#anch humanized

[ros64]

Ye Dinna get used to it

A beautiful episode that redeems the mediocrity of the previous one. I melted at the looks exchanged between Jamie and John. In their hatred, they love each other. Did you notice Jamie’s expression, the way his body moved, his breathing when he saw he was safe and standing there? Sam is absolutely brilliant in those moments when he speaks through his face and body. David is no less impressive, and his exchange with Percy is worthy of a textbook performance.

I also really enjoyed William with Jane—Silvia is very talented, by the way, another spot-on casting choice. It’s truly a shame what will happen. I’ll always root for Will and Fanny, even if their story hasn’t been written yet. Ian and Rachel were very sweet too, but in my opinion, they’re missing something. I’m not sure what—maybe the actors don’t have the right chemistry, a bit like Roger and Bree, who work much better when they’re not paired as a couple.

The Marquis de Lafayette was very charming, an original, likable, and well-portrayed character—I really appreciated him. As for Richardson, I won’t say much to avoid spoilers, but even by the end of Bees, I couldn’t fully understand him. That he’s a time traveler is now obvious, but what he truly wants has never been clear.

This episode also lets us appreciate Jamie’s introspection—that blend of humanity, warrior strength, and leadership—that extra something that makes him the perfect man, for better or worse. I really like this new Claire more than the one from the earlier seasons, and I will never stop saying that she reflects the Claire from the novels more—the one I love so much, she’s the perfect partner for Jamie and the support his tormented soul needs. The final score was beautiful.

And finally: “Go and save our son.” Because what unites these two men is something that surpasses mere “carnal knowledge.”

Un bellissimo episodio che riscatta la pochezza del precedente. Mi sono sciolta per gli sguardi tra Jamie e John. Odiandosi si amano. Avete notato l’espressione di Jamie e il movimento del suo corpo, il respiro quando ha visto che era salvo ed era lì? Sam è meraviglioso in quei momenti in cui parla col viso e col corpo. David non è da meno e lo scambio con Percy vale un interpretazione da manuale. Mi è piaciuto moltissimo anche William con Jane, Silvia è molto brava tra l’altro, un altro pov azzeccato dal casting. Davvero peccato quello che succederà. Io continuerò sempre a fare il tifo per Will e Fanny, anche se la storia non è ancora stata scritta. Molto dolci Ian e Rachel però, a mio avviso, a loro manca qualcosa, non so, forse gli attori non sono bene assortiti un po’ come Roger e Bree che funzionano molto meglio quando non sono in coppia. Molto carino il Marchese De Lafayette, personaggio originale, simpatico e ben interpretato, l’ho apprezzato tantissimo. Di Richardson non parlo, farei spoiler ma neppure alla fine di Bees mi è riuscito di comprenderlo del tutto, che sia un viaggiatore ormai è palese, ma cosa voglia davvero non è mai stato chiaro. Anche in questo episodio possiamo apprezzare l’ introspezione di Jamie quel suo essere così umano e allo stesso tempo guerriero e condottiero, quel qualcosa in più che lo rende l’uomo perfetto nel bene e nel male. Questa nuova Claire mi piace più di quella delle prime stagioni e non smetterò mai di dire che rispecchia di più la Claire dei romanzi quella che amo tanto, la compagna perfetta per Jamie e il sostegno della sua anima tormentata. Bellissima la sigla finale.

E infine: “Vai e salva nostro figlio” perché ciò che unisce questi due uomini è qualcosa che surclassa la “conoscenza carnale”.

[falcemartello]

-----

Nel frattempo anche a Greta sono cresciute le tette.

Ma forse non era questa la notizia...

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Plus le temps passe et plus j’ai le sentiment d’être vraiment né à la mauvaise époque... Je rêve de simplicité, de relations authentiques, de cette innocence qu’on a laissée derrière nous. Je n’aspire pas à la perfection, ou à l'accumulation de matériel, seulement à des échanges sincères, spontanés et vrais. Des connexions profondes entre humains. Un monde où la bienveillance et l'empathie seraient des valeurs centrales. Mais aujourd’hui, tout semble calculé, chacun utilise et manipule l'autre pour ses intérêts. Les gens ne dialoguent plus pour essayer de se comprendre, ils veulent juste imposer leurs idéologies. Toutes les valeurs actuelles misent en avant ne sont pas les miennes. Le bon sens aussi à quitter les esprits... Je ne me reconnaîs plus en la majorité de mes semblables. Se sentir tellement en décalage est abusé au point de me demander si ce n’est pas moi qui suis à côté de la plaque. Bref, je sais aussi que je ne suis pas tout seul à ressentir tout ça et c'est ce qui me fait tenir dans tout ce bordel ambiant. Mais au fond j'ai encore foi en l'humanité c'est le plus important sûrement pas cette année sinon je le saurais. Alors si vous lisez ce message, sachez qu'il y a en d'autres des comme vous qui aime les autres la vie les gens alors donnons rendez-vous pour l'année prochaine. Car nous sommes de belles personnes

The more time passes, the more I feel like I was really born in the wrong era... I dream of simplicity, authentic relationships, of this innocence that we left behind. I do not aspire to perfection, or to the accumulation of material, only to sincere, spontaneous and true exchanges. Deep connections between humans. A world where kindness and empathy would be central values. But today, everything seems calculated, everyone uses and manipulates the other for their interests. People no longer dialogue to try to understand each other, they just want to impose their ideologies. All the current values ​​put forward are not mine. Common sense also leaves the minds... I no longer recognize myself in the majority of my peers. Feeling so out of step is abused to the point of wondering if it is not me who is off the mark. In short, I also know that I am not alone in feeling all this and that is what keeps me going in all this ambient mess. But deep down I still have faith in humanity, that is the most important thing, surely not this year otherwise I would know. So if you are reading this message, know that there are others like you who love others, life, people, so let's see you next year. Because we are beautiful people happy New Year 2025

Più passa il tempo e più mi sento davvero nata nell'epoca sbagliata... sogno la semplicità, le relazioni autentiche, questa innocenza che ci siamo lasciati alle spalle. Non aspiro alla perfezione, né all'accumulo di materiale, ma solo agli scambi sinceri, spontanei e veri. Connessioni profonde tra gli esseri umani. Un mondo in cui la gentilezza e l’empatia sono valori centrali. Ma oggi tutto sembra calcolato, ognuno usa e manipola l’altro per i propri interessi. Le persone non dialogano più per cercare di capirsi, vogliono solo imporre le proprie ideologie. Tutti i valori attuali proposti non sono miei. Anche il buon senso abbandona la mente delle persone... Non mi riconosco più nella maggior parte dei miei coetanei. Si abusa del sentirsi così fuori passo al punto da chiedersi se sono io a non cogliere il punto. Insomma, so anche che non sono il solo a provare tutto questo ed è questo che mi fa andare avanti in tutto questo caos circostante. Ma in fondo ho ancora fiducia nell'umanità, questa è la cosa più importante, sicuramente non quest'anno altrimenti lo saprei. Quindi se leggi questo messaggio sappi che ci sono altri come te che amano la vita degli altri, quindi ci vediamo l'anno prossimo. Perché siamo belle persone

[lunamagicablu]

“L’orologio che hai al polso regola la tua rabbia? La posizione delle lancette ti spinge a pensare che devi sfrecciare, sempre di corsa, come la lancetta dei secondi? Non è forse vero che consumi molta energia mentre cerchi di star dietro all’incessante ticchettio degli strumenti che segnano il tempo? Riconosci però che, anche se gli orologi non si fermano, la macchina umana ha bisogno di riposo…?

Noi ti chiediamo quindi di essere consapevole di questa gara con una macchina del tempo che voi esseri umani vi siete autoimposti. Quando guardiamo dentro di voi e nei vostri cuori, non troviamo una sola anima che sia in armonia con questa gara sconsiderata tra la mente e la macchina. Ricorda che sei nata per respirare con piacere, non per imitare gli orologi, come se fossero i tuoi padroni… La creatività non nasce dallo stress, ma da una gioia incessante che procede verso l’esterno, per celebrare la sua magnificenza.

Solo per un’ora, evita di prestare attenzione al marchingegno per misurare il tempo che porti al polso. Non permettere ad alcun pensiero che riguardi il tempo di sfiorarti la mente o la bocca. Osserva i movimenti della mente e cerca di rallentare per trovare una quiete che dia vita a nuove idee.” Doreen Virtue dal suo libro Angel Therapy art on Pinterest *********************** “Does the watch on your wrist regulate your anger? Does the position of the hands make you think that you have to rush, always running, like the second hand? Isn’t it true that you expend a lot of energy while trying to keep up with the incessant ticking of the instruments that mark time? Do you recognize, however, that even if the clocks don’t stop, the human machine needs rest…?

We therefore ask you to be aware of this race with a time machine that you humans have imposed on yourselves. When we look inside you and into your hearts, we do not find a single soul that is in harmony with this reckless race between the mind and the machine. Remember that you were born to breathe with pleasure, not to imitate the clocks, as if they were your masters… Creativity does not arise from stress, but from an incessant joy that proceeds outward, to celebrate its magnificence.

Just for an hour, avoid paying attention to the time-measuring device on your wrist. Don’t let any thought of time cross your mind or mouth. Watch the movements of your mind and try to slow down to find a stillness that gives birth to new ideas.” Doreen Virtue from her book Angel Therapy art on Pinterest 

[crazy-so-na-sega]

L’idea che il sionismo sia un colonialismo di insediamento non è nuova. Gli studiosi palestinesi che negli anni ’60 lavoravano a Beirut nel Centro di Ricerca dell’OLP avevano già capito che quello che stavano affrontando in Palestina non era un progetto coloniale classico. Non inquadravano Israele solo come una colonia britannica o americana, ma lo consideravano un fenomeno che esisteva in altre parti del mondo, definito come colonialismo di insediamento. È interessante che per 20-30 anni la nozione di sionismo come colonialismo di insediamento sia scomparsa dal discorso politico e accademico. È tornata quando gli studiosi di altre parti del mondo, in particolare Sudafrica, Australia e Nord America, hanno concordato che il sionismo è un fenomeno simile al movimento degli europei che hanno creato gli Stati Uniti, il Canada, l’Australia, la Nuova Zelanda e il Sudafrica. Questa idea ci aiuta a comprendere molto meglio la natura del progetto sionista in Palestina dalla fine del XIX secolo ad oggi, e ci dà un’idea di cosa aspettarci in futuro.

Credo che questa particolare idea degli anni ’90, che collegava in modo così chiaro le azioni dei coloni europei, soprattutto in luoghi come il Nord America e l’Australia, con le azioni dei coloni che arrivarono in Palestina alla fine del XIX secolo, abbia chiarito bene le intenzioni dei coloni ebrei che colonizzarono la Palestina e la natura della resistenza locale palestinese a quella colonizzazione. I coloni seguirono la logica più importante adottata dai movimenti coloniali di insediamento, ossia che per creare una comunità coloniale di successo al di fuori dell’Europa è necessario eliminare gli indigeni del Paese in cui ci si è stabiliti. Ciò significa che la resistenza indigena a questa logica è stata una lotta contro l’eliminazione e non solo di liberazione. Questo è importante quando si pensa all’operazione di Hamas e di altre operazioni di resistenza palestinese fin dal 1948.

Gli stessi coloni, come nel caso di molti europei che arrivarono in Nord America, America Centrale o Australia, erano rifugiati e vittime di persecuzioni. Alcuni di loro erano meno sfortunati e cercavano semplicemente una vita e delle opportunità migliori. Ma la maggior parte di loro erano emarginati in Europa e cercavano di creare un’Europa in un altro luogo, una nuova Europa, invece dell’Europa che non li voleva. Nella maggior parte dei casi, hanno scelto un luogo in cui viveva già qualcun altro, i nativi. Quindi il nucleo più importante tra loro era quello dei leader e ideologi che fornivano giustificazioni religiose e culturali per la colonizzazione della terra di qualcun altro. A questo si può aggiungere la necessità di affidarsi a un Impero per iniziare la colonizzazione e mantenerla, anche se all’epoca i coloni si ribellarono all’Impero che li aveva aiutati e chiesero e ottennero l’indipendenza, che in molti casi ottennero e poi rinnovarono l’alleanza con l’Impero. Il rapporto anglo-sionista che si è trasformato in un’alleanza anglo-israeliana è un esempio.

L’idea che si possa eliminare con la forza il popolo della terra che si vuole, è probabilmente più comprensibile – non giustificata – sullo sfondo dei secoli XVI, XVII e XVIII, perché andava di pari passo con la piena approvazione dell’imperialismo e del colonialismo. Era alimentato dalla comune disumanizzazione degli altri popoli non occidentali e non europei. Se si disumanizzano le persone, è più facile eliminarle. L’aspetto unico del sionismo come movimento coloniale di insediamento è che è apparso sulla scena internazionale in un momento in cui le persone di tutto il mondo avevano iniziato a ripensare il diritto di eliminare gli indigeni, di eliminare i nativi e quindi possiamo capire lo sforzo e l’energia investiti dai sionisti e successivamente dallo Stato di Israele nel cercare di coprire il vero obiettivo di un movimento coloniale di insediamento come il sionismo, che era l’eliminazione dei nativi.

Ma oggi a Gaza stanno eliminando la popolazione nativa davanti ai nostri occhi, quindi come mai hanno quasi rinunciato a 75 anni di tentativi di nascondere le loro politiche di eliminazione? Per capirlo, dobbiamo apprezzare la trasformazione della natura del sionismo in Palestina nel corso degli anni. (segue nel link)

molto interessante

[fashionbooksmilano]

Under another light Jewels and ornaments by Gianfranco Ferré

a cura di Rita Airaghi, direzione artistica Luca Stoppini, fotografie di Andrea Passuello

Skira, Milano 2017, 234 pagine, 16,8x30cm, ISBN 978-88-572-3669

euro 42,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

La mostra è accompagnata da un libro-catalogo edito da Skira, la cui direzione artistica è di Luca Stoppini, che ha anche reinterpretato le camicie con nuove immagini fotografiche. Il volume che si apre con i saluti di Andrea Cavicchi ed Alberto Ferré, presidenti delle due Fondazioni e presenta poi un testo sulle motivazioni del progetto della mostra, a cura di Filippo Guarini e Rita Airaghi, approfondisce i temi della mostra con il saggio introduttivo di Daniela Degl’Innocenti e gli  interessanti contributi di personaggi e protagonisti dello stile, della moda e dell’architettura italiana quali Quirino Conti, Anna Maria Castro, Margherita Palli, Daniela Puppa e Franco Raggi, che raccontano ed interpretano la visione creativa e progettuale del grande stilista-architetto.

"Nel gioiello, un mondo. O meglio il mondo. Da sempre oggetto di incommensurabile valenza simbolica, per me il gioiello concretizza un'infinità di riferimenti, di rimandi, di sguardi alle realtà più disparate, tanto reali quanto oniriche, da cui traggo ispirazione. In ciò non sento la minima differenza tra 'sognare' un abito o un gioiello. Perché è del tutto simile l'impulso a ritrovare stimoli e suggestioni in un orizzonte infinitamente eterogeneo, privo di confini temporali non meno che spaziali." (Gianfranco Ferré)

With more than 100 photographs, Gianfranco Ferré: Under Another Light looks at the costume jewelry of Italian designer Gianfranco Ferré (1944–2007). Ferré himself said of this somewhat neglected side of his oeuvre: “intended as a decorative element of clothing, ‘my’ jewelry becomes a tool for its interpretation, for a subjective and individual reading of the garment. If clothing is an object―the ‘thing is worn’―then jewelry is the expression of the way, of ‘how it’s worn.’”

Amid the diversity of objects presented in this volume, there emerges a connection between bijoux and clothing collections, which Ferré always conceived in parallel with each other, and tied to the inescapable reference point, the human body―giving preference to its key parts, from the neck to the wrists and the waist.

28/10/24

[diceriadelluntore]

Storia Di Musica #324 - Alter Bridge, Fortress, 2013

Le scelte musicali di Maggio avranno come filo rosso la presenza di un edificio in copertina. Mi rendo conto che la scelta dell'elemento in comune è di per sé poco discriminante, perché la lista sarebbe lunghissima. Tuttavia con un percorso che ho immaginato a scorrimento di grandezza dell’edificio ne uscirà, spero di non deludervi, una bella selezione. Poi è sempre una buona occasione per scoprire altri dischi rispetto a quelli che ho scelto io. La copertina che inizia questo piccolo viaggio è una casa abbandonata in un deserto, che in maniera piuttosto ironica è stata scelta per descrivere la Fortezza del titolo. Fortress è il quarto album in studio degli Alter Bridge, uscito nel 2013. Gli Alter Bridge nascono agli inzi degli anni 2000, quando si unirono ex componenti di due band, i Creed e i Mayfield Four: dal primo provenivano Il chitarrista Mark Tremonti, il bassista Brian Marshall ed il batterista Scott Phillips facevano già parte dei Creed, insieme al cantante Scott Stapp, fin dal 1997. Dopo la pubblicazione di due album di successo (My Own Prison del 1997 e Human Clay del 1999) Marshall lasciò la band nel 2000, a causa di dissidi con il frontman Stapp: rimasti un trio, i Creed pubblicarono nel 2001 il loro terzo album, Weathered, un altro grande successo rimasto al primo posto per otto settimane consecutive, primato che i Creed condividono con la compilation The Beatles 1. La band divenne inattiva dal 2003 a seguito della conclusione di un tour controverso: in quell'anno, infatti, Tremonti iniziò a scrivere nuovo materiale con l'intenzione di formare una nuova band. Dopo aver richiamato Marshall al basso, il chitarrista decise di contattare il cantante Myles Kennedy, ex membro degli ormai sciolti Mayfield Four, conosciuto qualche anno prima durante un tour in cui l'ex band di Kennedy faceva da gruppo spalla ai Creed. Fu così che nacquero gli Alter Bridge, il cui nome deriva da un ponte, il bridge del titolo, situato presso la casa di Tremonti sulla Alter Road, a Detroit.

L’inizio è del 2004, One Day Remains, che ripulisce moltissimo il suono post grunge dei Creed e nonostante sia un buon successo commerciale è ben lontano dalle vendite della band “primigenia”. Subito però hanno un colpo di fortuna: diventano infatti un gruppo fidato della WWE, la famosa federazione di Wrestling americano. Alcune loro canzoni infatti apriranno i seguitissimi show e una loro canzone, Metalingus, è stata adottata dal wrestler Edge come musica d'entrata. Nel 2005 Save Me farà parte della colonna sonora del film Elektra. Eppure non tutto va per il meglio: la casa discografica premeva affinché si ritornasse al nome Creed, garanzia di maggiore notorietà, e anche a quel suono più sporco. La band aveva tuttìaltra idea e finirono per cambiare etichetta: nel 2007 passano alla Universal con cui pubblicano Blackbird: i testi e le musiche sono spesso a 4 mani tra Kennedy e Tremonti, l’album è molto più coeso e una canzone diviene molto famosa, Blackbird, scritta da Kennedy per un suo amico recentemente scomparso che in una votazione di una rivista inglese, Guitarist, è stata votata nel 2011 quella con il miglior assolo di chitarra di tutti i tempi (che mi sembra una clamorosa esagerazione). Succede una cosa a questo punto: i tre ex Creed si riuniscono con Scott Stapp e pubblicano un nuovo disco come Creed e vanno in tour, Kennedy non sta fermo e collabora con Slash, che in quel momento era il chitarrista dei Velvet Revolver. Qualcuno pensa che il gruppo sia alla fine, ma come un tuono all’improvviso arriva AB III (del 2010): sorta di cupo concpet album sulla fede, è un disco che segna un deciso cambio di prospettiva. Molto più heavy metal, inizia a farsi strada l’estensione vocale portentosa di Kennedy, e da strutture musicali che assomigliano a quell’interessante movimento chiamato progressive metal. È un nuovo grande successo.

Passano anni prima che esca Fortress, tra tour che toccano tutti i continenti, progetti paralleli, solisti, di musicisti che ormai sono diventati molto famosi. Per questo il disco era atteso come una sorta di prova del nove. Dato il titolo, l'album sembra far emergere l'idea che la band sia una sorta di rifugio creativo per i suoi membri, un santuario hard rock dove possono semplicemente suonare e suonare, non importa se al posto di mura possenti c’è solo qualche asse di legno invecchiato dal sole e dal vento. Si parte con Cry of Achilles, che inizia con le note di una chitarra acustica dal sapore flamenco (filone che per qualche anno colpirà in maniera stranissima tutti i grandi gruppi dell’heavy metal, richiamo solo i leggendari Opeth in Persephone, il brano acustico che apre Sorceness del 2016). Micidiale il veloce incedere del singolo Addicted to Pain, mentre in Bleed It Dry salgono in cattedra sia Tremonti con un suadente assolo, che la mirabile ugola di Kennedy. La ballata “alla Alter Bridge” si esprime in Lover e All Ends Well, dal sapore vagamente country. Sono diventati maestri nel costruire canzoni tra riff portentosi degni della vecchia scuola a ritornelli che rimangono subito in mente, come per The Uninvited. Il lavoro di AB III rimane nelle ottime In Peace Is Broken e nella toccante Calm The Fire, pezzo che esprime tutta la bravura vocale di Kennedy. Tremonti presta la sua di voce in Waters Rising, e scatena la sua anima metal in padrone nell’accoppiata Farther Than the Sun / Cry a River e nella lunga e mutevole title track contraddistinta da un pregevole lavoro della chitarra, anche qui a lambire il progressive metal. Fortress è un album trascinante, probabilmente meno creativo del precedente, ma molto più solido. La critica lo capisce e lo designa non solo come il loro miglior lavoro, ma tra i dischi dell’anno.

Gli Alter Bridge, che hanno sempre cercato di non passare per I Creed con un altro cantante, sono diventati, anche grazie alle spettacolari esibizioni dal vivo (suggerisco per i curiosi i Live From Amsterdam e From Wembley Arena) uno dei gruppi di punta di un metal non estremo, ma solido e convincente.

[lottacomics]

I know everyone thinks that he was so selfish man (like nana anyway lol) but the evolution of Ren was real .. step by step.

He was a selfish but also a fragile person but little by little he wanted to be more mature and deep person like he never did before for his sake and for the love he felt for nana . It’s was a complicated process and full of ups and downs but he wanted to love nana despite his selfishness and despite knowing that he wasn’t nana’s priority anymore. So please stop to be so rude to ren for his mistakes. He was getting into drugs for it because he was so fragile and alone inside. He was Everything but no bad.

Anyway if you want , let me know what you are thinking about it

「おれはナナがおれの思い通りにならなくても、たとえ他の男と結ばれてもずっと変わらずに大事に思えるくらい優しい人間になりてぇよ。」

“Even through Nana doesn’t feel the same as I do, I would always think of her as the most precious person to me. I want to become a gentle human being.” (chapter 65-Ren Honjo)

"Anche se Nana non ricambiasse i miei sentimenti, Anche se ci fosse un altro uomo nel suo cuore, io continuerei a considerarla come la persona più importante per me. Voglio diventare una persona migliore, voglio essere un essere umano gentile.”

[longer-than-i-should-admit]

Okay but what if Solas gets freed earlier than the big bad final fight (like we speculate) and he uses his Dread Wolf form in occasional pinches of combat?

And what if he has a moment where he has to deliberately choose his commitment to Rook like he had to do with the Inquisitor? (I'll utilize mine for this case.)

Walk with me. (Spoilery drabble under the cut. Probably OOC tbh.)

They're in a darkspawn infested spot. The objective was to get something. They got it, but now they're retreating back to the eluvian because there are far too many blighted things for them to feasibly fight against—it has infested the place, and Davrin being the only one resistant to it does not accommodate the very real threat of the others possibly being tainted.

So Solas, as one with the most experience of command, calls for a retreat. The rest of the Veilguard have stumbled either through or to the eluvian, watching anxiously as the rest forfeit their hard-won ground to safely draw back to his position as he covers for them.

Rook does not agree.

"It is suicide to stay here!" Solas shouts at her from across the battlefield, his spells as percussive and punctuated as if the Fade was popping through the Veil at his summons. It makes her hair stand on end, raises frissons under her clothes, and the pressure in her ears reminds her of the air tensing before a lightning strike. "We must go!"

"We've almost got them pushed back!" she retorts, all the way on the other side. The steppe is the highest point in the mountainside, and she has been blasting off the darkspawn with shockwaves of arcane energy thus far. "We could recover other things from the ruins!"

"It is not worth it if lives are lost in the process!" Solas snarls, and Rook glances over her shoulder at him with arched brows.

In the middle of the fray, overwhelmed by the surge of darkspawn scuttling over the cliff face like swarming insects, Emmrich stumbles and falls with a yelp.

Rook struggles to concentrate between two points of focus. She is in the middle of her own combat, but her first instinct is to run to the necromancer's side. He's still casting, keeping the infected off of him, but they give no room for him to get back to his feet.

Solas moves, so quickly that Rook did not catch it. Magic surges, tingles on the back of her tongue, and in a flash the Dread Wolf falls into a sprint across the ground glistening with ichor and smattered with decaying flesh and rotting guts.

Rook blasts through the wave clambering to drag her down and watches, slack-jawed, as the great black wolf lunges over Emmrich with a snarl, standing squarely over him with enough room to spare the tall human to right himself and flee to the eluvian unharmed.

Fen'Harel's mighty jaws snap around darkspawn left and right, shaking them to shatter their bones and flinging the battered corpses like rag dolls. Soon enough his teeth are stained with inky, corrupted blood, bits of viscera wedged between his frothing gums, and his six lyrium-blue eyes meet Rook's, resolute and unflinching.

In that moment, Rook knows he will leave her there to save the rest.

A hurlock grabs her ankle. It is half disintegrated by her magic, yet it's still going, still gurgling, still strong enough to yank her foot out from under her. She lands roughly on her back and the air rushes out of her lungs in a pained whoosh, stunning her. Her vision blurs and swims. The steady drain of her mana had already weakened her, in addition to her wounds, but she had bashed her head on the ground, too.

The hurlock intends to bring her down the cliffside with it, she knows. She grits her teeth against the pain and vertigo and bashes the heel of her boot against its face, sending it careening off the edge. Her heart leaps when she rolls over to scramble back up onto her hands and knees and realizes—too late—how close it had dragged her.

Her legs drop out into open air. Her belly scrapes against the slickened stone. Her fingertips dig into the gravel, a biting anchor sure to leave her own blood behind. Her nails might not survive the weight of her entire body hanging on the precipice of a fathomless drop. When she peers down past her shoulder, eyes rounding, and there is nothing but mist and insurmountable depth.

She barely hears her cry of alarm over the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. She does not recognize her own voice. She certainly does not anticipate calling out to the bane of her existence as a means to preserve it. "Solas!"

The wind is deafening, rushing past her as though it, too, flees the darkspawn she could sense clawing their way up the mountainside by the dread building in the base of her throat. The wolf had turned to deal with another cluster of darkspawn, but his ears angled towards her before his great head whipped around to spot her where she fell.

Her grip slips. She skids further down in a heart-lurching, precious, hands-breadth of distance. Her shoulders ache with the strain. Her chin drags the edge of the jagged stone. She cannot get a foothold with how the rock curves away from the ledge. She thinks she hears someone hollering her name, somewhere behind the wolf. One of her companions, or multiple—she isn't sure. She can see nothing save the glow of his eyes and the whites rimming them as he stares at her.

"Harellan!" she screams. The insult turned barb turned nickname seems the least fitting thing to use to entreat the man whom she had treated with such utter disdain and irreverence for the first portion of their acquaintance. But it is who he proved himself to be: a rebel with a cause. A man who stops at nothing to do what he feels is right.

One who does not flinch at the idea of sacrifice in favor of victory.

Rook's grip fails her. She scrabbles for purchase to no avail. The stone arches away from her, it seems, and she falls.

She does not see how deep the gouges the Dread Wolf's claws score into the stone when he launches into a sprint aided by his magic, frost fringing the ends of his pelt. She does not see the full stride of his legs stretching and hauling the ground closer to project himself into a lightning-quick gallop across the steppe. She does not see him nearly careen clean off the side of the mountain, barely skidding to a halt in time—back feet digging into the skittering gravel—as his upper half lunges over the edge. She does not see the massive maw of teeth engulf her because she has already squeezed her eyes shut in hopes that she won't know when the ground reaches her.

But the ear-ringing snap of his jowls jolts her out of her shock. If she had died, she could expect it to be dark. Maybe even warm. But wet?

Rook gasps as she's clamped tight in the mouth of the great black wolf. Her orientation becomes muddled, then—she has no concept of what direction is up, where he's going, or even what's going on around them. Any sounds are muffled. She thinks she hears the roar of a beast too big for them to handle in their current state of exhaustion. Her heart hammers against the inside of her ribs, and the rumble that surrounds her sets her nerves alight with prey instinct.

Fen'Harel runs. He leaps. He lands, and it is a jarring, uncoordinated crash into the ground—hopefully across the relatively safe bounds of the eluvian.

"Solas! Where's Rook?"

"Did you catch her? Is she—"

"Did you eat her?"

To answer the clamor of questions ringing in her ears, the wolf's mouth opens. She slides out and collapses on the ground in a gruesome heap of bodily fluids and remains.

"Remind me never to ask you for help again," she croaks. She reaches up and swipes the saliva off her eyelids so she can glare up at the Dread Wolf staring down at her in turn, every last eye trained solely on her. She thinks he is assessing her for damage.

His fur shimmers and she watches, disoriented, as the man reemerges from the shape of the wolf. His armor is battered and his shoulders sag from what is likely too prolonged of a mana drain, but he seems no worse for wear. She is momentarily distracted from him as her companions cluster around her and pull her into a seated position, their hands as busy as their mouths as they fret and curse and express their relief all at once in a raucous cacophony.

Her eyes snap back over to Solas struts promptly over to a hedge, yanks off one of his gauntlets, and proceeds to press a couple fingertips into his mouth and—presumably—onto the back of his tongue. He then wretches into the unsuspecting foliage.

The others fall abruptly silent, stricken and perplexed.

"I feel like I should take this as an insult," Rook remarks, scowling. "Surely I don't taste that bad."

Solas' eyes are red-rimmed and watery when he straightens, and if it weren't for that he would look as composed and dignified as ever. He snatches a potion from his belt and gargles it thoroughly, swishes it around his mouth, then spits it out. He swipes the back of his hand against his lips and scowls at her. "Forgive me if I would rather not be tainted by those blasted creatures!" he snaps, thoroughly rankled.

She knows it's not simply from how terrible darkspawn must taste.

She is proven correct when he stalks back over and kneels before her, the tension in his frame wound so tight she wonders how close he is to snapping his own spine. "Disrobe."

The others part like water at his demanding tone with varying levels of skepticism and disquiet, brooking no argument. But Rook is nothing if not contrary—she opens her mouth to protest, but Solas only lets out a terse, angry sound and reaches for the buckles on her armor.

"Stop!" she growls, slapping his hand away. She swears she sees the vein in his temple throb as he rears back as though she offended him. "What are you talking about?"

"Your clothes have been contaminated," he explains harshly. "The taint binds to organic materials. Being as that you were thoroughly inundated in blighted essence since you were too stubborn to fall back when I said to and relied upon an unfavorable means of rescue, we cannot risk you becoming infected!" He gestures to her clothes. "We will have to burn them. That goes for the rest, as well. I am certain Davrin already knows this."

"It's not exactly something you can wash out," the warden agrees.

"Oh, you have got to be joking!" Rook scoffs. "This is not the first time we've faced off against those bastards! What makes it so different this go around?"

"Your wounds, Fenalan!" Solas snarls. The intensity of his conviction as well as the rattled, unsettled tinge straining his voice makes her clamp her jaw shut. "If any ichor enters your bloodstream, you are doomed! You already tread upon death's door in your obstinance, but now you risk falling victim to something far worse!"

She frowns at him. She has a few scratches here and there, nothing so severe as to warrant such a reaction. She had been battered far worse before, endured wounds much more likely to do her in than hese. Something else had caused Solas to go overboard.

Her mind recalls the memory she had walked here in the Crossroads. The agent in Ghilan'nain's laboratory. The set of Solas' jaw when he had accepted the inevitability of his duty. He could not save her. There was no cure. He had no other option save to put her out of her misery before she truly suffered with the invented abomination.

The same fraught, wild glint in the eyes of his younger image peer directly into her own now. He is angry, yes, undeniably. But he is afraid, too. He does not want to make a sacrifice this day, she thinks.

Her hands shake as she begins to work the buckles loose. The others seem to take that as a sign to follow suit, removing the pieces of their armor that could be salvaged while piling the rest away from the vegetation encroaching upon the old paths winding around the network of mirrors. The metals could be decontaminated. The fabrics crackle and stink when Solas lights them with a curt snap of his hands. They are reduced to ash in seconds from the intensity of his ire, and he contorts the fabric of the Veil to crush that into powder that drifts, inert and harmless, off the ledge of the island in the wind.

The others group loosely together and head toward the Caretaker's dock when Rook tips her head towards it, helping each other along if they were weak or disoriented. No one had suffered grave injuries, thankfully, upon careful inspection. Most of the ichor had stained the outermost layers, so not all of it had to be destroyed, fortunately.

It was tough business, dealing with a mutated double blight.

Rook hung back a moment, waiting for Solas to turn away from the singed, blackened space below his feet. He is still drawn as tense as a bowstring, and does not move until she steps close enough to touch his arm. He pivots away from her hand and his gaze is cold on her.

"Ir abelas," she says. "I did not mean to worry you."

If Solas is taken aback by her admission, he does not convey it. But his shoulders loosen, just slightly. "That mistake almost cost your life, Rook," he says grimly.

"I know. I will endeavor to keep my head next time." She gestures towards the others, their low conversations carried by the breeze despite their distance. "Let's go wash all this shit off, yes?"

Solas looses a heavy exhale. They began to walk together.

"'Ma serannas," she tells him. "I did not think you would save me."

His stride falters briefly, then slows to accommodate her attention. The furrow between his brows eases into incredulity. "Why?"

Perhaps she expected him to confirm that it had not been his intention, that he had only done so because she was somewhat necessary to their mission's success, in the end. That he seems shocked she would even ask unroots her perception of him slightly.

"I rejected your orders," she says simply. "I got carried away. You had every right to leave me behind, but you didn't."

"I did not." Solas studied her for a moment, pensive. "I would not allow you to perish if I have a say in it, Fenalan," he offers after a moment. It is careful. It is measured. Yet she still notices the lack of bite to the words he normally wields when speaking to her. She had cultivated that response, she supposes, with how often she had exchanged verbal jabs with him in the beginning.

"Even if I don't understand your motivations," Rook sighs, "I thank you nevertheless." She swallows. "Ir abelas."

"Tel'abelas, ean'din. I am pleased to see you still live."

"Despite the perpetual headache I pose?"

"Despite that." Solas shakes his head. "I...do not think poorly of you. I would not see you fall into danger unnecessarily. That you can be so reckless and negligent of your own well-being at times is...disconcerting."

Rook cast him a side-eye. "Pot meet kettle. You stop throwing yourself on the line for the rest of us and I'll do the same."

The god of lies, treachery, and rebellion huffed what could have been a laugh. And Rook wonders if Varric would have any light to shed upon why the Dread Wolf was so protective of his unwitting pack, if he would ever admit to such a concept.

[maimoncat]

Ma da dove viene la rima dell'orco?

"Ucci, ucci,

Sento odor di cristianucci!"

Potrebbe sembrare scontato chiederselo, abbiamo sentito tutti questi versetti mostruosi dalla bocca dell'orco di Pollicino o del gigante di Jack e il fagiolo magico. Ma a pensarci bene non possono venire da queste fiabe: l'orco non ha alcuna rima nel testo originale dei Racconti di Mamma Oca, di Charles Perrault, e nelle versioni inglesi, il gigante di Jack dice una filastrocca del tutto diversa da quella italiana: "Fee-fi-fo-fum/ I smell the bones of an englishman!". Già le parole iniziali non corrispondono per nulla nei suoni, ma piuttosto che alla fede ci si riferisce alla nazionalità (se volete saperne di più riguardo alla storia di quella filastrocca, potete leggervi questo post di @adarkrainbow). Tralaltro, l'uso di "cristiano" come sinonimo di "umano" è tipico di modi di dire ed espressioni italiane, quindi se anche fosse stato un adattamento dall'inglese, il traduttore dovrà aver saputo il fatto suo sul linguaggio fiabesco italiano.

E quindi? Da dov'è che sono spuntati fuori questi versetti? Io un'idea ce l'avrei, ma non so bene come siano arrivati alle altre fiabe, come abbiano raggiunto questa fama.

Fatto sta, che nel 1885 il famoso studioso di fiabe siciliano Giuseppe Pitrè pubblica la raccolta novelle popolari toscane, tra le quali spicca per noi la n. XXIV, Il diavolo fra i frati, raccontata da Rosina Casini a Fabbriche. Per chi conoscesse le fiabe dei Grimm, questa è una versione del Diavolo dai tre capelli d'oro: un re si ammala, il suo servo fedele va alla ricerca della cura, una penna di una bestia favolosa, e sul suo cammino incontra tanti disgraziati che gli chiedono penne e consigli; questi li riesce a prendere la moglie della bestia, che, nascosto il servo dalla fame del marito, gli strappa le penne per "svegliarlo e chiederli cosa significhino i suoi sogni". Ora, la bestia, entrata a casa grida:

"Mucci mucci, /Oh che puzzo di cristianucci!/ O ce n’è, o ce n’è stati,/ O ce n’è de’ rimpiattati."

ed eccola qua, la rima orchesca! Perché anche se in altre fiabe la "bestia piumata" è qualcosa come un grifone, in questa storia ha proprio il comportamento da orco. Lo pensava anche Calvino quando inserì la novella tra le sue Fiabe Italiane cambiò il titolo in L'orco con le penne, mantenendo sempre la filastrocca:

"Mucci mucci, / Qui c'è puzza di cristianucci / O ce n'è, o ce n'è stati / O ce n'è di rimpiattati."

Anche se non tutti la conoscono, la sua raccolta ebbe una grande influenza nella conoscenza degli italiani del loro patrimonio fiabesco. La Prezzemolina di Imbriani è abbastanza conosciuta, e dalla stessa raccolta è anche tratta la fiaba che ispirò la miniserie televisiva Fantaghirò. Probabilmente è da questa raccolta di Calvino che la filastrocca è entrata nell'immaginario fiabesco generale degli orchi.

In realtà ci sono anche altri aspetti che il Pollicino che conosciamo noi possa esser stato influenzato da Calvino. Una delle prime traduzioni di Perrault, da parte di Collodi, rende il nome Petit-Poucet come Puccettino. Mentre le fiabe italiane hanno sia un Pulcino (nell'omonima fiaba pugliese, uguale per trama a quella francese) e un Pollicino (citato solo come sposo nelle rime di Gallo Cristallo).

Però per accertarsi di queste cose bisognerebbe controllarne altre edizioni di queste fiabe. Se qualcuno riesce a scovarne, ce lo faccia pure sapere!

Provo a metter 'sta roba anche in inglese, magari interessa a qualcuno:

You know that rhyme the giants in english fairy tales say? "Fee-fi-fo-fum/I smell the bones of an englishman!" Well, we have a similar one in italy: "Ucci, ucci/ sento odor di cristianucci!" "Ucci, ucci/ I smell little christians" (for the longest time "cristiano" was used as a synonym to human. It still is by some people). It gets mostly used in Perrault's Little Thumbling by the ogre or in Jack and the beanstalk by the giant. But it doesn't come from these stories. Perrault didn't use any rhymes and the verses from Jack are way too different.

So where did this come from? I might have an idea, but I'm not entirely certain how it reached national knowledge.

Point is, in 1885 the great sicilian folk tale scholar Giuseppe Pitrè published a collection of tuscan folk tales, novelle popolari toscane. Of these, n. XXIV, Il diavolo fra i frati (the devil among friars), told by Rosina Casini from Fabbriche, sticks out to us. For those of you familiar with the Grimms' tales, this is a version of the Devil with the three golden hairs: a king gets sick, his faithful servant sets out to find the cure, a feather from a magic beast, and on his way he finds many unfortunate people, asking for magic feathers and solutions as well. These are all coaxed out from the feathered beast by his helpful wife, who wakes him at night by pulling his feathers and telling him of "the weird dreams she just had!". Now, when this beast frist comes home, it says this:

"Mucci mucci, /Oh che puzzo di cristianucci!/ O ce n’è, o ce n’è stati,/ O ce n’è de’ rimpiattati." ("Mucci, mucci/ oh what stink of little christians!/ There either are, or there have been,/ or there are hidden away.")

There it is, our ogrish rhyme! Because even if this "feathered beast" is in some versions of the story a griffin, it has the same behavior of an ogre. Which is why, when Italo Calvino put this tale among his Italian folk tales, he changed the title to the feathered ogre, while keeping tge verses:

"Mucci mucci, / Qui c'è puzza di cristianucci / O ce n'è, o ce n'è stati / O ce n'è di rimpiattati."

While not everyone knows this collection, it had a big influence in italians being more in-touch with their body of fairy tales. Imbriani's Prezzemolina is fairly well known now, and the same collection also contains the fairy tale that inspired the "Cave of the golden rose" miniseries, Fantaghirò. It's probably Calvino's collection that brought a regional expression to a broader audience.

Calvino might have influenced in other ways the italian reception of little Thumbling as well: one of the first translations of this tale, by Carlo Collodi, keeps the sound of the original name (Petit Poucet) as Puccettino. The now well-known form Pollicino can be found in Calvino as a rhyming name in Crystal Rooster and in a similar form in an apulian version of Perrault's story (Pulcino, Chick).

Though, to be sure we'd need to check more editions

[theraggedygirl11]

Kad nemam tebe sa mnom su moji demoni

Part 1

SUMMARY: Kris is a succubus, but he hates what he is and what he's forced to do for his demon sire. Then he meets a photographer, Damon, and something special blooms between them.

PAIRING: Kris Guštin/Damon Baker

WARNINGS: (kinda implied) drug and alcohol abuse, implied non-con (not between Kris/Damon), sex (not too explicit), hurt/comfort, angst/fluff, swearing

WORDS COUNT: 2.434

LINK: AO3

NOTES: Before diving into the first chapter of this short fic, I'd like to thank @anxious-witch for beta-reading it and giving me really good advice while I was writing it and @lahobbitdiazeroth for fangirling with me, even if she's not in the fandom (kinda).

This is my first ever work I publish in English. I got inspired by Hazbin Hotel and Damon's photoshoot with our guys, and I had to write something.

I'm sorry for the angst you'll find in it, but you know who to blame.

If you want to listen to the song that inspired me, here's a link. There's also an English version (and maybe one in your own language, this series got translated into many languages). Keep in mind that it mentions toxic relationships, abuse and trauma.

È un inferno tutto mio (This hell is all mine)  

Me lo sono scelto io (And I chose all of this)  

Tu sei il mio veleno (You are my poison)  

Dammi il tuo veleno (Give me your poison) 

Non possono farne a meno (I can’t help it)  

Mi scivola in gola e va giù (It slithers into my throat and goes down)  

Veleno, ne sono pieno (Poison, I’m full of it)  

Anche questa notte per me forse è l’ultima (This night could be my last one too)  

Dimmi che ti piace, baby (Tell me you like it, baby)  

Sono tuo, fa ciò che più ti va (I’m yours, do whatever you want)  

Un giorno tu mi ucciderai (One day you’ll kill me)  

Col tuo veleno (With your poison)  

“I took enough pictures.” Said the photographer after a couple of hours, smiling at his model.  

Kris looked at the guy in front of him, hair almost as black as coal and deep dark brown eyes, then stood up from the ground. He was used to being alone with other men, but the more he was with this human, the more he felt a weird feeling growing inside of him. He didn’t know how to name this sensation.  

“May I go, then?” Kris asked.  

“Yeah, sure. I’ll call you when the pictures are ready.” The photographer nodded. “If you need to recompose yourself, you can stay here, I’ll give you some privacy.”  

“No, don’t worry. It’s ok.”  

Kris glanced at the human, then went to the wardrobe area to change his clothes. He felt his eyes on his body. Why was he feeling so uncomfortable? God damn, he was a fucking succubus, he shouldn’t feel like this when a human was staring at him! Because that photographer was enchanted by his beauty, right? He should be.  

But Kris  perceived this specific human in a completely different way because he was looking at him differently, like he wanted to analyse him. Look right into his soul. If only he still had one.  

* * *

Another night, another lover, another soul to bring closer to damnation. It didn’t matter if it was a male or a female human being. He still enjoyed the physical proximity, the skin-on-skin contact, the moans. He was still a demon that fed on pleasure and sexual intercourses.   

But that night his mind flew to another place, even if the man above and inside him was extremely gorgeous and he liked how he moved and his attention on him. For a moment he saw that photographer instead of this random human. He didn’t even remember his name. But, just for a second, he imagined he was there, with him, loving him.  

He closed his eyes and let an intense moan out. No, he needed to focus on this other man, on his soul, his job was to corrupt it. Thus, he closed the image of the photographer in a small and secluded corner of his mind and gave all his attention to this stranger.  

At the same moment, not so far from where Kris was, that same photographer, whose name was Damon, was checking the photos he took of that beautiful and young man. His mind went back to a couple of days before when he had met him in a cafe in the centre of Ljubljana. He was alone at a table, his glance was wandering around observing the people in that place. Damon had noticed a trace of sombreness in his bright blue-greenish eyes.  

He decided to approach him, talk to him, be friendly to him before asking him to take some pictures. The guy seemed kind, but there was a trace of sadness even in his voice. And he could see it even more in his photos. Kris, that was his name, was trying to be seductive, but that gloom was still perceivable behind his piercing look.  

Damon stopped his scrolling on a photo where Kris was standing against a wall, head slightly tilted on a side, hair covering one of his eyes, an arm raised and bent behind his head. He was wearing a simple white shirt with long sleeves. His golden necklace with a purple heart was visible around his neck. The heart was hidden by the shirt, but he knew it was there because he had seen it.  

Maybe he could contact him and try to talk to him to see if he could help him in some way. He seemed like he needed to talk to someone.  

The next morning he tried to call him. Someone else answered the phone, he didn’t recognize the voice.  

“Hello?”  

“Hello. Is... is this Kris Guštin?” Damon asked.  

“This is his phone, yes, but I’m a police officer.”  

“A police officer? What happened?” He pressed, apprehension in his voice.  

“The guy was arrested yesterday evening. He started a fight in a pub. He was completely wasted, high and drunk.”  

Damon’s eyes opened widely. His face paled. “Is he still at the police station?”  

“Yes. Are you a friend of his?”  

“Kind of, yes.”  

“You can come and take him away, if you want. He won’t be charged, he’s an habitue here.”  

“I-I’m coming.” He quickly replied, then ended the call. An habitue? Drugs and alcohol? Was he so that deeply stuck in his bad situation?  

He immediately went to the police station, without thinking twice about it. Kris was locked in a cell, alone and with handcuffs on his wrists. He looked like a model even in that moment, back laid against the wall, vacant eyes staring in front of him like he was lost in his own world. And that usual gloom in them.  

“Your friend here came for you, Guštin.” Said the police officer.  

The demon turned to look at him and was surprised to see the photographer. He stood up and got closer to the entrance of the cell. The police officer freed him from the handcuffs, then gave him his phone back and let him go with Damon.  

“Thank you.” Whispered Kris once they got out of the police station. He let his phone slip inside one pocket in his trousers, then put his hands in his jacket pockets.  

“I know you don’t know me, but what happened? Is... is everything ok?” Damon was more than worried, Kris could hear the concern in his words.  

“Yes.” he replied. “Everything’s ok.”  

“You used drugs. You drank, a lot. That’s not ok.”  

“I’m fine.” He almost snarled at him, turning his head towards the photographer. “Why did you come, anyway?”  

“I wanted to talk to you.” Damon explained. “You seemed lonely and sad. I was worried.”  

Kris blinked and winced a bit. He was truly worried? His senses weren’t wrong, then.  

“I’m... fine, I told you.”  

“I know you don’t know me.” He repeated then continued. “But I’m here, if you want to talk to me.” The human smiled shyly, yet he could see friendliness in his eyes. He didn’t perceive any lust coming from him.  

“Thanks.” He murmured.  

* * *

In the next weeks Kris kept doing his job as succubus. Almost every day he had at least one new lover, male or female it didn’t matter. His sire chose each new prey for him and he couldn’t refuse.  

But he also started going out with the photographer. He learned his name, Damon. He was a lovely person. He didn’t talk much, however he compensated for it with his presence. His closeness was uncomfortable at the beginning, but after a few times the demon started appreciating it.  

The moments spent with Damon quickly became the most awaited ones for the succubus. He started laughing at his jokes, he talked more, he even shared some bits of his life, obviously he kept them pretty vague. He couldn’t tell him he was a demon. He needed this friendship. He missed being human, having friends to hang out with.  

Kris loved when Damon talked about his job. He could almost physically touch the passion he radiated when explaining his art and his vision.  

“And you saw all of this in me?”  

“Yes. And even more.” Damon nodded, then looked at him. “There’s a whole world behind those sad eyes and I wanted to eternalize them.”  

“A world behind them?”  

“Yes. I see that you are happier since we started hanging out, but there’s always a shadow in them, sometimes it’s nearer, sometimes it’s in the back, but it’s always present, lurking around. There’s something in your life that makes you feel sad, that maybe you’d like to change but for some reason you can’t.” He gently touched one of Kris’s hands.   

The demon was petrified. How...? He read right through him like an open book. Was it because he was an artist? Did artists like him have a different way of seeing life and people?  

“I want you to know that I’m still here for you, if you want to talk about whatever is making you feel this lost.” Damon looked right into his eyes. Kris felt his heart falter.  

He wanted to scream, to say out loud that he didn’t want to be a succubus anymore, that he was tired of being a slave and following every order his sire gave him, that he just wanted to become a human again, go back and not say “yes” to that contract. His mouth opened to speak, but no sounds left it.  

Damon was human. He wouldn’t understand. He would probably think that he was crazy, that drugs and alcohol destroyed his mind and his ability to think with clarity. He was his little happy bubble in between a huge red and black world overruled by pain, suffering and damnation.  

“It’s... complicated, Damon. Too complicated.” He whispered in the end, closing his eyes. A tear ran down his face, but never reached his chin because a gentle touch caught it.  

“When you are ready, Kris.” Damon murmured with a tender voice. “Only when you are ready. I’ll wait, even years, if it’s necessary for you to be comfortable enough to speak about it.”  

Kris startled and sobbed. His heart was hit by an invisible dagger. How could a human soul be so kind? How could two creatures so different like them meet? Damon behaved like a blessed soul from heaven with him, a damned soul transformed into a being of corruption.  

Damon took Kris into his arms and gently stroked his hair. The succubus grabbed his shirt, he was his safety net and he didn’t want to let him go.  

But he had to. His sire called him that evening and he punished him for behaving like a pathetic child with that human. This time he had three lovers, three muscular men. He felt stronger, the energy radiating from them was so delicious and so invigorating that he had to close his eyes because his head was spinning, but they were rough and violent with him. And so went on for seven days.  

Damon saw Kris again a week after their last afternoon together. He appeared in front of his door during a night storm, completely wet and with a tired, distant look in his eyes.  

“Kris, what happened?” He immediately asked.  

“Can-can I come in?” Kris replied, his voice was trembling and his entire figure was shaking. He wrapped his own arms around his body.  

Damon let him in, closing the door behind him, then rushed to get a big towel from the bathroom. He put it around Kris while guiding him to the couch. He sat down next to him.  

“Dear, what happened?” He asked again.  

Kris slowly showed his trembling arm, the interior part of his forearm was filled with small red holes, clearly signs of syringe pricks. His hand was twitching. Damon turned white.   

“Who did this to you?” He pressed, extremely concerned. “You need to go to a hospital, right now, you could have an overd-”  

“I’m fine.” Kris managed to say. “I-I will be. Few hours.”  

Kris moved his arm nearer to his body, but Damon grabbed his wrist with care. “You could die.”  

He shook his head vehemently. “I won’t die. I can’t die. Not like this.”  

“Kris, you are a human being, drugs can kill y-”  

“Stop worrying about me!” he shouted. “I will be fine.” He repeated it like a mantra. If he kept saying these words, they would become true eventually, wouldn’t they?  

He closed his eyes. “P-please, I just need a safe place to stay. You... you are the only person I know here.”   

Damon let him take a shower, a long and hot one. He also lent him some dry clothes and prepared some food for him. Kris ate without saying a word while keeping his eyes low. His hands suffered less spams, the drugs’ effects were dissolving pretty quickly.   

Damon continued observing Kris. The summer storm outside didn’t give any sign of wanting to calm down, in that moment there was a bright lightning and a loud thunder. The thunderbolt lighted up the whole room and Damon noticed a weird shadow around Kris, like he had some sort of wings closed behind his back. He shook his head, he must have been tired to see things that didn’t exist.  

An hour later Kris was sleeping in Damon’s bed, his face was more relaxed. Damon was totally awake on the other side of the bed. He was observing the younger man. He didn’t see anything else weird on him, but he remembered he noticed some weird shadows in some of the pictures he took months ago.   

Damon grabbed his laptop, opened it and searched for those photos. He observed them attentively and he saw something indeed. In some of them the “wings” were barely visible, but they were there. In other pictures he saw weird horns rise from his forehead. In some others there was some sort of tail around Kris.  

They were just shadows or reflections, but those elements were there. Was this possible? Or was it a weird coincidence? Kris didn’t have wings or a tail, or even horns! He turned to look at him while he was sleeping. Should he ask Kris what was that?  

Damon put away his laptop and laid down, turned towards Kris. In the dim light of the room he examined him: he seemed relaxed and peaceful while he was resting, he couldn’t see anything weird on him. Could he really be some supernatural creature? While he kept thinking about this possibility, he slowly drifted off, the tiredness winning on his restless whirl of thoughts. 

[sciatu]

IL DUOMO DI MONREALE IN UNA PUBLICAZIONE DI INIZIO SECOLO

In questo giornale di inizio 1900, la cattedrale di Monreale è rappresentata con i mezzi di allora e quindi le sue tessere d’oro e la sua luminosità solare si è persa  nel grigiore oscuro dell’inchiostro. Questa differenza tra la bellezza reale, dorata e luminosa, e quella rappresentata, buia e triste, mi ricorda la differenza tra la vita come dovrebbe essere e quella attuale. Tra la vita nella pace e quella delle guerre quando non è più il motivo per scrivere credendo nell’uomo. Troppe guerre, troppi morti, troppi orfani mutilati e madri senza più figli. Siamo tutte pedine mosse dal potere del male, illusi con motivazioni ridicole ad accettare, a donare sangue e speranze insieme ai nostri domani. È come se ogni cosa perdesse colore, come se i cieli si oscurassero e le primavere si vestissero a lutto e tutto, tutto quanto diventasse il grigiore che precede il buio. In questa nevicata oscura, scrivere d’amore e dei fiori della gioia, pare un insulto, come schiuma del mare  colorata di sangue. Il dolore non ha un passaporto, l’ingiustizia non ama nessuno e a tutti ruba tutto: alle vittime la vita, ai carnefici la loro umanità. I versi perciò sanno di fango, le parole non sono più tessere d’oro nella magnificenza di un mosaico, ma solo la fuliggine di un fuoco infernale, l’arsura degli assetati, l’impotenza amara dei padri, le lacrime acide delle madri. Le parole diventano bossoli vuoti, avanzi di vita, orme nella sabbia o nella neve di chi non c’è più. La luce abbandona ogni cuore e spegne le chiese, le anime, prosciuga la gola e spinge i poeti e i sognatori a nascondersi nel profondo della terra  per pagare anche loro il loro prezzo alla follia della storia.

In this OLD newspaper from the early 1900s, the Monreale cathedral is represented with the means of the time and therefore its gold tiles and its solar brightness have been lost in the dark grayness of the ink. This difference between the real beauty, golden and bright, and the represented one, dark and sad, reminds me of the difference between life as it should be and what it is now. Between life in peace and that of wars when it is no longer the reason to write believing in man. Too many wars, too many deaths, too many mutilated orphans and mothers with no more children. We are all pawns moved by the power of evil, deluded with ridiculous motivations to accept, to give blood and hopes together at our tomorrows. It's as if everything lost color, as if the skies darkened and the springs dressed in mourning and everything, everything became the grayness that precedes the darkness. In this dark snowfall, writing about love and the flowers of joy seems like an insult, like sea foam colored with blood. Pain does not have a passport, injustice loves no one and steals everything from everyone: the victims' life, the executioners' humanity. The verses therefore taste like mud, the words are no longer golden tiles in the magnificence of a mosaic, but only the soot of an infernal fire, the thirst of the thirsty, the bitter impotence of fathers, the acid tears of mothers. Words become empty shells, leftovers of life, footprints in the sand or snow of those who are no longer there. The light abandons every heart and extinguishes churches, souls, dries up the throat and pushes poets and dreamers to hide in the depths of the earth to also pay their price to the madness of history.

[lunamagicablu]

Il cuore dell'uomo lontano dalla natura diventa duro; la mancanza di rispetto per gli esseri viventi in crescita porta presto a una mancanza di rispetto anche per gli esseri umani. Luther Standing Bear art By @mariae_7 ********************** The heart of man away from nature becomes hard; disrespect for growing living beings soon leads to disrespect for human beings as well. Luther Standing Bear art By @mariae_7

[wild-flowerhoney]

little preview of my first (english) pjo wip-

Ed è l'odore dei limoni

Here, by some miracle, the war

Of conflicted passions is stilled,

Here even we the poor are owed our share of wealth

And it’s the smell of the lemon trees.

(Qui delle divertite passioni

per miracolo tace la guerra,

qui tocca anche a noi poveri la nostra parte di ricchezza

ed è l'odore dei limoni.)

-Eugenio Montale, I limoni

The memories come back to him slowly – colours and sounds and feelings, piece by piece, until Nico can push them together and just barely glimpse the bigger picture.

The language comes first, like an old friend, rolls off of his tongue as if it’d never left. It makes it weird to speak English, makes the words and sounds clumsier – once, he stumbles over half the words in a single sentence and thinks this entire thing might reveal itself to be more inconvenience than gift, after all. He wonders, briefly, if this is how he used to speak English as a child. If it used to be even worse.

He doesn’t seriously struggle to speak but sometimes he’ll find himself thinking, it doesn’t feel natural anymore.

And, immediately after, because knowing it doesn’t make it mine.

Some part of who he was has been unlocked and it clashes with who he is, the constant war between what was his from birth and what has been forced on him throughout the years – what he grasped onto when everything that used to be his was taken away, erased by a God who could not fully understand the concept of belonging in a single place. Could not understand the importance of roots and family and history, not in the way mortals do.

And whose fault is it, anyway? A million mortal lovers could not teach Divinity how to be human. It's to be expected, isn't it? It would be against his very nature.

Nico is angry, all the same.

It's not new, this anger.

(actually italian nico making peace with his past and where he comes from my beloved)

[rideretremando]

Che si parli di politica internazionale o di genere, di scuola o di gpa, impressiona un fatto, reso evidente dal panottico social. Buona parte dei lavoratori culturali variamente progressisti formatisi a cavallo tra XX e XXI secolo ha ereditato una quantità immane di menzogne novecentesche; ma soprattutto, questi lavoratori culturali non vogliono o non sanno discutere (e spesso è difficile capire se si tratti della solita rigidità gruppettara da posizionamento o di una vera e propria incapacità di pensare, risultante da un curriculum di studi ormai standardizzato). La refrattarietà al dibattito critico si esprime nella tendenziale riduzione di tutto ciò che nella storia è stato pensato, scritto e discusso, alle misere proporzioni da festival pignetesco, retorica LGBTecc., cinica editoria da testimonial, o tlonismo del 2020. Leggere le nuove introduzioni ai classici, in questo senso, è un’esperienza agghiacciante (vedere i temi delle medie di Tobagi, o quel Maicol Pirozzi delle humanities che è Giammei). Non si sa se prevalga la mediocrità o l’omertà. Lo “spazio delle donne” - cioè la rappresentazione mediatica di argomenti importantissimi - è in genere monopolizzato da persone il cui ideale, malgrado il recitato “femminismo”, sembra la boria di un barone universitario maschio nato nel 1902, e abituato, alla prima difficoltà dialettica, a cavarsela con un “io so’ io” belliano. Purtroppo ad ambienti del genere – a roba di agghiacciante conformismo tipo “Bambine ribelli” – si aggrappano anche gli ex radicali, un tempo diffidenti verso l’establishment ‘dde sinistra’. Negli ultimi giorni, il fatto di cui parlo è stato reso visibile dalle polemiche sulla gestazione per altri. Per quel che mi riguarda, e a parte l’avversione per la brutalità meloniana, non ho una posizione sicura (in passato ho condiviso alcune riflessioni molto articolate e chiaroscurate di Claudia Daniela Basta, e continuano a sembrarmi sensate molte perplessità delle femministe storiche). Sono sicuro, invece, di una cosa: non occorre necessariamente accettare tutti gli argomenti di Cavarero (sineddoche) per constatare che il loro livello è infinitamente superiore, e la loro natura infinitamente più laica, di quelli di coloro che liquidano l’opposizione femminista come “oscurantismo”. Il che rende appunto quasi impossibile un dibattito fecondo: da una parte infatti c’è un pensiero meditato, dall’altra prevale una sloganistica d’accatto. In più, gli sloganisti pro-gpa vengono non di rado da esibite letture del femminismo storico, che hanno mitizzato senza però farsi realmente carico delle conseguenze: così oggi, secondo la tipica prassi dei chierici italiani, essendo in disaccordo coi vecchi miti ma mancando di buoni argomenti, devono o ignorarli o rinnegarli in modi da ‘commissariato del popolo’. Purtroppo trovano a volte un appoggio nelle dichiarazioni o avventate o cerchiobottiste di Lea Melandri: che sia sulla politica internazionale sia sulle donne dà la misura dell’enorme disastro, dell’inconsistenza ideologica e della rincorsa allo Spirito Mediatico del Giorno su cui si fonda la ‘cultura’ della nostra sinistra maggioritaria.

Matteo Marchesini