the false heart represents a decisive break from deception and pain. Dim light casts dramatic shadows, emphasizing the weight of the moment and the transformative journey she's undertaken.

This time DeepAI had no problems with knives plunging into hearts but it also did not deliver anything resembling Art Nouveau.

And now, for the final trick, I'll show you what happens when you gather ChatGPT's interpretations (all 9 stanzas) and feed it to DeepAI:

Art Nouveau style:

Once again, this is only the beginning of the whole thing but we have a lady, we have crossroads, we have no lover but two greyhounds (!) and we have a hawk so it's fine. And yes, we have the fucking telephone poles.

Gothic Illustration Art style:

Goodness Gracious Those Colors! We lost the crossroads and the greyhound is now a labrador (?) but at least we have the guy, it's so rare to see him where he's supposed to be.

Stained Glass Window style:

This is very very similar to the Art Nouveau version which is weird because previously they had next to no common details. Maybe poor DeepAI was getting tired.

Anyway, thanks for reading this madness of mine! If you've reached the end send me a star emoji :)

#ai artwork #deepai #w.h. auden #literature #ai #long post #art nouveau #gothic illustration #stained glass window

1 note · View note