#author: geese in flight

[lupines-slash-recs]

Rec: Counterpoint by Geese_In_Flight

Title: Counterpoint Author: Geese_In_Flight Canon: Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves Pairing: Xenk Yendar/Edgin Darvis Rating: Teen [PG] Word Count: 26,481 Summary: “You know he’s not being a paladin at you,” Holga says. Five times

Continue reading...

[quietlyrebellious01]

Speedpaint and refs under the cut!

References:

The tree: Outside my window. I was racing the winter darkness on this one. It was mildly stressful. The juncos: I stood outside in 6 degrees to get these guys. Still proud of the flight shot. Clark: For his body I used the cover for the DVD case and the skeleton method. For his colors I used some screenshots. Chickadee: No machine-readable author provided. Mdf assumed (based on copyright claims)., CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons Nuthatch: Rhododendrites, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons Geese: Geese Flying over Stainburn Moor by Mark Anderson, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons Owl:brendan.lally, CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

[wyrmfedgrave]

Pics: The Greatest Law comes from an undated letter. It's 2nd part is about 'Damon' (=s Alfred Galpin).

1. The Bible's version of the Greatest Law.

2. Omnibus collection of HPL'S whole body of work.

3 & 4. Collections of Lovecraft's more forgotten works.

Needed due to some few folk who've mistaken his major novellas with all that's available from this author...

5 & 6. More Necronomicon¹ pages...

A new year always means new pages!

It still reigns supreme among the various Grimoires² on the market...

Intro: I'm starting out with an example of Howard's lesser known poetry.

A 2 part ode.

It's so rare that we don't exactly know when Lovecraft actually wrote it!

Title: "The Greatest Law."

Authors: C. Raymond³ & Ludwig von Theobald⁴.

Text:

Arise, ye swains⁵! For fair Aurora's⁶ light

Shows the wild geese in scurrying morning flight;

In shifting ranks their silent course they take,

And for the valley marshlands quit the lake:

Though loose they fly, in various modes arranged,

Their eyes are steady & their goal unchanged.

This in brute instinct Nature shows her law;

Excites our wonder & compels our awe.

But hark⁷! From yonder grove the pleasing peal

Of redbreasts, winging to their morning meal;

In softer tones the lusty bluejay chants,

While maple shades the bobbing grackle⁸ haunts:

From neighboring wall the bluebird's carol rings,

And in the mead⁹ the lark sings rejoicing.

Forests & fields attend the welcome strain¹⁰,

And hail the advent of the feathered train;

Swift pour the airy legions from the shores

Where Mexique's Bay¹¹ it's genial currents pours:

In waves unnoticed throng the tuneful band,

To glad the soul & cheer the Northern strand,

Obedient to the sway of Jove's¹² all- powerful hand.

Alive with song the gentle bluebird floats;

The hermit thrush¹³ disdains melodious notes;

None marks their solid course, but as they come,

Each gains a greeting to his Northern home.

Now drip the maples with their vernal¹⁴ juice,

While growing thorns their swelling buds unloose;

On grassy slopes the furry coils untwine¹⁵,

Where soon hepatica's¹⁶ white blooms will shine.

Almighty Pan¹⁷! Whose vast unchanging will

Clothes the green wildwood & enrobes the hill,

How calm the workings of thy great decrees!

How still thy magic over the flowery leas!

No march of feet or sound of timbrel¹⁸ shakes

The sylvan scene or stirs the drowsy brakes¹⁹:

In songful peace the law resist less moves,

And pleases while it rules the meadows & the groves.

Notes:

1. The Necronomicon (aka Book of the Dead) is a fictional magic spellbook that is probably HPL'S greatest literary creation.

Though 1st appearing in Howard's short story "The Hound" in 1924, many readers believe it to be a real book of spells, hidden history, etc.

Other authors quoted from the Necronomicon so much, that it now has "a background of evil truth."

Publishers capitalized on its notoriety & have printed many Necronomicons!

And, pranksters have listed in many rare books catalogs.

One went so far as to include it in the card catalog of the Yale University Library!!

2. A grimoire is a book of symbols, charms, spells & invocations.

It's French meaning describes "a magician's manual for calling up demons & the dead."

3. Sadly, the only C. Raymond that I've found around Lovecraft's time is a Charles Raymond - a British actor & director of the silent era.

But, with no known connection to HPL...

4. Ludwig von Theobald is one of Lovecraft's many literary pen names.

Others include: Humphrey Littlewit, Edward Softly, Percy Simple, etc...

5. Today, swain means "a young lover" or "suitor."

But, being that this is Howard that we're talking about, he most probably meant the much older meaning of "a country youth."

6. Aurora now describes the "electrical collisions between air particles & charged solar molecules in Earth's magnetic field."

But, in literature, Aurora is the name of the Roman goddess of the Dawn.

7. Hark is an Old English/Anglo-Saxon word for "Listen!"

This ancient word has survived due mostly to Shakespeare's use of it.

8. A grackle is a "songbird of the blackbird family."

But, it also describes an "Asian mynah bird or starling."

9. Yes, mead is a "honey based alcoholic drink" - perhaps, even the oldest known wine!

However, I think HPL was probably using a literary shortcut & just shortened the word "meadow."

10. We have many modern meanings for "strain."

But, again, Lovecraft uses the older meaning of the "passage of a tune" or other "musical expression."

11. "Mexique's Bay" is most probably French for the "Gulf of Mexico."

The only other 'place' that I found it is in Aldous Huxley's novel "Beyond the Mexique Bay" (1934).

12. Jove ("Father God") is a nickname of the Roman's chief god Jupiter.

But, nowadays, it's used as an exclamation of "surprise" - among other meanings...

13. The Hermit thrush is the state bird of Vermont.

Thrushes were sacred birds in certain ancient European myths.

Walt Whitman, whom Howard hated, used this particular bird to symbolize "The American Voice" in his elegy to Abraham Lincoln "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed."

14. Vernal means anything "about or appropriate for springtime."

Used broadly, it refers to something "youthful & fresh."

It also defines the vernal equinox, when night & day are nearly equal, being some 12 hours each - at the equator...

15. Untwine is a rare old word meaning "to untwist" or "unwind" something.

It's also the title of Edwidge Danticat's novel about a woman awakening in a hospital - totally paralyzed!!

16. Hepática is a plant of the butter- cup family having flowers like an anemone.

It symbolizes confidence & bravery with its early blooms & lush foilage.

Though poisonous in large doses, it's still used to reduce bleeding, stop any irritation of the mucous membranes in the mouth & to increase urination.

17. Pan ("companion?, guard?") was the Greek god of the wilds, shepherds & country music!

Having the legs & horns of a goat, he was a fertile & sexual divinity.

Strangely enough, Pan could produce a sound ("panic") that caused pain!!

18. A timbrel is an old word for a small hand drum or a tambourine.

In the Bible, it's used for two objects:

1st, as a wooden or metal hoop over which was stretched an animal skin for writing.

2nd, as a tambourine with bells & jangles fixed at intervals in a hoop.

19. Brakes, here, have nothing to do with "something to slow down or stop a vehicle's movement."

No, HPL was describing a "thick patch of shrubs, small trees" or "any type of underbrush."

This is sometimes stretched out to mean a "rough" or "marshland over- grown with plants."

Among its earlier meanings are an "instrument for crushing flax seeds" & "the ring thru the nose of an ox!"

Next: Part 2 - Why Trees Are Tall...

End - For Now.

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: In Such Wonder by Jonel Sallee

On SALE: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-such-wonder-by-jonel-sallee/

A Matisse or a Lorrain or a starlit night sky draws you into its canvas and you become part of its story; a haunting melody or the piercing eyes of a songbird hold you; raindrops on a pond or a sudden deluge on an interstate lead you to questions that have no easy answers. These are unexpected, unbidden moments, always fleeting and always challenging to ordinary perception. The poems in In Such Wonder spring from such moments and invite the reader to linger among the crucial questions and contemplations that mystery always evokes. #life #poetry #poems #nature

Jonel Sallee is a lifelong lover of learning and has spent most of her life in academic studies and professional activities. She spent more than forty years teaching English and Arts and Humanities at the middle school, high school, and university levels in Providence, Rhode Island, and in Louisville and Lexington, Kentucky. In addition to professional writings, mainly scholarly essays on interdisciplinary relationships among literature, philosophy, and science, her publications include poems in several anthologies and two previous chapbooks, Trees Stand Tall and Dimensions.

PRAISE FOR In Such Wonder by Jonel Sallee

“Open this collection of poems and be enchanted. Share the poet’s wonder as she travels through museums, cathedrals, ancient lands. Jonel Sallee is a pilgrim, always seeking the numinous on her spiritual journey. Look to the heavens with the Magi, be amazed by a star-filled sky with Abraham. Be surrounded by wings in the flight of geese over a lake. See through a translucent Dali painting. Follow Matisse’s Stations of the Cross. Climb a cliff in Italy. You will be right there with Sallee, enveloped by her stunning images. Read these poems slowly and savor every word.”

–Carole Johnston, author of five books of poetry, including Manic Dawn and Purple Ink: A Childhood in Tanka

“The language of these poems tastes like rain; the words drip off the tongue—clean and fresh and sibilant. The heart aches and opens in its longing for mysterious journeys ahead. We move through the lines into green, glowing worlds, the kind that perhaps we experience only in dreams or ecstatic meditations. Sitting with each poem after I had read it, I could feel the room opening into light.”

–Normandi Ellis, author of Awakening Osiris and other mystical texts about Egypt. Her website is normandiellis.com.

“Take a tour through the mind of a poet and teacher who looks to art, or rather through art, into the sublime. Across poems that feel like seeds we are gathering as we read, Sallee contemplates not only the product, but the process, the person (their very hands!) that when moved to create inched that much more closely to something holy. Wonder propels these glimpses into the divine as it swirls, mingles, and merges all around us, which, naturally only leads to more questions: how is this all connected; how does it (and we) become undone?”

–Christopher McCurry, teacher, poet, and founder at Workhorse Writers. His published works include The Gospel of God Boy and Open Burning.

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry

[scots-gallivanter]

SIX

Then the sea approaches with great speed, gaining as it goes; the wave is white with tumbling foam; a great curve of broken surf follows in its wake; and the white horses of the Solway ride in to the end of their long gallop from the Irish Sea with a deep and angry roar.

GEORGE NEILSON, Annals of the Solway (1899)

AS WE STAND at the side of the B724 waiting for a number 79 bus to swing round the corner to take us to Dumfries, a few dozen grazing whooper swans paddle into the air –then they’re off north in a blizzard of wings, as in some dream scene out of an Attenborough documentary. It’s the end of March, time for them to obey an impulse beyond our understanding: to make their direct, non-stop flight back to Iceland until next autumn. Many species of bird fly up and down, north and south, back and forth around here, as if by radar. I live below a migration highway for thousands of geese steering south, their beaks cold as bone, chevrons of them working as a team, announcing their arrival in September in a honking crescendo to their winter digs along the firth.

Rooks – packed parliaments of them – haggle on their stick nests in the canopies of old trees above the T junction in the hamlet of Bankend as we chug in on the number 6A bus. As a boy I used to see dead crows strung along fences, pour encourager les autres, and I considered it barbaric. I’ve a soft spot for corvids, even carrion crows, and I love how rooks ride sideways on the thermals with wings that seem to have been clicked by a ticket inspector.

We disembark and find the sign for the path to Ward Law hill. I’m having to hit the ground running to help me up the path to the summit after a lazy winter. It is the site of an Iron Age hill fort now adorned by mature Scots Pines and beeches, with rugs of bluebells and wild garlic. The Clan Maxwell rallied here in times of strife. Beacons once blazed at the end of the ridge that flanks the eastern bank of the Nith estuary.

Wrens teleport perky-tailed to and fro now as the upper limbs of lofty trees creak in the wind. Candles of gorse are bursting with bees. Gull gangs screk for worms in a field ploughed into giant corduroy. Badgers have slightly undermined Wardlaw, but not as much as ploughing did to an adjacent temporary Roman camp, probably used during Hadrian’s invasion; it is now no more than a crop mark. Below, the sea glints and ripples all the way to England; Caerlaverock Castle, the only triangular castle in Britain, stands in the foreground, a magical medieval stronghold that was used as a film location for The Decoy Bride (2011) and various television dramas. Edward 1st famously besieged it, as did the Covenanters three centuries later. The castle was closed for repairs. Therefore, I was unable to look for evidence that Burns had left his mark inside. During his motor tour of Britain in 1908, American author Thomas Murphy declared: ‘On one of the stones of the inner wall were the initials, R.B. and the date, 1776, which our guide assured us were cut by Robert Burns; and there are certain peculiarities about the monogram which leave little doubt that it was the work of the poet.’

However, the initials have a different look about them than those on record for Burns. Furthermore, Burns would have been only 19 when the initials were inscribed, and he still lived in Ayrshire, which leaves me wondering whether Murphy’s guide was winding him up or he genuinely thought Burns had popped by to leave his mark.

He wasn’t the only one fooled. The last-but-one edition of Historic Environment Scotland’s guide to the castle (1995) attributed the initials to Burns, but the latest edition (2005) attributes them to one Richard Blennerhassett, whose family were landowners in Cumbria and Ireland. How they found out I will never know as a call to the press office proved fruitless.

In the 1990s archaeologists discovered three small fragments of Islamic glass on the hall floor of the castle. Nowhere else in Scotland has such glass been found.

Skeins of barnacle geese fly 2,000 miles down this big sky from Svalbard and arrive here every Autumn: a mile of sighs in migration, tugged by arctic clockwork for their furlough on the mudflats. We patrol the duckboards in March through swathes of swishing reeds. Buntings warble. The geese have returned home, those which survived the destructive avian flu. Skylarks sing today, soaring above rare, aromatic holy grass, one of the first grasses to flower in spring. Holy grass used to be strewn on church floors. It was used in France to flavour candy, tobacco, soft drinks, and perfumes; in Russia to flavour tea, and in Poland for vodka. For the Plains Amerindians it was a sacred herb. It is only found at five locations in Dumfries and Galloway (a region that represents at least a third of the known locations in Britain).

The north Solway coastline has inspired many myths, legends, half-truths and lies. Tales of mystery and imagination. When you take in the dimpling, swelling, and foaming tides it’s easy to think of the supernatural, and Allan Cunningham’s ghost ships supposedly lurked around the Caerlaverock shore looking for victims. In The Haunted Ships Cunningham’s character, Mark McMoran, the mariner, who knows every creek and cavern of the Solway, tells the tale of a man driven to his death in the swamps by monsters on boats.

I’ve heard it told, myself, that at Hallowmass covens of witches met at Caerlaverock Castle. Witches who flew on broomsticks shod from the bones of murdered men. Witches who sacrificed unchristened babies and used bridles made from their skin to ride ragwort chariots.

Rains dance across the sky like ghosts of smoke, and what sun there is casts changeable cotton clouds. Two doves sit wired together like quavers, cooing. The bus takes us around the estuary to the former ship-building village of Glencaple, which has a restaurant overseen by Lady Clare Kerr, whose grandmother, the Duchess of Norfolk, held the canopy above Queen Elizabeth at the coronation of George VI. Along the roadside we come across a cairn that commemorates Angus MacKay, who knew royalty just as intimately. He was Queen Victoria’s piper for 14 years, but he succumbed to syphilis and was committed to the Crichton Royal lunatic asylum, whose magnificent sandstone campus still stands on the verge of Dumfries. McKay, who according to case notes used to ‘hoot, howl and shriek like an owl’, believed that Victoria was his wife and Prince Albert had robbed him of his conjugal rights. He absconded from the Crichton and drowned in the river. A poem about him by Tom Pow was judged to be among the best Scottish poems of 2008 (‘the tenderest of epitaphs’, offered the judges).

There’s another memorial worth noting: Robert Paterson, the stonemason on whom Sir Walter Scott based his novel Old Mortality, is buried in Caerlaverock churchyard.

[chrinopiqua]

Drug Smugglers Take Flight: GPS-Equipped Geese Become Unwitting Drug Mules

In a bizarre twist that could only be conceived in the mind of a drug smuggler with too much time on their hands, authorities have uncovered a new method of drug trafficking that's as absurd as it is ingenious. Sources from the X platform, where truth often mingles with fiction, suggest that drug cartels have begun to use migrating geese as their couriers, fitting them with GPS trackers and, one can only assume, tiny backpacks filled with illicit substances.

Imagine, if you will, a flock of geese, not just honking their way through the sky but also carrying the latest in drug smuggling tech. These geese, part of the great avian migration, have been reportedly used to transport drugs across borders, with smugglers tracking their every flap via GPS. Once the geese land in their new, unsuspecting region, the smugglers swoop in, not for the geese themselves, but for the payload these feathered friends have unwittingly carried.

This method, while seemingly out of a spy movie gone wrong, taps into the natural migratory patterns of geese, which cover vast distances, often crossing international borders. The smugglers, showing a level of creativity that's almost commendable if it weren't for the illegality, have turned these birds into living, flying drug couriers.

The authorities, caught between laughter and disbelief, are now faced with the task of not only stopping drugs but also potentially having to negotiate with wildlife conservationists. "How do you arrest a goose?" one bewildered officer was heard asking. "Do we read them their rights? Do geese even understand Miranda?"

Environmentalists are up in arms, not just over the ethical implications of using wildlife for criminal activities but also the potential harm to these birds. "What's next?" one activist tweeted, "Pigeons with tiny parachutes dropping drugs into schoolyards?"

This story, while bordering on the ridiculous, highlights the lengths to which drug smugglers will go to bypass law enforcement. It's a tale of human ingenuity, albeit misapplied, where the only winners might be the geese themselves, getting a free ride across continents, albeit with a bit more baggage than usual.

As for the smugglers, they might find themselves grounded if authorities can figure out how to track not just the drugs, but the migratory patterns of their feathered accomplices. In the meantime, birdwatchers might want to keep an eye out for geese that seem a tad too heavy for their wings.

[spencer23reagan]

I love birds.

High up in the sky, amidst the vast expanse of blue, a symphony of wings fluttered and chirped, creating a melodic cacophony that reverberated through the air. The avian creatures, with their diverse forms and plumages, painted the sky with their graceful movements, weaving a mesmerizing tapestry of life and vitality.

A majestic eagle soared above, its piercing eyes scanning the terrain below with keen precision. Its broad wings, stretched out to their full span, exuded power and freedom as it effortlessly glided through the air. The eagle's regal bearing and confident flight communicated a sense of authority and dominance, as if it was the ruler of the skies, an emblem of strength and courage.

On a nearby branch, a flamboyant peacock displayed its resplendent plumage in a vibrant array of iridescent blues and greens. Its long, lustrous tail feathers fanned out in a mesmerizing display, each adorned with striking eyespots that seemed to stare back at the world. The peacock's elaborate courtship dance, accompanied by its distinctive call, was a visual and auditory spectacle that evoked a sense of flamboyance and confidence.

In a secluded thicket, a tiny hummingbird darted about with unmatched agility, its iridescent feathers glinting in the sunlight. With wings that blurred into a blur, the hummingbird hovered in mid-air, probing the flowers with its slender beak, seeking the nectar that fueled its high-energy lifestyle. The hummingbird's swift and agile movements, coupled with its jewel-toned plumage, conveyed a sense of vitality, adaptability, and resilience.

A group of colorful parrots perched on a branch, their brilliant hues creating a kaleidoscope of colors. They chatted and squawked, their raucous calls echoing through the trees. Their playful antics, as they hopped and swung from branch to branch, communicated a sense of sociability, curiosity, and mischief. Their vibrant plumage, with its intricate patterns and striking colors, was a visual feast that stirred a sense of awe and wonder.

A solitary owl perched atop a moss-covered branch, its large, luminous eyes scanning the darkness below. Its soft feathers, camouflaged in shades of brown and gray, blended seamlessly with the tree bark, making it almost invisible in the shadows. The owl's calm and composed demeanor, coupled with its enigmatic gaze, evoked a sense of wisdom, mystery, and intuition. Its hoot, a haunting call that echoed through the night, carried an air of mystique and foreboding.

A flock of geese flew in perfect formation, their synchronized wingbeats creating a rhythmic pattern that resonated through the air. They honked and called to each other, communicating with remarkable precision as they navigated the skies in search of their next destination. The geese's cooperative flight, with each bird taking turns leading the flock, spoke of teamwork, loyalty, and the importance of community. Their organized and cohesive behavior, as they traversed the skies with unwavering determination, conveyed a sense of purpose and resilience.

A delicate songbird perched on a slender branch, its melodious song filling the air with sweetness. Its tiny form, adorned with subtle shades of brown and yellow, seemed fragile and vulnerable, yet its song was a testament to its inner strength and resilience. The songbird's cheerful and uplifting melody, a celebration of life and joy, spoke to the soul and lifted the spirits. Its song was a reminder that even the smallest of creatures can have a profound impact and leave a lasting impression.

As the day turned to dusk, a wise old raven perched on a weathered tree branch, its dark feathers glistening with an iridescent sheen in the fading light. The raven's sharp eyes, filled with a depth of knowledge and wisdom that seemed to span across time, surveyed the landscape below with a sense of stoic calmness. Its beady eyes, as black as coal, seemed to see beyond the physical realm, delving into the mysteries of the universe.

As night fell and the moon rose, a haunting call echoed through the woods. It was the call of an owl, perched on a sturdy branch, its large eyes shining with an otherworldly glow. The owl's nocturnal existence and ability to navigate the darkness with precision and grace conveyed a sense of mystery and mysticism. Its hoots, a language that seemed to transcend the barriers of time and space, carried a message that was both eerie and comforting, evoking a primal response in those who heard it.

As dawn approached, a chorus of birdsong filled the air once again, heralding the arrival of a new day. The birds' melodic tunes, a symphony of chirps, trills, and warbles, carried a message of hope and renewal. Their songs, a celebration of life's endless cycles and the beauty of nature's rhythms, resonated deep within the hearts of those who listened.

Birds, with their diverse forms, behaviors, and plumages, communicate with us in ways that go beyond words. They speak to us on a subconscious level, evoking emotions, memories, and sensations that stir our souls and connect us to the natural world. Their flights, songs, calls, and behaviors convey messages of strength, freedom, resilience, wisdom, playfulness, and community, reminding us of the profound wisdom and beauty that can be found in the simplest of creatures.

[undiscovered-horizon]

"I had a dream I've got everything I wanted" - Castiel x Reader

TW WARNING: this work contains mentions/descriptions of suicide and intrusive thoughts, therefore it may be unsuitable for some viewers. Please read at your own discretion. Also, there are mentions of alcohol consumption.

Summary: When your flight is canceled, you go to a pub for a drink. There you meet an unfamiliar man, who talks you our of your plan to end your life.

Author's note: this story was inspired by a real story I read online, and decided it was an interesting concept (?). I'm currently on bed rest after a laparoscopic appendectomy while studying for term finals. Life is wild y'all.

Song Rec: "everything i wanted" by Billie Eilish

Word count: 1,684

You crumpled the airplane ticket and threw it in the bin you were walking by at the moment. A heavy, defeated sigh left your chest. It just had to go wrong, didn't it? As if everything was going well for you lately. "Glacier Park National Airport, MT" stared ominously back at you from the bin. Your "one-way ticket" became a one-way failure. Like everything you touched.

The thought earned a bitter cackle from you. Here you are, going to your favorite place in the world to end your life, and even that you can't do. Quite ironic, isn't it?

Following the crowd of disappointed passengers like a herd crawling out of the pasture, you left the airport unsure of what to do next. Sure, you could go back home. Just hail a taxi and drive back to the condo you've been rotting away for the past months. The rattling of the pills in your bag worsened your mood further. It was supposed to be so easy.

You got on the first bus that arrived at the stop near the airport, not really caring where it was heading. People crowded around you but it had no effect on you: it felt as if the world was separated from you by an invisible glass wall, everything was just...muffled. As the bus shook and rumbled following its designated path and the voices of other passengers created a cloud of white noise in your ears, your head began to empty, leaving only its permanent resident untouched: numbness.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed when the bus stopped near the city center, in an area you were only vaguely familiar with - you did not visit this part very often. Taking the strangeness as a cue to go, you got off the bus without much idea what to do next. It was already a late afternoon, so streets began to crowd with white-collar workers who were ending their shifts. Most of them hurried past you, not even sparing a sorry upon bumping into you. Some of them, however, seemed to direct their steps to a nearby pub with a charming name "The Little Geese". With a slight shrug of your slumped shoulders, you followed the mass of suits and pencil skirts, hence entering the adorably outlandish place that looked to have been ripped out of the previous century and rather its earlier years. The pub did not have a distinct scent, although you were sure you could smell a faint fragrance of nuts. Right from the doorstep, you were hit with sights and sounds that only made your heart clench further in your chest: the general majority of the patrons of the pub were laughing, enjoying the time they were spending with friends and colleagues. They were everything you wished you had.

With a defeated sigh and an even worse mood, you sat at the bar and ordered the first round of shots. You were quite sure that the bartender gave you a pitiful look when he saw your expression. Not that he wasn't used to sad drunks, just didn't expect them to be quite this young and early. The sad crowd rather appeared well after the nightfall.

After having a few rounds of shots, you ordered a sour and sat at a table in the corner where the density of happy customers seemed to be the lowest. The more alcohol you drank the more furious you became: how come all those people are happy and you just simply can't be? What is wrong with you? The frustration worked like a vicious circle, making you want to drink more.

"You shouldn't do it," a low voice spoke above you.

Raising your gaze, you saw a man with disheveled hair, in a suit and an open trench coat. His outfit didn't stand out from the general crowd at The Little Geese.

Not really understanding what he was talking about, you furrowed your eyebrows and opened your mouth to say something but he decided to continue his odd speech.

"I sense a great sadness in you." His voice was slightly hoarse. "But I know great things are ahead of you."

Without an invitation, the strange man sat across from you. His blue eyes stared right through you with a weird determination.

"What do you want?" It sounded a lot rougher than you planned. The man, however, did not wince or furrow his eyebrows. Not even your tipsy rudeness was going to diverge his greatly unknown plan.

"To listen to you," he answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "What you're going through is hard. I want to help."

You took a sip of your drink and stared at him suspiciously. The man leaned on the table with his hands clasped together. His face was oddly stern but somehow kind.

It felt like long hours as you were pondering on the offer. It's not like you knew him, so seeing him again was quite out of the question. Besides, you already had a shit day and the alcohol certainly did not help. With a sultry what the hell in your mind, you set down the glass down loudly.

You told the man everything, surprising mainly yourself. The struggles have been stalking you for long months and yet this stranger in a pub was the first one to ever hear any and all of it: how your colleagues were treating you as a push-over, your family seemed to start a fight with you for even breathing, how friends were interested in everything except for you and how you planned to go to Montana to die there. At one point you thought that you must sound beyond pathetic but once the dam broke, you were unable to stop the turbulent waters. The man listened to every word intently, staring at you and actually taking in everything you were saying. It sounded crazy to assume he was invested but everything pointed in that direction.

"God, I don't even know why I told you all of this," you added at the end, rubbing your forehead and thinking about what just happened.

"Give them to me," he stated firmly. At first, you weren't sure what he meant and his tone quite surprised you but then you vaguely remembered mentioning the pills and the suicide note in your bag. The man's hand layed open on the table.

Hesitantly, you reached into your bag and pulled out both the medicine and the pages written in deliberate lettering. You stared into his blue eyes as you placed those things in his palm. Without second thoughts, it seemed, he pulled a lighter out of his coat and burned the papers right on the pub table.

"A...friend, of mine, has a habit of carrying them around," he explained upon seeing your confused expression thinking that him having a lighter was a lot weirder than him attempting arson of a cozy pub. Your tipsy mind did not have the resources necessary to uptake a conversation about the pills he just put into his coat.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked him.

For a moment he looked lost as if you asked him about something so simple it was surprising you didn't know it. He studied your face for a moment as if making sure your question was genuine.

"Because I care," he answered firmly. "Because-" He looked away for a moment and sighed. "Because this isn't how it's supposed to end."

"What's not supposed to end?"

"You." He stared at you for a moment in silence. "Not yet, at least. There is still...work, that you need to do."

The man stood up and before he could turn around to leave, you grabbed the sleeve of his coat. He looked at you in confusion.

"Who are you?" you asked.

He was silent for a moment as if pondering on the best answer: something not too creepy but not too honest.

"A friend," he answered. "Go home," he added before yanking his sleeve out of your grasp and leaving the pub. You tried running out after him only to discover he had vanished once the door closed behind him.

Standing there, in the middle of the sidewalk, you felt more lost than ever before but the feeling, quite strangely, wasn't bad. It was a sense of being lost characteristic of an adventure more than doom. Considering how you were craning and turning your neck to catch even the tiniest glimpse of the stranger, you were going to get the quickest whiplash in history. No matter how much you tried, you simply couldn't recognize the man in any of the gray pedestrians walking past you, completely oblivious to the little Houdini-like act someone had just pulled on you.

It was a strange thing, really, to admit you were pondering his words. The entire interaction, the man himself, it all felt so odd and otherwordly that for a moment you questioned whether it really happened. Did...did he just force you to take a second chance? Maybe you actually could? Just try one more time, that's all.

You didn't quite remember how you made it back home and why exactly those four walls didn't feel like they were closing in on you anymore. The air inside your condo wasn't suffocating in those late hours of the night. You sat on your bed with a confused expression, feeling as if you had finally woken up from a very long, deep sleep. He was right: it didn't have to end that way. That solution of yours was permanent but all those problems that weighed you down? Only temporary, more than fixable. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but sooner than if you had died.

He never told you his name and with time you stopped wondering. Friend was the most fitting name he could have. Even if the clouds above you were grey and riddled with storms, there was this one man, somewhere out there, who cared enough to give you his time and an ear, not expecting anything in return.

[uwmspeccoll]

September 11

The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of morality is part of New York now: in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest edition.

-- E. B. White, Here is New York, 1949

This prescient quote from American author E. B. White’s 1949 homage to his beloved city, ending on a dark note about the forces that could destroy it, lends its title Here is New York to the relentless collection of over 800 photographs that we have chosen to commemorate the 20th anniversary of this solemn day. Here is New York: A Democracy of Photographs, published in New York by the Swiss art publisher Scalo Verlag in 2002, was originally an exhibition and sale of photographs that opened in SoHo on September 25, 2001 to raise money for the children of victims. The photographs were selected and curated by Alice Rose George, Gilles Peress, Michael Shulan, and Charles Traub. By the end of the year they had sold more than 30,000 prints at $25 each, and the momentum continued though the next year. The book presents a small selection of the over 5,000 pictures submitted to the exhibition. Michael Shulan writes:

Photography was the perfect medium to express what happened on 9/11, since it is democratic by its very nature and infinitely reproducible. . . . In order to come to grips with all of the imagery that was haunting us, it was essential, we thought, to reclaim it from the media and stare at it without flinching. Terrorism was all too familiar in other parts of the world, but it had rarely happened in the United States, and never on such a scale. . . . we understand the problem of terrorism to be a global one that respects no geographic or cultural boundaries. After 9/11, New York is Everywhere.

The entire archive of more than 5,000 photographs can be viewed at www.hereisnewyork.org. As Shulan notes, “Seeing is not only believing. Seeing is seeing.”

View our other 9/11 commemorative posts.

[loner3535]

“Witches brooms don’t last forever, they grow old and even the best of them one day loose the power of flight. Fortunately, this does not happen in an instant. a witch can the feel the strength slowly leaving her broom. the sudden bursts of energy that once carried her quickly into the sky become weak. longer and longer running starts are needed for takeoff.

Speedy brooms that in there youth outraced Hawks are passed by slow flying geese.

When these things happen a Witch knows it’s time to put her old one aside and have a new one made. On very rare occasions however, a broom can loose its power without warning and fall with its passenger to the earth below, which is just what happend on a cold Autumn night many years Ago…”

The Widow’s Broom (1992)

Author. Chris Van Allsburg

[lailoken]

Fraw Holt or Dame Holda, the northern witch-goddess travelling upon her sacred goose through the night.

—

“Frau Holda , Venus Mountain and The Night Travellers

From the 10th Century c.e. onwards Frankish clerics and churchmen such as Regino of Prum fulminated sourly against the devilish ' belief of 'certeine wicked women that in the night times they ride abroad with Diana, the goddess of the pagans, or else with Herodias, with an innumerable multitude upon certeine beasts. This was echoed in the fourteenth century law-code of Lorraine which censured those who rode through the air with Diana. The image of the Wild Ancestral Goddess had a powerful influence upon the mediaeval imagination; the author of ‘The Romance of the Rose' wote that a third of the people have dreams of nocturnal journeys with Dame Habondia.

In Northern Europe, the sect of night travelling witches were held to fly through the sky in the retinue of the goddess Herodias or Holda, who leads the ancestral spirits of the Furious Horde in the winter months around Samhain and Yule. Like the Cymric goddess Cerridwen, Frau Holda is the archaic underworld Earth Mother, mistress of death, initiation and rebirth, who rules over the chthonic realm of Hel or Annwvyn. In Scandinavia she is known as Hela, the daughter of Loki, of whom it is related that half of her is fair and half black with decay. This signifies her bright and dark aspects as Freyja/Holda mistress of life and death. The Veiled Goddess encompasses the cosmic dualities of day and night, growth and dissolution, radiance and shadow. Her association with the Wild Hunt is strong in Germany where the ride of the death powers is sometimes called the Heljagd and in Normandy, Mesnee a Hellequin. The Indo-European original of this Witch Goddess is *KOLYO, 'the Coverer' the funereal Otherworld Queen of the Indo-European peoples from which figures as diverse as the Celtic Cailleach and Greek nymph Kalypso are descended.

The life/death aspects of Dame Hela were referred to by the German wizard, herbalist and crystal scryer Diel Breull of Calbach who confessed in 1630 that he had travelled to the pagan holy mountain, the Venusberg, 'four times a year, during the fast.' He had no idea how he got to the mountain. He then confessed he was a night traveller and 'the Frau Holle (to whom he travels) is a fine woman from the front but from the back she is like a hollow tree with rough bark. It was in Venus mountain that he came to know a number of herbs.'

This description corresponds with the female forest spirit called the Skogfru in Old Norse and the woodwife, birch maiden and wild damsel elsewhere who are beautiful women from the front but hollow behind like a rotten log. The woodwives are associated with the Wild Hunt, sometimes being pursued by Woden . (‘Woodwife’ and ‘woodwose’ both stem from the Saxon root-word ‘Wod’ - ‘wild, furious, enthused’). Like many native European initiation sites, the Hurselberg was regarded as the gateway to the underworld, the domain of Frau Venus, the classicized Freyja/Holda. From the Hurseloch cave on the mountain eldritch voices and wailing could sometimes be heard, for it led down into the magical realm of the goddess.

The mediaeval tale of Tannhauser is based upon this initiatory lore for he was a knight minnesinger (troubadour) who while riding past the cavern of the Hurselberg at twilight encountered the beautiful and entrancing Frau Venus, who took him below into the Otherworld regions to be her consort for seven years. In Scottish tradition a related pattern is exemplified by Thomas the Rymer, the thirteen century seer who met the Queen of Elfame beneath the Eildon Thorn and went with her into the world of Faery for seven years.

She gave Thomas a golden apple to eat which conferred the prophetic gift upon him. This is reminiscent of Woden's descent into the heart of Suttungr's mountain where he sleeps with the giantess Gunnlodd to attain the mead of poetic inspiration.

Such goddess forms are comparable to the shamanic Clan Mother of the nether-world in Siberian mythology. And we may note that the worship of the Northern Earth Mother Jord/Hlodyn was carried out at hills and mounds, symbols of the womb of the earth. The Furious Horde at Samhain is esoterically linked with the rune Haegl whose primal form ‘*’ represents the snowflake. This makes sense as Holda is traditionally held to shake down the snow onto the countryside; in the Channel Isles snow showers occur when Herodias shakes her petticoats. Her holy bird, the goose, is also connected with the Wild Hunt, and snow crystals are said to drift from its feathers as it flies overhead. The nocturnal cries of migrating geese are interpreted as the yelping of ghostly Gabriel hounds in Celtic lore and are symbolised by the Bird-Ogham Ngeigh at Samhain. The mystical Ninth Mother-Rune symbolises the nine nights the post-mortem soul takes to travel the Hel-Way, the prototypical Spirit-Road which runs northwards into the Underworld of Helheim.

Frau Holda is the heathen original of Mother Goose, who is remembered at winter tide, and the goose is the magical steed upon which Arctic shamans travel in visionary flight to the Otherworld. The witch Agnes Gerhardt confessed in 1596 that she and her fellow initiates used a vision-salve in order to fly to the dance like snow geese', and went on to describe how she prepared this hallucinogenie ointment by frying tansy, hellebore and wild ginger in butter mixed with egg. Such flying salves' (or Unguentum Sabbati) feature prominently in the worteunning of the night travelling witches.

In fact Styrian witches were still using them in the 19th Century. Hartliepp, court physician of Bavaria, gives a formula used by 15th century Northern witches which involves procuring seven herbs on the appropriate days of the pagan week - heliotrope on Sunna's day, fern on moon day, verbena on Tiw's day, spurge on Woden's day, houseleek on Thor's day, maidenhair on Freyja's day and nightshade on Saeter/Hela's day. This magical operation would ensure that the salve would be empowered with the energies of the principal heathen deities.

In 1582 the Archbishop of Salzburg's counsellor, the erudite mathematician and astrologer Dr. Martin Pegger, was arrested under the charge that his wife had flown with the night travellers to the goddess Herodias in the Unterberg. Within the mountain she had seen Herodias with her mountain-ladies and mountain-dwarves and the goddess is said to have come to Frau Pegger's house by Salzberg fish market on a later occasion. The mention of the goddess' mountain-dwarves is significant for they are sometimes known as the Huldravolk; the folk of the Elder, Frau Holda's holy tree.

The association of cats and hares with witches and night travellers may indicate that they inherited many of the magical techniques from the cult of Seidr, the shamanism of 'inner fire' sacred to the goddess Freyja which included trance journeys and communication with the elves and other entities. According to Saxon lore, Freyja sometimes appears amidst a company of hares and she is known to roam the meadows of Aargau with a silver-grey hare by her side in the night hours. The hare is famed as a totem form in which shapeshifting witches travel.

Freyja, the Teutonic goddess of love, sexuality and mantic sorcery riding a Siberian tiger.

It is know that a strong subterranean current of Freyja worship survived in mediaeval Germany. Closely related initiatory Mysteries existing in the British Isles usually centred on the Faerie goddess, the Queen of Elphame.

An interesting late case is the astrologer and Hermeticist John Heydon in the 17th century, who having imprudently predicted Cromwell's death was forced to flee from London to Somerset. There he claimed to have encountered a green- robed lady at a faery hill. She took him within the mount into a glass castle where he learnt much wisdom and mantic lore. This experience obviously took place in an altered state of shamanic perception.

Frau Holda is the feminine counterpart of the Master of the Wild Hunt, and she is essential to a balanced appreciation of this area of pagan spirituality. The night- travelling witches of the Northern Lands, far from being demonically deluded as ignorant and vindietive churchmen said, were in reality the preservers of a hoary Wisdom Tradition and magical world view which is now accessible to us again at the dawning of a new heathen aeon.”

—

Call of the Horned Piper

by Nigel Aldcroft Jackson

[ibelieveinturtles]

Calm Before The Storm

Square Filled: K4 - Pietro Maximoff/Quicksilver

Author: ibelieveinturtles

Pairing: Tony Stark/Pepper Potts

Rating: G

Warnings: N/A

Summary: The bride’s brother introduces himself.

Note: This is all I've got, sorry. Better than nothing though, right??

Fifty seven minutes later, Tony knows exactly why his mother insisted he attend this wedding. He’s zoning out as Eligible Young Lady number five tells him all about her debutante ball when a silver haired young man appears at his side.

“My apologies, Emily but I need to borrow Mr. Stark.”

Before Tony knows what’s happening, he’s outside with a fresh glass of champagne, watching the bridal party walking back from their photoshoot on the other side of the lake. A goose takes flight, trailing a poetic spray of water behind it.

“Thanks for the rescue…” he says, trailing off as he realises he doesn’t know this guy’s name.

“Pietro. Pietro Maximoff. And you are welcome. I recognised the dead look in your eyes,” the other man replies. “My mother was doing the same thing to me.”

Tony chuckles. “What is it about mothers and weddings?”

“Well, mine is riding the high of marrying off my sister, although I had hoped she’d wait at least a week before starting on me.”

“I’m an only child,” Tony admits. “Mom’s probably starting to think I won’t ever get married.”

“Ahh, you see, your mistake is that you should be on to wife number two or three by now.”

Tony laughs.

“I think that would actually be worse.”

The bridal party has paused for more photos at the lake edge. Several more birds take flight, water droplets glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

“That will be a nice picture. The geese in the background will be a nice touch,” Pietro says.

“Does she like geese?” he asks.

“Not really, but they are goose-matched, so I think it is very fitting.” Pietro shrugs, glancing at Tony with a mischievous grin. “I am going to play the video when I give my speech. It will be very embarrassing for her but very amusing for us.”

“You’re a brave man.”

“It is only what a brother is supposed to do,” he said, shrugging again. The bridal party was on the move again, heading for the pavilion.

“About time,” Pietro mutters. “Come on - let’s go eat.”

[gone2soon-rip]

HARDY KRUGER (1928-Died January 19th 2022,at 93), German actor and author, who appeared in more than 60 films from 1944 onwards. After becoming a film star in Germany in the 1950s,Krüger increasingly turned to roles in international films such as Hatari!, The Flight of the Phoenix, The Wild Geese, Sundays and Cybele, A Bridge Too Far, The Battle of Neretva, The Secret of Santa Vittoria, The Red Tent, The One That Got Away, and Barry Lyndon.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hardy_Kr%C3%BCger

[47burlm]

Hardy Krüger  born Eberhard August Franz Ewald Krüger; 12 April 1928 – 19 January 2022) was a German actor and author, who appeared in more than 60 films from 1944 onwards. After becoming a film star in Germany in the 1950s,

Krüger increasingly turned to roles in international films such as Hatari!, The Flight of the Phoenix,  The Wild Geese, Sundays and Cybele,  A Bridge Too Far, The Battle of Neretva, The Secret of Santa Vittoria, The Red Tent, The One That Got Away, and Barry Lyndon.

[verecunda]

🐬 Sutcliff Ask Meme 🐬

Happy 100th birthday to beloved author Rosemary Sutcliff (born December 14, 1920). In honour of the occasion, I’ve put together a Q&A for any admirers of her books to take part in.

Rules: answer the questions, tag anyone who you think might want to play along, and - if you like - add a question of your own.

1. Your favourite work by Sutcliff. 2. Your favourite bearer of the dolphin ring. 3. A supporting or background character you love. 4. Your favourite animal companion. 5. Is there any setting you find especially memorable? 6. Wild geese flighting and striped native rugs: is there a classic Sutcliff motif that never fails to warm your heart when it appears? 7. The natural world is a vivid presence in all her work. Is there any particular nature description that sticks in your mind? 8. Biggest tearjerker. (Happy or sad tears!) 9. How did you first discover Sutcliff? 10. What is it about her work that appeals to you the most? 11. A book that deserves more love. 12. A book you haven’t read yet, but want to. 13. Which book(s) would you love to get a film or TV adaptation? 14. Is there any historical period, incident, or figure you wish she’d written about? 15. Rec a Sutcliff-themed fanwork (fic, art, vid, etc.) to share with fellow fans.

And lastly, just out of interest... how far is it from Venta to the mountains?

I tag: @pythionice, @windwardrose, @ciceros-ghost, @seaglassandeelgrass, @fluentisonus, @drusilla-951, @amine-eyes, @xserpx, @lettersfromthelighthouse (because I can’t tag your main) as the first names that spring to mind, but if you see this and you love Sutcliff’s books, consider yourself tagged! :)

[theeasterlymedia]

A Normative Discussion on Andrei Rublev

Meghnad Mukherjee 

While watching Rublev, I couldn’t help but think about Béla Tarr and his The Turin Horse. Tarr developed his distinctive style over time, and so one should presume Rublev was a stage in Tarkovsky’s development towards perfecting his almost magical cinematic philosophy that we admire today. In this essay we will be discussing only some of the scenes (and a short general discussion) of this three hours long masterpiece otherwise the obvious following rant would not have stopped.

Holiday, 1408, June

The scene opens with the greatest of all Russian Icon painters Andrei Rublev and his crew of apprentices and helpers on their way to a job in the once-powerful feudal fortress city Vladimir in June of 1408. It is probably the evening of June 23, St. John the Baptist Eve, which falls immediately after summer solstice, the end of spring. The Kliaz'ma River rises north of Moscow, flows between Moscow and the Trinity-St. Sergius Monastery and eastward past Vladimir.

Gathering firewood, Andrei gets caught up in a village pagan ritual. We should notice the sounds of nightingales and of ritual bell percussion.Some would say he seeks a way to join his high spiritual calling and art to the real soil of Russian folk experience, his "civilization" to his "culture". One way to describe the linkage of Christian "civilization" with Russian pagan "culture" is dual faith. Andrei is about to have a "dual faith" experience himself, and so are you if you let the film have its way.The making of a straw effigy and the burning of it are documented features of peasant ritual on St. John's Eve. The sexual license portrayed here is characteristic of peasant spring and summer rituals. Andrei stands over a smoldering camp fire and his monkish robes catch fire. Fire and water are central to the pagan rituals of St. John's Eve (they are also central to Tarkovsky's own personal film imagery). The men and women are performing a characteristic ritual of St. John's Eve. Also don't miss the scene downstream from the two lines of naked folk---a white horse comes into view and begins to thrash the river's surface as the ritual boat approaches.

Andrei is captured and bound in a stable by villagers who do not want him to interfere with their dear ritual. Marfa approaches him and plants an earthly kiss: physical contact of native paganism with highly refined and civilized Christianity. Notice the necklace she wears. Also notice how Andrei sheds his monkish cowl (identifying "uniform" of the black or monkish clergy) as he decides to melt into the woods and rejoin the village fest. As the next morning follows someone has squealed on the village revelers. The local landlord and his ruffian men-at-arms on horseback appear, accompanied by clerical enforcers, all bent on doing their official Christian duty. They hope to run down participants in last night's ritual. Sure enough, here comes Marfa and her significant other, chased by authorities. He doesn't get away, but she swims toward the middle of the river, immediately past the boat carrying Andrei, but he will not look at her. She splashes bravely out to deep waters.

Raid, autumn, 1408

Now we jump ahead a few weeks to the fall of 1408 and the outskirts of the city Vladimir. This army is led by a Russian prince who is a rival of his own brother for power in Vladimir. A tatar Khan’s army and his one will join up at a difficult river ford in preparation for an attack on Vladimir. As the two armies link up, the Khan and the Russian prince vie with one another to see who is faster. The Russian prince recalls an event in the previous winter in which the church tried to reconcile him with his rival brother. The wintry church is the great in Vladimir, built in 1194-1197. You can just barely make out the remarkable animal, vegetable and human figures carved in relief in the white stone outer walls of this ancient cathedral. These figures are taken to be themselves representatives of the combination of old pre-Christian "Scythian" motifs with Biblical themes.

Two times later in this section of the film, the Russian prince flashes back to this treacherous "kissing of the cross" which he and his Tatar ally are now about to betray. The second flashback occurs as the Russian prince witnesses the Tatar humiliation of the captured prince's brother and family and receives from the Tatars the vestments of the now deposed brother's power. The sounds of the Orthodox mass can be heard again, now in the courtyard as the Tatar khan nervously walks his war horse back and forth in anticipation of breaking into the church. A dying horse comes down a stairway and falls to the ground, bleeding to death. This is a disturbing and powerful scene. We may be more touched by this cruel death than by all the other film portrayals of human death. As the horse stumbles to its death, from the church we hear the most characteristic phrases from the Russian mass: Hospodi, pomilui, Hospodi, pomilui... [Lord, have mercy, Lord, have mercy...].

Soon, we see inside the cathedral being rammed by the Tatar army.We spy Andrei again. He is with a young blond woman. The actress is Tarkovsky's wife, and she is playing a paradigmatic Russian cultural role: the holy fool. She is a "durochka", not able to take care of herself, but in her naive simplicity representing something very dear to Russian tradition. Andrei has made himself her protector in earlier scenes, and now they are trapped together as the cathedral door breaks open. What a scene, as the Tatar khan paces his horse around inside the cathedral, asking the Russian prince taunting questions about the holy images on the walls, most now burning. The brave and defiant Foma is tortured, molten lead is poured into his mouth, and he is dragged to his death by a stallion stampeded through the devastated streets of Vladimir.The traitorous prince is beset with deep misgivings about this destructive adventure. Large white geese float from cathedral rooftops to the disordered streets below, all in slow motion. Andrei and Durochka are still in the church and try to come to terms with what has just transpired.

Tatar's Wife

The final scene I have selected is four years later, the winter of 1412. It is a hard winter, and famine stalks the land. Andrei is heating large stones and trying to transfer them to wooden casks to heat water. Durochka is eating an old apple. The Tatar khan rides into the monastery with several of his warriors. They are in a playful mood. The khan feeds frozen meat to quarrelsome dogs. Durochka wants some too. What follows is one of the most intriguing "falling-in-love" scenes in all of filmdom. Andrei tries to intervene, but this situation is beyond his or just about any imaginable power to change. As the khan sweeps Durochka up behind his saddle and he and his warriors gallop out of the monastery courtyard through a roofed gateway, our time is up.

Some commentary or rather a casual discussion --

Tarkovsky created a film about faith in a time when there were no films about religion, apart from satire or anti-religion propaganda. At the same time, people who were religious have tended to view film as a profane medium, inappropriate for religious topics. Andrei Rublev was a 15th-century monk regarded as Russia’s greatest icon writer. While his work is well known and celebrated throughout Russia, little is known of his life except for the handful of icons he left behind. Tarkovsky invented life for Rublev. It is then not an investigation into the painter’s life, but Tarkovsky’s response to what the filmmaker saw and felt by looking at Rublev’s icons.

Moving through ‘a sequence of detailed fragments’ in which Rublev is sometimes present, sometimes only an observer, the film works toward difficult questions: how is experience related, and how can it be communicated? How can art be true to its subject and its audience?How do you paint the trinity without just reducing it to the sum of its parts?

At once humble and cosmic, Rublev was described by Tarkovsky as a “film of the earth.” Shot in widescreen and sharply defined black and white, the movie is supremely tactile—the four classical elements appearing here as mist, mud, guttering candles, and snow. A 360-degree pan around a primitive stable conveys the wonder of existence. Such long, sinuous takes are like expressionist brushstrokes; the result is a kind of narrative impasto.The film’s brilliant, never-explained prologue shows some medieval Icarus braving an angry crowd to storm the heavens. Having climbed a church tower, he takes flight in a primitive hot-air balloon—an exhilarating panorama—before crashing to earth. Fifteenth century Russia was a tumultuous country, never really at peace, and Tarkovsky shows this in particular in the latter half of the film. The theme of conscience is present throughout the film.Tarkovsky plays here with sound and silence, almost deafening silence.

Shooting the entire movie in black and white, Tarkovsky finally dazzles the audience with close-ups of Rublev’s works, revealed for the first time during the movie in all their brilliance and colour. After more than two hours of sombre and austere imagery, the beauty of the frescoes amazes the viewers. The art, born from the endeavours and aspirations of the artist, is presented to the audience in all its grandeur, rising over the everyday like the man on the balloon at the beginning of the movie. This universal quality of the artist and his work makes the historical period irrelevant, performing a spiritual sweep, casting an ethereal spell on the audience.

Andrei Rublev is itself more an icon than a movie about an icon painter. (Perhaps it should be seen as a “moving icon”) This is a portrait of an artist in which no one lifts a brush. The patterns are God’s, whether seen in a close-up of spilled paint swirling into pond water or the clods of dirt Rublev flings against a whitewashed wall. But no movie has ever attached greater significance to the artist’s role. It is as though Rublev’s presence justifies creation.