#bacchic answers

[bacchicly]

"If you’re a skinny writer, do not write books about fat characters being fat."

-direct quote from Sarah Hollowell's article you posted 3 months ago

Any advice that is "do not make art about (blank)" is not good advice. Even if you're afraid the art can be harmful or misrepresenting, even if you "know" the art will be bad.

That is a good question. Thank you so much for asking. The fact that you are? For me that gives you permission to write just about anything...because likely you will do it from a place of curiosity and willingness to grow. Story by story. Sentence by sentence.

Frankly, I had a long conversation with the screen of my phone about exactly that part of the article. And it was partly why I ended up writing "my own damn post"

I do not wholly agree with Sarah for the pure reason that I am an advocate of people doing their own research and us sharing around the emotional labour of telling stories. So for me...telling anyone "they can't/shouldn't write x" is bad advice - or at least incomplete advice. Now Howell's advice is meant to be interpreted quite narrowly - and I understand what she was trying to say (which - if I remembering correctly - forgive me for not rechecking...i am trying to get at least a preliminary answer out before work - but I believe her point was that she would prefer we encourage fat people to tell their own stories about weight loss or attempting weight loss - because she felt that line of storytelling was already overdone and hard to get right)....BUT for me - especially in non-professional spaces I really don't think we should shackle people that way.

Now onto your "bad art" part of the question... Ok I have been publicly on the side of imperfect art for a long time. I am more interested in the conversation and transformation generated by works than their actual "perfect form" - whether that conversation or transformation be that of the artist or the reader/gazer/audience. I also believe strongly - based on years of experience and observation -that while "near perfect art" can be extremely transformational - it often does not generate the degree or complexity of conversation as "less perfect art" - and purely "bad art" - I.e. boring, redundant, uncourageous, inauthentic, overly pandering, etc art - is typically short lived and rarely particularly impactful. I mean it's hard enough to get higher quality art to really insert itself into the cultural zeitgeist...so I am not sure there is a lot of need to be fretting quite so much as people do about whether something is good or bad art. I would rather ask artists...why are you spending time doing this? Why are you interested in this? Why does spending time on this story or character matter to you? (And traditionally non noble answers like it's fun and I want to are totally valid - again - especially in amateur spheres)...

Now do I believe there are harmful things people can put out there? Yes. Do I wish I could magically erase certain beliefs and practices that I believe to my core are harmful could be eradicated? Sure do!

But... I also believe that it's better if people bring their ideas into the light. I believe in what I characterise as "good" is both innately logical and true...so I would rather those who believe in hate or harm or intolerance bring those ideas out so we can examine them and argue them and yes when necessary fight them... And maybe...just maybe understand something about why those people believe the opposite of me and what kernel of truth I might learn from.

I would also say ..if you are afraid they will do harm...if you are curious about trying it and have a reason that matters to you for why you feel it is important in some way to explore any story... Do it. Writing does not always equate publishing...that is a seperate step and you can decide if you publish or edit some more or drop the project... But if...you never write that wiggly tooth of a story out... How can you make that assessment? How can you send it to someone like me and ask if it reflects my experience and my thoughts on it? So be brave and write the stories of the people in your head. Your work will not be perfect... But it might be important or transformative to you...and even if noone reads it...that is worthwhile...then if one other person reads it...and you talk about it...that is worthwhile.

Now do I have some maybe higher standards for commercial writing? For journalism? For pop culture that already has a wide audience? Yes. But that seems fair... and also necessary.

But even there the "mistakes" can be powerful mechanisms for good .. Monica's aggregious fat suit on Friends meant hours of discussion between me and my peers and me and my mom discussing why it was potentially harmful .. do I know if it saved more lives than harmed? No. But I also know those things are hard to predict.

Did that suit lead to some of the healthier kinder more diverse representation of fatness we now see? Honnestly I believe it did.

Art is for a lot of reasons. But bad art is better than no art. And I believe in people. I believe that humanity can recognize nuance and is trying it's best (even though we are sometimes very shitty at it). So for me "you can't or shouldn't write x" is bad advice because it lacks nuance. I think you need to trust yourself...be curious...write the damn thing and see where it goes. Honour your imagination and your curiosity. And yes...I hope you work towards less harm...and I hope our definitions generally line up...but even if they don't I would rather you write the story...give it your best... Enjoy the process and let yourself feel and think and grow...

[kebriones]

What captivated you in Alcibiades and his relationship with Socrates? Your art is really beautiful and i was really curious that even though i am Greek i never remember learning about these two! Did we learn this in school perhaps? (Doubt) but still it's so interesting seeing your posts analysing his character

Thank you very much!

Well a loot of things captivated me in their relationship. Some things are pretty personal, like, I relate to some parts of their relationship deeply. It's hard for me to say what exactly i find interesting bc I find everything interesting about them 😅 but I guess.

If i had to really press myself, i think it's the underlying thought that Socrates, who's easily seen as the more virtuous of the two, was trying to shape an unbeatable philosopher-monarch out of Alcibiades because he saw the flaws of democracy (in the first Alcibiades he gets awfully close to outright saying, if you want to conquer the world you have to listen to me) and how unfortunately Alcibiades is very human and not what Socrates wants him to be. But they still love each other, Socrates describing it as a bacchic frenzy and Alcibiades saying his love comes from admiration. I think the dynamics are fun to think about.

Oh also old ugly/young super pretty is my jam and usually you only find this relationship as "thirsty depraved old man" or "golddigger youth" or things like that, but here it's none of those. I have heard alc/socr described as "how a student flirts with a professor to get good grades" which isn't right because Alcibiades isn't getting any grades. He genuinely thinks he'll become a better person by being close to socrates.

I am not sure this was an answer gfhdh i am so sorry i rambled.

As for school, im pretty sure we learned about Alcibiades existing at some point when we did the Peloponnesian war, and we mentioned Socrates for sure, but I don't think anything about their relationship was ever mentioned, no :') I don't think we ever even learned anything about socrates' and plato's ideas in school either? Just that Socrates drank hemlock fhdgdh

[where-the-flash]

"The Golden Touch": Walt Disney's Actual Folly

Have you ever been tempted to own DVD sets, not strictly for their contents, but for the appeal of their packaging and presentation? Have you ever been tempted to own DVDs that were enclosed in a sturdy aluminum tin case, like they emerged from a cold vault buried thousands of feet beneath the earth's crust? Have you ever been tempted to fool your fellow schoolyard chums by placing these tin jalopies in a mini fridge and handling them with sterilized tongs like they were ancient jade necklaces that you sold on the black market? Have you ever been tempted to wave the DVD's 'certificate of authenticity' in some stupid nerd's face and tell them this is only one out of a limited 150,000 copies?

These hypothetical queries were directed toward myself and I answer all of them with an emphatic "Yes"!

These DVDs that I am belaboring-ly alluding to are the Walt Disney Treasures. The brainchild of film critic/perpetually well-groomed beard-man Leonard Maltin, the Walt Disney Treasures were a collection of historic (and even rarely seen) Disney content. It covered pretty much all the bases: old Mickey Mouse cartoons, World War II propaganda, and TV shows like The Mickey Mouse Club, Walt Disney Presents, and Davy Crockett.

One of these Walt Disney Treasures DVD sets that I owned and (I suppose) cherished were the Silly Symphonies, the musical-oriented Disney shorts that were made between 1928 to 1939. Beside the fact that these shorts were delightfully frothy bon-bons made for quick consumption, they were a sort of experimental testing ground for future Disney productions (Disney's ground-breaking work with the multi-plane camera would prove useful in their first full-length animated feature Snow White and the Seven Dwarves). They also provided a refreshing diversity of form and style. Audiences in the 1930's probably wanted a change of pace from the Mickey Mouse content they were subjected to monthly at the local movie station house.

(This is my copy of the Silly Symphonies DVD set, though I seem to have inexplicably lost the tin case, unfortunately exposing its contents to all manner of elements, including that red pepper flake lodged between the doubles L's in SILLY.)

I'd spent many hours watching Silly Symphonies as a young child and I've been revisiting them recently just to see if they still retain their, shall we say, symphonic silliness. And as I was watching old King Cole prattle on about how he was, indeed, a merry old soul and how a merry old soul he verily was, I reflected on how I use to frequently spin the Silly Symphony disk on the DVD turn-table and I suddenly remembered the first short I would watch as the needle dropped onto the disk, and that short was The Golden Touch. And, frankly, I'm not sure why. There were definitely better shorts than The Golden Touch, both visually and musically. But why did I gravitate toward this one, so much so that it was a first priority watch? Was it simply an aperitif before the main entrees of, say, a Music Land, or a Three Little Pigs, or a Who Killed Cock Robin? Or was it more than that?

The Golden Touch is an adaptation of the Greek myth of Phrygian monarch Midas (the son of Gordias, inventor of the most excessively over-tied rope knot in antiquity), who makes a wish, to the Greek deity Bacchus (also best known as Dionysus), that everything he touches transforms into a yellow-orange-colored soft metal with an atomic number of 79 (Midas is granted this request after he saves Dionysus' drunken satyr of an adviser, Silenus...actually, that's a lie....Midas found him passed out in his rose garden and politely drove him back to his Bacchic abode; no harm, no foul....at worst, a speck of vomit on the rose petals). Midas revels in his new gift, but later has the harrowing, if not unsurprising, revelation that comestibles of any kind can turn into gold as well. Unless his stomach doubles as a foundry furnace, he can't very well pass gold through his digestive tract and get any meaningful nutrients out of it. Fed up with this inconvenience, Midas decides to wash his hands of the whole thing...literally washes his hands in the Pactolus River and that's it.

That's the original version recounted by Ovid, author of the Metamorphoses (according to Edith Hamilton in her landmark 1942 text Mythology). It wasn't until Nathaniel Hawthorne came along that the fable developed a tragic angle by giving Midas a daughter that he accidentally turns to gold (from his 1852 children's book A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys). For the purposes of brevity and a desire to not be a harsh vibe-killer for ten minutes, Walt Disney chose to stick to the safer self-preservation angle of the original.

The myth is iconic in its own right. The name "Midas" is synonymous with irresponsible, unchecked greed and its consequences....wait, is it? "Having the Midas Touch", is a common phrase that, ironically, obfuscates the tale's cautionary moral with a more generic definition of easy success. There's even a company named after that greedy bastard that installs car mufflers and they tell us to "trust the Midas touch."

I guess we haven't learned anything from this myth, have we? My guess (I almost said "theory" but that would imply that I'm smart) as to why there's still so much greed in this world is that there haven't been any real substantial King Midas adaptations in popular culture. How can we learn when the masses have not been exposed to this important myth by way of a giant, money-making blockbuster? Timothée Chalamet in a fat suit laying waste to nature and his fellow humans with garish CGI effects, throw in a couple of songs, and pad out the running time with a giant battle at the end with a golden terraforming laser shooting out of the sky and you have yourself a flop...I mean, a hit!

As much as movies, television, and pop culture in general have confronted the myth's themes of greed and isolation, direct wholesale adaptations of the myth itself are few and far between. The only half-way substantial adaptations I could find on YouTube (ones that were not cheap educational kid videos) was an episode of Mythic Warriors, an aggressively mediocre late-nineties Saturday morning cartoon show that retold Greek myths, and a fairly impressive stop-motion short film from the fifties (produced by none other than stop-motion animation pioneer Ray Harryhausen). TVTropes.org lists some animated series that have dedicated episodes to the Midas concept (Hercules: The Animated Series had an episode that depicted Midas as a Bond villian and there's an episode of Yogi Bear that has Yogi blessed with "The Pik-a-Nik Basket Touch"). And if you've ever frequented a elementary school library (assuming you were, at one point, a child), you'll probably remember seeing that horrifying book cover for The Chocolate Touch, where a young boy pecks his mother on the cheek and her upper torso turns a shade of cocoa-brown. Let's also not forget the middle school play that I co-starred in called "King Midas and the Touch of Gold" (written by Vera Morris, published by Pioneer Drama Service, the leading name in easy-bake, royalty-free community theater/primary school theatrical productions since time immemorial) where I played the pivotal role (or at least that's how I delude myself into thinking it was) of Prince Ajax, Midas' future son-in-law.

Disney's The Golden Touch, as far as I can tell, is the most well-known adaptation of the Greek myth (or at least the only one with a Wikipedia article, which is its own form of legitimacy), despite it also being one of the lesser known Silly Symphonies, one that was willfully obscured by its creator and director, Walt Disney. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves is often given the ironic moniker of "Disney's Folly" due to the fact it was a risky venture that was predicted to fail, but ended up being the highest grossing film of 1937. That's all fine and good and hopefully you get pats on the back for relating that anecdote at a future cocktail party, but if there is a project that could rightfully be deemed Disney's actual folly, it was The Golden Touch.

It was the first cartoon that Disney directed in five years (his last being 1930's The Cactus Kid, though he technically directed a couple of little things here and there, like Parade of the Award Nominees, a tiny short specifically made for the 1932 Academy Awards). There are varying interpretations as to why exactly Walt Disney returned to the director's chair. One of them was that he wasn't satisfied with his animators' work so he felt the need to show them a lesson on how it's really done. Another was that one of his head animators left and decided to take it upon himself to fill that space. Or he wanted to make important movies with strong social messages. I don't know. Who knows? So anyway, he utilized only two animators for his production (Norm Ferguson and Fred Moore) and it took about eight months to finish. And it flopped.

It was such a flop that Disney's animators would often use it as a riposte to any of Walt's nagging complaints. The animators could just say The Golden Touch and the sound of bellowing airhorns would pierce the air as a plum-faced Walt Disney left the room in silence.

And that was the last time Walt Disney directed anything. Ever.

It is not a highly-regarded short, though I would argue it gets way too much of a bad rep, which is why I will defend it in my typically over-rigorous way. Let's take a look, shall we?

(Keep in mind, this adaptation is set in a medieval setting, so don't expect Mount Olympus looming over the horizon.)

We open on a wide shot of a dungeon that serves as King Midas' treasury/counting room. The floor is covered with bags and chests of gold coins. Midas is at his desk, counting each individual coin (with no aid of abacus or feathered quill to keep track of his slow progress) as a black cat, wearing an Elizabethan ruff around its neck, looks on, rhythmically curling and uncurling its tail. The location is dour, with grey stone walls and a barred window casting a solitary shaft of light on our lone protagonist (one of the bars on the window is suspiciously bent, giving the scene a more sinister cast than is necessary). There's a garish sign over the stairwell passage that proclaims, "IN GOLD I TRUST", the kind of vulgar display you'd see displayed unironically at Mar-A-Lago. The gloomy mise-en-scène is starkly contrasted with the merry counting ditty Midas sings as he stacks each coin into unorganized piles.

One billion, two million, twenty-five-thousand, nine-hundred-and-eight,

One billion, two million, twenty-five-thousand, nine-hundred-and-nine,

One billion, two million, twenty-five-thousand, nine-hundred-and-ten,

One billion, two million, twenty-five-thousand, nine-hundred-and....

Before he can say eleven (cheekily nodding that eleven would break the syllabic count of the meter), he mightily sneezes, knocking over all the piles. He notices the camera, tips his crown to the audience, and launches into an introductory song about himself.

Before he starts singing, let's take a moment to describe King Midas' appearance (or at least Walt Disney's interpretation of him). Imagine the kind of fat, middle-aged slob you find haunting the dog track, or the local OTB, adorned in slovenly dress and a cheap stogie clamped in his teeth (narrow it down to a less lovable Uncle Buck). The kind of long shot loser that, if you even emerge within his eye-line, will chatter your ear off about how great a handicapper he is and how the so-called "experts" don't know jack-shit. A red drinker's nose, a bald dome with clownish tufts of black hair on the sides of his cranium, flabby arms, large hairy man-hands, and a stringy mustache that reminds one of a hairbrush if its bristles were made of insect-legs, all ensconced in a hourglass-shaped head. Top it off with a Jughead-like crown askance on his noggin and a ratty, oversized robe purchased from a thrift costume shoppe. It's a comically grotesque character design, like a lazy court jester posing as a king. It's like if the real king took the week off and handed off the reins to his shiftless, dead-beat brother-in-law.

The song goes as follows:

I'm known as rich King Midas,

And when you look at me,

You see a king who knows a thing

About his treasury.

I've never cared for women.

I've never cared for wine.

But when I count a large amount of money,

It's divine!

(giggle)

Gold, gold, gold!

I worship it! I love it!

Gold, gold, gold!

I wish I had more of it!

My love for shiny gold is such

That I could never have too much.

I wish that everything I touch

Would turn to gold, gold, gold!

(laughs uproariously)

It's not a good song and Midas is not a good vocalist, but it fits his boorish character and it's an efficient introduction. Being someone who is not musically inclined, it's the kind of song I would come up with in an unguarded moment.

Just then, a little man appears out of thin air. The stone walls turn golden, giving the room a warmer cast. The little man is a stereotypically androgynous elf character with bald head, big ears, pointy nose, green tights, and a feather in his cap. I'm reminded of those Santa's helper elf dolls my grandma used to stick in her Christmas tree.

A startled Midas cradles his gold doubloons and asks, "Who art thou, stranger?" The little man introduces himself as Goldie. Midas replies, "What do you want? My gold?" Goldie claims gold is "chickenfeed" to him. "Behold!" Goldie proclaims as he delicately places an index finger on the black cat's head. The cat, frozen in place, transforms into a golden statuette (an 18 K designation embossed on its torso). Midas' crown does a back flip. Seemingly unconcerned about the cat and its possible demise, Midas flicks the statuette for authenticity and it "dings" in reply. Midas begins to salivate. The Golden Touch!

There's a lovely moment of acting from Midas here. Midas lasciviously grabs the statuette but Goldie stops him. Goldie wags his finger like an adult scolding a child. A look of petulance, followed by a cocked eyebrow of suspicion clouds Midas' features. Then, he reluctantly lets go and sits back with this helpless expression on his face as Goldie snaps his fingers and claps his hands, and voila, the cat is back to normal. When the cat runs away, Midas looks briefly disappointed. In a performance dominated by broad strokes of acting (his performance is mostly ham-and-cheese with a side of big hairy mitts wildly gesticulating), it's easily the most humanizing characterization of Midas we get throughout the whole short. He's a fat, stubborn child, but not so stubborn to where he won't listen or be guided by a little reason. Underscored by Frank Churchill's lilting string section, it's a moment that gently nudges towards Midas' redemption.

Midas offers his gold and his kingdom for the Golden Touch. He even takes off his robe (leading to a funny reveal that he's not wearing a regal gown so much as a regal undershirt, exposing hairy, liver-spotted shoulders). Goldie warns of the perils of the Golden Touch, but Midas won't hear of it ("Fiddlesticks! Give me gold! Not advice!"). Goldie relents and blesses Midas with the Golden Touch. He hoots a little "toodle-oo" and disappears into the invisible ether from whence he came, the room returning to its original gloomy state.

Midas twiddles his large sausage fingers, now containing a terrible power. What can he test it on? Why, the cat, of course! This rotund fool chases the kitty around the castle, with his index finger stupidly pointing out in front of him.

When the cat runs out into the courtyard, we finally get to see the extent of Midas' kingdom. It's completely devoid of humans. No servants, maids, courtiers, or jesters in sight. It's emptier than the Queen's kingdom in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. At least she had a burly huntsman and a creepy mirror to keep her company.

The cat climbs up an apple tree, which Midas collides into headlong. The tree transforms into gold, as golden apples (due to the the sheer weight of this miraculous alchemy) fall on Midas' head (though some of the apples still retain their red hue, which never made sense to me. I presume Midas' initial collision with the tree shook some of the apples off the tree before the alchemy took effect). Unfortunately, the cat is transformed into gold as well. Midas, delighted, grabs the stiff tail of the golden cat and lifts it up like a scepter, proclaiming, "It works! It works! Whoopee!"

Midas launches into a giddy dance, holding up his robe like a maidens' skirt (why doesn't his robe turn to gold?), and sings a mindless ditty that seems, much like the first song, shot from the hip in a passionate moment:

The Golden Touch!

The Golden Touch!

The Golden Touch!

The Golden Touch!

La La La La!

La La La La!

La La La La La La La!

Midas touches the flowers, each flower (well, they're golden flowers now) sounding like a tinkly bell in rhythm with the song. He approaches a bird fountain and twirls his finger in the water. Somehow, he is able to twirl the water upward as it turns to gold, creating what looks like a pile of excrement with a curlicue pig tail on top. The birds appraise it like studious art history majors.

He approaches a water fountain, places a hand atop the gushing water, and an avalanche of gold coins spurts out (the visual of this moment, coupled with the sound effect of the coins, reminds one of a big cash payout at a video slot machine). Then he turns the fountain into gold, mid-gush.

Then he turns two pan-flute-playing satyr statues into gold (you begin to feel the creative vitality of this sequence winding down if two boring satyr statues is Walt's idea of a victory lap).

Midas prances through a hallway before approaching a big mirror. Since he is a lonely monarch, he talks to himself. More specifically, he discusses the possibility of turning the whole world into gold. His reflection becomes a separate entity and applauds the king's lofty ambitions (a overused visual gag, but it's fine). The king smiles and gives himself a golden tooth.

After a long morning of touching things, Midas treats himself to a full banquet of food. This scene is the revelatory moment when Midas discovers the foolhardiness of his wish. He attempts to eat grapefruit but as he dips his spoon into the pulp, a stream of coins shoots into his face. Midas takes it in stride at first, affecting an aristocratic manner, using a gold coin as a mock monocle. Peeling back a banana, he gets a pile of coins rather than a sweet fleshy treat. He grabs his goblet. Mouthful of coins,

Midas is starting to get worried. He forks a succulent roast chicken from across the table. Just as his teeth touch the skin, the chicken is now a golden chicken. In petulant frustration, Midas touches all the dishes before flipping the entire table.

(The sound design is also quite interesting: throughout the short, when Midas turns things to gold, there's a tinkly, quavering bell sound that emanates. It's frothy and angelic, echoing Midas' glee at his newfound power. Now, when he's touching all the dishes in the throes of hunger, the sound is more hollow and cacophonous, evoking the gold's now chilly uselessness. When he's biting the gold-plated chicken, it sounds like someone hammering a slab of metal.)

Midas is pulling his hair out and laughing maniacally. He approaches the mirror from earlier and asks his reflection, "Is the richest king in all the world to starve to death?"

His reflection, now a golden skeleton, nods in assent. Frightened, Midas tries to flee the castle. Unfortunately, his long shadow serves as the veil for a giant golden Grim Reaper blocking the door. The sound that comes out of Midas is.....is it possible to call one's frightened gasp 'blood-curdling'? It's a gasp that has 'fatal coronary' written all over it. The skeleton makes a slashing motion across his throat and the king runs away. Probably my favorite moment in any cartoon.

A shaken Midas returns to his treasury and pleads for Goldie to return, all the while crying like a infant. Goldie, indeed, does return, mocking Midas' vanity. Midas begs Goldie to erase "this golden curse". He offers Goldie his entire kingdom for one "hamburger sandwich" (charmingly redundant phrase). A pretty drastic offer: a complete enunciation of all materialism and power, all for a sandwich whose existence would cease after three masticatory cycles of the lower jaw (it takes me three bites to finish a hamburger, a pleasant sight for anyone whose ever eaten in my presence). Being the maniacal sadist that he is, Goldie teasingly asks him, "With or without onions?" Midas says plain is fine. Goldie "toodle-oo's" back into the eighth dimension.

We get a wide shot of the dungeon treasury (if you notice, the desk is not centered in the shot like it was in the opening and the ceiling is way higher. Mainly because it's about to be used in an upcoming match cut where we see the massive dirt pit that was once the treasury, to show the overall scale of the castle's evaporation) as the castle begins to implode. Debris is falling and there's this putrid gold filter that flickers on screen (like a strobe effect) to simulate the implosion. It's not great.

Midas is now standing in an open pit that was formerly the treasury. His kingly robes disappear, replaced by a Depression-era railroad bum outfit with polka-dotted undershirt, striped boxers, and a tin can as a replacement crown. Then, as promised, a hamburger sandwich appears out of thin air. Midas is ecstatic, but hesitant. He slowly and nervously touches the hamburger sandwich (covering his eyes in the hopes that...well, his hopes won't be dashed). It remains a hamburger sandwich. He looks under the bun and exclaims with a toothless smile (the gold tooth is gone...little details do not go unnoticed), "With onions! Whoopee!" Midas voraciously gnaws at his hamburger sandwich. La fin.

So, why is The Golden Touch considered such an ugly duckling in Disney canon?

Backlash towards it, at least from the perspective of the animators, was either a case of expectations being raised too high (considering that Uncle Walt was behind it, you would think it would be the most amazing work of animation to have ever been farted out of that blessed studio), or just plain old schadenfreude (Walt was known to be a prickly pear, so animators rejoiced at this supposed "failure").

I don't have an opinion on what makes The Golden Touch strong or weak from an animation standpoint (I'm not an expert on the finer details of animation). You can't really go wrong with Disney in terms of technical craft, so all I can is say is that I like the animation. It's good....except for that palace destruction sequence.

A common criticism of The Golden Touch are that the characters are unlikable, with Midas being a loud man-child and Goldie being a snide rogue who harbors no sympathy for the king. It's also criticized for not being terribly effective as a fable either, with Midas' redemption hinging not so much on a moral realization of gold's inherent evil, but rather on the self-preservation instinct that starvation inspires in desperate, selfish people. Sure, Midas' hunger for gold is extinguished, but it just ends up being replaced by a different kind of hunger. And judging from his rotund physique, his whole existence is driven not by any sort of human compassion (since there's no one around for him to be compassionate towards), but rather by satiety. You could argue the ending has a Depression-era populist moral, relating to the common man and how to be content with little, but it doesn't seem to point in any hopeful direction in its otherwise hopeless protagonist.

And also, people didn't find it funny (well, Disney shorts were never that funny; they were just clever in a smirky way) and thought it was too long (The Golden Touch is ten minutes long, the longest of the Silly Symphonies). But that's subjective.

And if we want to be shamelessly nitpick-y about it, we could say it barely qualifies as a Silly Symphony. It only has two songs, and they're easily disposable. It leans more on the "silly" than the "symphony" and it falls short of the mark of being both at the same time and that's probably irritating for anyone who is that much of a literalist.

These are understandable criticisms, but they're also rather narrow readings. It's being judged too much through the lens of "meaningful fable" or "typically whole-hearted Disney fare".

The Golden Touch, at least to me, feels more like a farcical condemnation of privileged wealth. Its flippant tone and irreverent disregard for easy morality is more akin to a Warner Bros. cartoon. It doesn't have the same snide mean-spiritedness as Bugs Bunny torturing an opera singer, but there's a noticeable lack of sentimentality, especially compared to other Disney projects. This tonal flippancy can be seen as a failure of intent, but if it is, its unintended effect still works. It felt different from other Disney shorts and probably why I gravitated towards it the most. It had...edge. Well, about as much edge as a butter knife, but relative to other Disney shorts, it manages to draw a pink mark on the studio's lily-white skin.

I like King Midas. Midas is a larger-than-life clown whose childishness and slimy charisma are engaging in a mildly acidic way. This is all due to Norm Ferguson's amusing character design and Billy Bletcher's gargantuan baritone. It's a well-realized interpretation. I can't say the same for Goldie, who is basically a squeaky-voiced dime-store leprechaun with a mischievous countenance, but it's serviceable.

It's enjoyability is also enhanced by its visuals, especially when Midas is turning everything into gold. The golden touch is, obviously, the short's creative weapon and I'm still entranced by its various visual gags. The sequence when Midas is prancing around in his garden has a playful tone that is acerbically contrasted with his casual destruction of nature. The sequence with Midas at his banquet table is funny while also being palpably tense (you cam feel Midas' panicky frustration at not being able to eat).

The ending itself is a pretty bold reimagining of the blandly happy ending that often bookends the Midas myth. It often just ends with Midas learning his lesson and retaining all his worldly goods. In Disney's The Golden Touch, Midas literally loses everything. Sure, it's based on Midas' impulsiveness (he doesn't even think twice about what he's saying when making that fatal deal with Goldie; he's just an mindless animal blurting things out in desperation), but that impulsiveness and recklessness is just punishment for a man who has no business ruling over anybody, or anything for that matter. Uncle Walt is a much harsher critic of Midas than Ovid or Hawthorne ever were.

I also like The Golden Touch simply because I like the dark, suggestive undercurrent of the tale. The myth itself is already bathed in frightening implications. The eerie uniformity of a kingdom glazed in a dull sheen. And not being able to do...anything, let alone eat. It's crippling and isolating and would send even the most stalwart soul into the fetal position.

Granted, The Golden Touch doesn't morosely dip its head into the widening gyre of its scenario. It is ultimately a silly, harmless cartoon at its core, but it's the suggestion of that darkness that matters. It's only a ten minute short and yet, its conveys its world with brisk efficiency and surprising creativity. And though it might not feel wholly satisfying in its brief running time, it managed to fire up my young imagination.

Even its inconsistencies are engaging. Like, when he touches his cloak, why doesn't it turn to gold? When he touches the apple tree, why are some of the apples still red? When he forks the big chicken, why doesn't the chicken turn to gold right there since the chicken is touching the fork that he's holding? Why does the chicken turn to gold when it touches his teeth? Is it implying that other parts of his body have the golden touch? If that's the case, then why don't his slippers turn to gold? This infinite regress of nitpicks, far from being frustrating, are actually tantalizing and fun. It gives the viewer license to wrap their head around the thorny practicalities of having such a curse. Like, I'm just imagining one of Midas' servants (if he has any) dangling from a rope and dropping pieces of chicken into Midas' mouth, in the vain hope that none of the meat turns to gold if it touches his uvula.

Also, I like the golden skeletal specters of death near the end. It's always nice when a cartoon aimed for children reminds me of the finite time I have left.

Would it be trite to compare King Midas to Walt Disney for the purpose of a sassy put-down? Yeah. I'm sure one can't help but make that comparison. Were they both somewhat controlling bastards who got a taste of their own medicine? Sure. But that's just symmetrical poetical thinking.

If anything, I could almost see the short as being self-deprecation on Walt's part, playfully imagining himself the way he thought other people saw him. He purposefully created a demon so others could slay it, and hopefully inspire confidence in his animators to outdo themselves. But that's symmetrical poetical thinking on my part.

The simple honest answer is that Walt Disney sincerely tried to direct a short, and nobody liked it, and he remained wounded about it ever since. But I think ol' Walt might have been a bit hard on himself. The man tried and I think it worked. It was a noble attempt at something different after multiple cartoons tackled such tried-and-true subjects like cats, birds, flowers, trees, mice, pigs, kittens, bunnies, insects, fish, and other assorted nursery rhyme miscellany. Walt tried to tackle the inner darkness of mens' souls, and he did it with the kind of palatable whimsy that we can expect from the man. It's good. I like it.

Now, I will end on my own sassy critic blurb: "The Golden Touch? More like The Silver Touch."

Thank you.

Further Reading

Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes by Edith Hamilton (the classic, go-to source for Greek and Roman mythology, although her section on Midas is listed in the section entitled "The Less Important Myths", which frankly kind of undersells my rigorous, pain-staking scholarship on the subject; how am I to be taken seriously on Tumblr with that kind of attitude, Ms. Hamilton?!?)

The TVTropes page on the Midas Touch provided examples of the myth's impact on pop culture; not an exhaustive list, I imagine, but it definitely answered my persistent queries on whether there have been any substantial adaptations of the myth.

When Walt Laid a Golden Egg by Jim Korkis https://www.mouseplanet.com/10214/When_Walt_Laid_a_Golden_Egg

Lastly, an interesting little article about the history of the short in question.

[elegyforiphigenia]

KRONOS.

⚠️ trade offer ⚠️ : next time i visit the burnt city i finally get to know what that 1:1 is all about and i'll rewrite this with that in mind. i joke. anyway, shamelessness aside! here's a piece inspired / telling the brand of weird guy loop that is kronos. so, all the usual punchdrunk triggers apply on top of spoilers for his loop - this is specifically based on milton lopes interpretation of the role, and i believe kronos is one where the loop can differ greatly! also potential spoilers for things people have said about hades.

He sweeps a little.

One must wonder if he was always a beast. After all, how does Tartarus craft the caretaker who will stalk its tenements? Perhaps before Prometheus was liver-bitten, he made him like mankind; crafted him from clay and then let the kiln be the fires of Hades. He shares his name with a Titan – it makes the picture come together clearly: maybe Hades ordered the bones of that first Kronos to be powdered into the clay that would forge the second Kronos. And so the first would have his own ribs encage him. We will never know. In spite of Kronos taking care of that infinite resting place, finality does not mean all answers are known. It only begs that we ask more. Even uttering Tartarus stirs up more falsehood than truth: fifty pairs of underwear hang from washing lines and a feast waits never eaten, but –  but there is little use in theorising now. The boulder will always stumble to the foot again.

Pinboards of franticising is such a trivial thing to the one who finds obsession amongst only the thread upon those boards. Red string. It never leads him anywhere. Still, though, he likes to take out a small torch and shine it upon the string threaded across the tenements he cares for. The pattern it takes – the writing surrounding it – if those way down were given hours, he would spend hours staring at those threads. All to a fruitless end – each cock of his head, each forward inspection, he is always led back to the tenement square. The most innocuous item is a constant source of distrust for Kronos. With dice, his constant pocketed companion, he experiences similar puzzlement. Too many a glad time spent pacing amongst the various rooms of Troy, slipping into an absent corner. He will take them, hold them in his palm, and occasionally, he will lightly throw them up. Only numbers fall back down. And still he will watch them with enough furrowed brows to make any watcher believe they are full of a higher purpose.

He sweeps a little.

Corridors possess the strangest of things. Kronos delights in this one for it is a collection of ordinary items. Bending down, the display is careful disarray, with a spillage of cutlery asleep near cans. From this heap, he picks up a knife, clutches it around his fist, and meanders onwards to where ordinary once more approaches him. On this occasion, it is ordinary death; even electric sheep must die and so a toaster must be broken. He sticks a knife into where bread should go. He feels nothing for nothing happens. The caretaker knows that his city is decaying, for it is not his city. Nearby, in a different room, he unfurls some paper near potpourri and a lamp. Yes. There is something he must do. Something grand in design, yet done as many times as he tosses a dice. It is only fools who think a caretaker offers entirely up that first half of his title to the population bleeding around him. Kronos is deliverance.

He sweeps a little.

In the uppermost level of Troy, confusion pounds blindingly through Klub. The sorts of men who attach a space of Bacchic potential to their office are the sort who make themselves a model citizen of Troy; the city is on the verge so let us drink; dance; drug ourselves into oblivion like the writhing snake in leather who is sharpening red under their eyes. Within this space, Kronos leers up against any who might provoke him with a look. He is a zoetrope spun at a faster speed, lunging harsh as the strobes make each second appear a changed picture. Beast! Not a god. Not a man. A young man, casually smart, watches this terror through the windows. The man – the boy – thinks it looks like a bull thrusting. When it is over, Kronos stands, looming over him, and cranes his neck from one side to the other. He watches the boy. From his pocket, he pulls out a necklace made only of red string: he ensnares the boy in it.

He sweeps a little.

To be a caretaker is to have access to all the rooms of the tenements. Most of the rooms appear abandoned. In one, he reduces the puzzlement of his world to a jigsaw. In another, he sits at a mirror. Whilst he sits there, girls and boys are being sacrificed and all the flowers have gone away to make their weeping graves. He looks at his reflection – worn-out clothes licked by sweat, a face peppered with slow days tiring – and raises a handheld mirror so that he might gaze around him. Flickering just a little are his lips as he catches the eyes of the strangest creatures from the corner of his own. These shadows of people reflect in the small mirror. Slowly, smiling slightly as he does so, he guides the mirror from side to side. He sees them. He briefly acknowledges their gaze when meeting their fearful-loving awe. It is all he can see of their face, and it is beautiful. He likes to make them scared. Terror is not always a threat; terror is the vulnerability of being known. In one pretty way, he admires them – so he lifts a masquerade mask adorned with a feather from the dressing table he sits at. He wears it and practices smiling in the larger mirror. Whereas his ones to the ghosts are minacious, his ones to the mirror are sickening in their forced, bright falsity.

He sweeps a little.

Kings receive floods of crimson, but a prince only receives a sprawled out sheet. Polydorus is a boy and he claws at the red string around his throat as his eyes bulge purple. When his sister dies, she will be stroked onto a sheet by a lover, but he stumbles onto the white sheet awaiting him and is unceremoniously tugged into a locked room by Kronos. Moloch must be sated. Child after child, Kronos takes them as provided sacrifice, feeding the golden bull god. Speak it again – beast! Not a god. Not a man. He understands the machine he is instructed to feed; he pumps it full of the unfortunate youthful blood who by birth are trapped in the labyrinth of Troy. Kronos smiles again for he sees the beautiful strange creatures process their despair at death like they should: the machine operates on too many levels he does not care for, but he understands that even the unseen feed it. Polydorus is left dead in his room. He hopes Moloch is satisfied for now. His task is done; odd jobs and business, he takes care of it all.

In a dark corner, he plays with dice, and stalks red thread. It will never lead him out of the labyrinth. Instead, it loops back round on itself: he does not register time beginning again as the red traps him. But it begins again.

He sweeps a little.

[ivy-kissobryos]

On Kharis

The mutual relationship between mortals and the powerful beings with whom they interacted is frequently characterized by the concept of kharis. Kharis translates roughly as ‘delight, a pleasing thing’ and has the sense of ‘favor’ or, more precisely, ‘ good turn.’ It lies at the heart of what scholars view as Greek religious reciprocity. The term frequently appears in the formulaic language of dedicatory inscriptions and in prayers of direct address to the gods. The idea of recompense and good turns suggests a world in which people and invisible figures entered into a relationship which included the assumption of ongoing future interactions. Robert Parker is adamant: “almost the whole of Greek cultic practice is in fact founded … on the belief or hope that reciprocity of this kind is a reality.”

The sense of reciprocity so evident in literature and epigraphical sources, however, often went beyond the ‘transactional’ towards exceptionally intimate and sentimental attachments. The idea of a protective divinity personally concerned with a human worshipper was already apparent in the Homeric poems, and Mary Lefkowitz comments that Sappho “describes a relationship with Aphrodite that appears to be both intense and personal.” Textual references refer to daimones and other sorts of helpful, and personal, spirits, while the visual arts show gods watching over their worshippers, much as Athena does with her potters. Those practicing Orphic or Bacchic burials hoped for a “closeness to the divine” that included divine protection in the afterlife. Equally close were those gods who came in dreams, described hovering at the shoulders of the dreamers with gentle smiles; in inscriptions, they were parastatai, gods who ‘stood beside’ their worshippers.

Thucydides notes that during the plague in Athens many people gave up worshipping the gods altogether, since the gods did not seem to be answering Athenian prayers; yet, simultaneously, the plague-ridden desperately sought divine help, even camping in sanctuaries. Anger at perceived divine unfairness was real and for humans the interaction with invisible beings could be stained by disappointment and bitterness just as much as adoration [...] Greeks understood that sacred beings could and did turn away from human appeals, rejecting sacrifices and offerings, leaving their shrines empty and filled with palpable absence. As Menander reports, it was not impossible to hear someone state “I sacrificed and the gods paid me no heed.” In turn, humans might respond by ignoring a god’s shrine (absence).

Source: Devotionalism, Material Culture, and the Personal in Greek Religion by K.A. Rask

[godsofhumanity]

About Dionysus being the same person as Hades, I want to ask (and that's a genuine question, I don't mean any hate towards you) where did you read that? Bc as far as I recall in the early versions Dionysus was identified with Zagreus who was the son of Persephone with Zeus (ew, I know) and in some versions with Hades (I think Overly Sarcastic Productions’ video about him explains it better). Sooo, you could say that Dio is like a son to the underworld couple, if that makes sense

yep yep valid question! anon is referring to my tags on this post. so uhh,,, quite ashamedly i read it on the universe’s most reliable source of information, wikipedia,, but i did some more research on it, and basically, it’s the interpretation given by the greek philosopher Heraclitus.

He says this,  “… For were it not Dionysus to whom they institute a procession and sing songs in honour of the pudenda, it would be the most shameful action. But Dionysus, in whose honor they rave in bacchic frenzy, and Hades are the same…” (Fragment of Heraclitus (5th BC), quoted by Clement of Alexandria 2nd CE.

So they were a unification of the two extremes of existence- Dionysus representing a fullness of life and Hades representing the inevitable end of it all, death (which makes for some really nice visual and poetic imagery).

Furthermore, Karl Kerényi (a scholar dude) notes that when Persephone went missing, Demeter refused to drink wine which is kinda like, Dionysus’ thing so that could be interpreted as saying that Demeter was really pissed at Dionysus/Hades who had taken her daughter, implying that Persephone is Dionysus’ wife. You could read further into Kerényi’s interpretation of Dionysus in his book, Dionysos: Archetype of Indestructible Life. 

Anyways, hope this answers your question!!

[chrysanthemumgames]

How much can we lean into the Dionysus aspect of the Mc? Can we get the wine/madness associations that he has? And since he’s (sometimes) one of the Twelve, can we become similarly influential on Olympus and known more for that than whatever we are in the underworld?(If it’s not too spoilery to answer of course)

So a lot of this is going to depend on how the PC chooses to develop their skills and abilities. Bacchic powers (wine, madness, revelry) are one possible result of this, and will probably require that the PC lean into the more Chthonic aspects of what’s available to them, rather than sticking to Olympian magic (this will all get explained at some point, so I’m holding off now to avoid spoilers, heh). 

The question about becoming a more prominent figure on Olympus is a giant spoiler, so I’ll keep mum on that for now. That said, players should expect the story to mostly take place in the Underworld or at least from that perspective. Any flips back to residence, etc. on Olympus are likely part 3 material at the earliest. 

[tigerweaver]

the GOD found himself tasting 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 on his lips      ,    dripping down his

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍.  soaking his teeth in a metallic taste.  who had left him tasting their plasma  ?   the question was un  -   answered.  as he found himself in a 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐄�� stupor. his eyes shooting to the 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 above. reading what the sky had to offer him this fine night.

the music of flute   ,     &    lyre   filled the night .   leaving   a sane man mad in dionysus ‘ s  influence. his head swirled on his neck when he finally found his wife. memorized by her features  &   the reptiles she chose to carry. she twirled   &    his heart skipped a beat.

he held onto her hands. pushing them around his neck in a way to allow her body to sway against his own. his own slurred tone carried back to her    ,     “ my love.  IIIIIIIII - am  so drunk.   “    he said. with a slight cackle .   

 the bleating of goats grew loudly through his words as satyr ‘ s passed by with a herd of them  ,

“   i  lost  you   back   there   to   the   maenads.  “  he  said.   picking at one of her hands and gently nipping on the finger ‘ s      ,      “   i   have  missed   you.  “

@singofus​   .   cont.   (  . . . )   .   th  :  bacchic muse.  

[bacchicly]

i love ur list!! lists make my day sooo much better and i love seeing others :,) hope you have a good one!

Thank you

Sooooo

Much!

I am so

UNBELIEVABLY

glad that

you like

seeing them!

They Really

Really Help

Me!

🤗

[thebacchichuntress]

Hello I'm a new witch and was wondering if I could ask a silly questions? What do you do with offerings? Like obviously you set them out but what do you do like do you throw it out after a time or bury it? I worship Hades and offer coins but like..I'm broke and don't know if I can take them to use after an amount of time or bury them or leave them, I also don't want spoiled food laying about? I've not found any sources telling me for after the initial offering. Thank you!

I have no idea how long this has been in my asks, but I hope this answer isn’t come to you to late @princessagony!

Personally, food/drink offerings either I leave overnight and then discard, or I offer them with the intention that I will consume it after a few minutes or hours, whatever is appropriate or once I feel They have partaken. Sometimes I even offer the first and last bite or sip of something I’m actively ingesting, as a very discreet way of making my offerings. But throwing things out, pouring it down the drain, burning or burying can all be valid ways to dispose of (or for those last two, a method to offer) your offerings.

For non-edible offerings, like coins, I think the same time constraint can be used. An offering is to some extent a transfer of energy and an act of worship, a show of appreciation. Some people feel the object to then be claimed by the Gods, which I have nothing against, but I personally think once the energy has been transferred it becomes a normal object again unless otherwise intended.

I think, if you are short on coin, Haides wouldn’t begrudge you retrieving your coin after He is done with them. Part of the power of currency is the change of hands, anyway.

If you have any other questions on the subject, please feel free to ask. I will try and be better about actively checking my asks in the future.

~~~

Be Well,

The Bacchic Huntress

[sylviekirsch]

McCarthyism and the Bacchanalian Conspiracy

What do McCarthyism and the Bacchanalian Conspiracy have in common? The answer: mass hysteria. Both the Conspiracy and the Second Red Scare, the latter spearheaded by U.S senator Joseph McCarthy, were characterized by heightened political oppression. Communists and the Bacchic cult were viewed as political threats in some regard because of their non-government sanctioned meeting in large groups. These meetings subverted the political power of the governing body. Further, the values and goals of both parties ran directly against the agenda of the Senatus and the U.S. government respectively. The groups are different, however, because the Bacchic cult was, well, an actual cult that did not value a specific political philosophy but were associated with illicit behaviors. These ranged from revelry, frenzied dancing, and sparagmos in the Southern cult to murder, sexual abuse, and fake wills in the East. The Bacchic philosophy developed from a place where people can ‘let loose’ and do things outside of society's convention. Because of this, prominent Romans such as Livy viewed the Bacchic cult as a foreign disease and expressed xenophobic sentiment towards the cult.

The Communist Party and the fear of the Soviet Union is what created the mass hysteria that allowed McCarthyism to thrive during the 1950s. Accusations were often given the benefit of the doubt and were therefore prosecuted anyways despite inconclusive or questionable evidence, and the level of threat posed by a person’s communist associations were many times exaggerated. This last point is where the similarities between McCarthyism and the Bacchanalian Conspiracy are most prevalent. These groups were persecuted unjustly because, again, their values ran contradictory to the Republic’s. Many involved were imprisoned (and in the case of the Roman Republic, executed), after their actions and beliefs (which they were for the most part legally allowed to engage in) were deemed threatening to the public. Overall, it is interesting to see how history repeats itself time and time again and makes one question why we don’t remember imperative events that could potentially influence our future decision making.

[alchemisland]

Mike’s list of Irish punk bangers

Recently I’ve been attempting to recall the results of a certain patch-decked census, namely the list of one-off punk bands I’ve seen over the years. Next came another, more troubling thought: if tomorrow morning a hemorrhage turned my wits to water, who would wrest this mantle and detail those defunct Irish punk and metal bands who split without leaving behind a recording? If not I, then who?

Rather than spouting a list of band names so unheard as to seem almost religiously profane when uttered aloud, I recall only the time when conjuring a selection suchlike was easy and did not require considerable aforethought, which counts as work and is thus un-punk. 

Perhaps it’s misremembrance which worries most. 

Striving to immortalize these rarities which, like rare nightbugs, enter one’s ear and soon thereafter die, I will compile these annals myself. I’ve opted for a regular selection of arbitrary Irish underground and alternate tunes. Mostly punk and extreme metal, although there’s post-punk, bassy weirdness, drone, rock&roll and hip hop throughout.

I haven’t yet considered breakdown metrics. By subgenre or county of origin perhaps, but that’s for a future iteration to say. Just count your good sense badges and be glad I didn’t use the originally planned ‘Pale Shadows’ and ‘From the Bog’ headings for Dublin and rest-of-country songs respectively.

From the forge of Hephaestus to your plateless breast, three of my favourite underground Irish songs:

Violins is Not the Answer - Sick

Unless someone’s asking what luthiers make, Violins is Not the Answer. However, Violins were someone’s answer when they tore the tucked shirt off Galway punkdom with their raucous 2011 debut Green Diesel and Poitin. It’s a time-tested sob story of Irish scene cohesion that lets so fresh a band go unnoticed, unhailed and handsomely unkempt outside their home county; it’s this exact myopia, although antipode, which confined Lovecraft in Rhode Island and left Howard’s hypothalamus on the dash under a Cross Plains sun. 

Aside from the band themselves, I doubt there’s another  person alive who has heard this album more than I. I’ve proudly flown that battered, cider-stained flag throughout a local and global invasion until Violins, not 42, became the answer, at least for me.

Has it really been that long? Eight years on it still excites much as the first time. Its engine-revving opening track conjures images of sputtering roadsters chewing the starting line of a Mad Max outback race, while the final upstroked riddums of its GBH-esque closer Sick promises the tinny best of Shitty Limits alongside the sombre heights of FNM’s Midlife Crisis.

Guitars that sound like they’re being played with chainmail’d fingers, vorpal bass tapping, ska pick it ups to HxC stick it ups (middle fingers in this instance), Green Diesel crams a maelstrom of alt genres into a curt 26-ish minute runtime. Ben’s phlegm-tinged vocals lead the sonic vanguard, bolstered and occasionally shelved in favour of fireman-cum-drummer Donal’s softer warble on cryptid welfare anthem Vampire on the Dole.

Sick is my favourite tune. The song, the album’s only track exceeding a three minute runtime, combines everything that makes Violins worth ear-time in the epoch of overchoice. Although Class Ayes and Dickheads Picnic deliver the nutkicks exactly how frontman Ben, of Psychopigs, Hardcore Priests and Doppelskangerz fame, wants them delivered, Sick offers a sample book of greatness to come across two recorded albums. Containing an otolaryngologist-approved mix of harsh shouting and actual singing, Ben’s disarming foghorn timbre sweeps us slowly toward the finish after a suppressing fire of growled insistence, “You ain’t never gonna come//between me and my bottle.”

Fans of short time good time are well served with riffy tunes in the vein of punchier Propagandhi songs, albeit playfully apolitical. Littered with in-jokes and avowedly pro substance, these tracks stink of fun in the studio, a subterranean lodge affectionately christened the Fritzl Bunker. Even angry songs fizz with youthful energy. It makes me want to drink malibu from a shoe in GG Allin’s house. It rouses me to a bubbling zenith of bacchic hedonism which Andrew W.K. can’t hold a candle to. 

There’s much here not found elsewhere; adjoining on Keytar Mr Jimmy Penguin of Skratch Games fame, his genius confined only by the breadth of his current interest; also the album’s producer. You can tell Jimmy put work on this record. Every groove is warm and tipped to perfect balance with just the right amount of hiss; right in the sense that it’s sometimes wrong. 

Since disbanded, there’s two albums worth of raw riffage to enjoy. From Refused rip-offs and Exploited shouts-outs to Elvis Costello tracks played backwards, find this album, buy a CD and tell your Granny this picnic is for dickheads.

I’m rambling. Violins is not the Answer. For my money, the best punk band in Ireland post 2010.

https://violinsisnottheanswer.bandcamp.com/track/sick

Divisions Ruin - Srebrenica/Merely Existing

I won’t lie. Much like a former athlete whose varsity gout impeded athletic excellence, I’ve had to settle here. I wanted the track Srebrenica from Division Ruin’s side of the Easpa Measa split - another band we’ll encounter later, or if not here than absolutely in future installments, should they ere be writ. 

I have the vinyl. Whenever I want to sonically experience withstanding a carpet bombing, I stick the needle down, turn the table over, sit in the lotus position and wait for oblivion. This track absolutely slays. The opening riff, an atomic discharge of heavy bass, distorted guitar and technical drumming from the scene stalwart and filler-player-extraordinaire John K, sears the ears, and one might be forgiven for touching that dial. Then the vocals come. Impassioned howls from the furious maw of Cirarot, which sound almost prehistoric in their primal ferocity. With my eyes closed, I feel the cymbal crashes like great waves and imagine people of the dawn age battling terrible beasties, although I’m not sure if she’s the lizard or its prospective prey. 

Although all their recorded tracks offer something for filth-seekers, I struggled to find another which accurately conveyed with sufficient brutality the blunt force flavour Srebrenica proffers. However you locate this song, ensure you’ve your iodine pills to hand; shit is about to get nuclear. In lieu of an active link, here’s another hefty slab from the same split.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARGqt0r_cVg

Easpa Measa- Vargold

B-side of the Divisions Ruin split, Easpa Measa deliver a cleaner, dare I say, more mature crust experience. Less raw but equal in ferocity, Easpa Measa’s Eric’s howls are twisted as the metal he contorts for his angry punky art, conjuring images of Ireland with reintroduced wolves.

We picture them on the plain, endemic of wider wildness among the populace. However you fall on the lupine legacy of Eireann’s isle, Easpa Measa deliver perfect high kicks on every tier. Riffs, loud bass and amazing drumming from Ken Sweeney, another scene stalwart also of Harvester fame, while Clodagh’s vocals, whose shrieking ire can only be matched by the shipwrecking songs of the sirens themselves, compliment Eric’s baleful howls.

Bring back the wolf indeed. Although so many years since its release the band have disbanded with ne’er a wolf attendant at a single show, this song’s singular ferocity more than accounts for any deficit of wolfnishness on the island. Don’t miss this amazing video from their final show, alongside the Freebooters at the Boh’s club in Dublin, with bonus front row Mike Dempsey (that’s me!).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wIQC6wk7sY

If you like this list or the tunes therein, let me know your thoughts and why they activated your nodding lever. 

If other bands are close to your heart but far from the zeitgeist, comment or PM with appropriate links and I’d be glad to include your suggestion.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read this short post. I’ll have interesting content by the fishgut bucketload in 2020, but should/hope to have one more live before yuletide at least. 

Please drop a like and share this post with your favourite PUNX. Give them the gift of Violins this Christmate. An early stocking filler to ensure the loyalty of nephews and nieces come the post-yule divorce news, here’s an.. Important music video I made for their track Dickheads Picnic.

[arbitrarylau]

terry & michael- "How Not To Be Seen”

@keithmoonie requested a story of Terry Jones and Michael Palin’s friendship. here it is! sorry it’s a little lengthy, but I hope that it’s quality enough to compensate. it takes place in their university days, in an ambiguously sixties setting. enjoy!!

(and sorry in advance for any typos or errors)

-------------------------------

Terry could hear the distant music of adolescence lingering in the air of the hallway– a sensation he often comprehended but seldom experienced. The path to the dormitory felt like a rite of passage, transferring him from the world of medieval solace to the normal world of university students. By the time he reached his destination, quite evident from the students loitering recreationally in the hallway, it was far too late to question his decision. Overstepping a dazed girl on the floor and pushing cautiously on the slightly opened passage to a Bacchic ritual, he was exposed to every contemporary method of intoxication. Marijuana, alcohol, LSD, and indirectly, yet seemingly utilized by many partiers, the intoxicating desire to gain sexual gratification by the end of the evening. It was at this point Terry fought the urge to run back to his room and continue reading about European history.

Yet he dominated his subconscious and positioned himself inanimately near the wall.

“Hey there,” he heard, shifting his observant quietness into interactivity. Terry saw a girl standing before him, smoking a cigarette. She had long blonde hair, and bangs concealing her forehead, and clothes that soothingly draped over her body, turning her into a personification of the decade’s culture.

“Oh, hello there,” Terry chuckled nervously.

“Don’t see you around these things, really. What’s your name?”

“Terry. Terry Jones,” he introduced, his eyes flickering momentarily to the side in a failed attempt to maintain composure. “What’s your–”

“Nancy. What brings a chap like you here on a Saturday night?”

Terry hesitated, trying to decide upon the most valid response. Time was limited, so he spoke honestly.

“I’ve been spending too many weekends studying. I thought that I’d maybe, well, try it out, you know?”

“Oh, so you’re pretty inexperienced then, eh?”

She took a step closer to him, lifting her hand to his arm, letting it gently slide down with unclear suggestion. Terry felt as if the wall had closed in slightly. He tried to hide the flustering red glow of his cheeks.

“I’m, oh, well, I don’t know. It depends on which way that you, mean.”

She raised an eyebrow, seemingly intending to play upon his nervous ramble.

“What sort of things do you know?” With this, she tilted her head slightly, with an innocent quality about the way her hair flowingly followed.

“I know… medieval history. Some of it, anyways. I’m learning it now,” he answered humorously in his own mind, although ambiguously in reality. Nancy smiled widely, inhaling more smoke.

“One second,” she said gleefully, yet with a slight twinge of suspect. Terry watched the glowing enigma walk away into the dimly lit activity of the party. He wished Michael could have come. But he didn’t want his friend’s absence to excuse this much-needed social stimulation. This was the right choice, he told himself. Partway into his unnerved contemplation, Nancy returned with two other girls.

“Medieval history, eh?” a brunette said, slumping onto her left leg. Another brunette on Nancy’s other side intently observed Terry, in an effort unescaped from his awareness.

“Oh, yes. I’m taking several courses on it right now.” He let the corner of his mouth rise, warming to her interest. The pressure was alleviating.

“Are you looking to be a historian?” she said, her ponytail swaying with her exuberant behaviour, comparatively to that of Nancy.

“Yes! That’s the goal!”

Terry felt a rush of excitement through his chest. He had entered an unknown world and discovered familiarity and empathy.

“You know, Linda has a thing for historians,” she added, referring likely to the third girl. The other one grinned in response.

“There’s nothing sexier than a historian,” she sighed, her eyes jaded with pleasure.

Nancy let the cigarette wedged between her long fingers slide out between her lips, puffing a cloud of smoke right into Terry’s face.

“Why don’t you teach us something?”

He looked between the three, simultaneously perceiving them as students and potential tormentors.

“Well, there were pretty distinct social classes around the time, with the monarchy–” (he saw Linda conceal her face momentarily, exposing a raised eyebrow and parted lips once she regained composure) “at the peak of importance…”

“Oh, go on,” Nancy prompted, trying to break his hesitant lecture.

“…anyway, they were important.” Terry felt increasingly congested. The weight of his clothing felt multiplied; his skin vigorously tempted to compensate for the heat. He pulled at the collar of his dress shirt, which greatly advertised his innocent individuality. “Are you actually interested in all of this?”

With a sudden shift to seriousness, they all nodded apprehensively.

“Please, go on–” the nameless girl urged, only to then break into a restricted laugh. She slapped her hand to her mouth in a sorry attempt to conceal it.

“Jane!” Nancy shouted accusingly at her, gaining Terry’s momentary affection. Her connotation crumbled as she continued, “you ruined it.”

With that, Terry felt the crushing confirmation of his foolery. He cleared his throat to seem unaffected, desperately avoiding a vengeful desire to hit his shoulder against Jane. He entered into the centre of the spacious dorm room, ironically an escape of clearer exposure. He heard the other two girls giggling harmoniously. He came face to face with a taller male student, his hair ruffled, and his shirt ambitiously unbuttoned. The student looked Terry up and down, grinning slyly.

“Did you forget your paperwork?”

Every unbearable and dreadful emotion hit Terry like a vehicle– embarrassment, exclusion, regret, frustration. He turned to the door, in which he vigorously intended to utilize, seeing Michael standing in the frame as if he were an appropriately-timed theophany of salvation. Terry approached and passed his friend, leaving his incomplete sympathies behind.

“Terry!” he heard Michael call out in concern. Terry stepped over the same girl from before, emerging himself in the collective of people on the path back to his room.

“Hey!”

This shout was more aggressive and concise, drawing his attention. Terry turned around in a similar fashion to the others in the compacted hallway. He met eyes with Michael, who paused, and then grabbed a cup from the floor.

“Hey look, everyone. I can do a handstand! I’m going to do one, so move out of the way.”

He lifted the cup to his face, tilting it back too strongly, the substance pouring all over his chin and neck. A few chuckles could be heard throughout the slightly-passive audience, from those students who believed they were better than the supposed drunkard on display. Michael placed the cup down and rolled up his sleeves. He squatted, positioned his arms to support his knees, and abruptly threw the bottom-half of his body up. Like an inverted pendulum, his legs powerfully fell forward, throwing him onto his back. Everyone laughed (the intoxicated: hysterically). A smile of realization fought the scowl on Terry’s face. Michael groaned, sitting up, looking at his best friend. This meeting of minds was pure and meaningful.

“Fuck all of this,” Michael stated as he slowly limped down the hall toward Terry. “Let’s go.”

Without any notice from the bacchants, Terry threw his arm around Michael as they left the adolescent air behind them.

“I thought you had your drama club meeting,” Terry pondered as they reached the stairwell.

“It ended early. I figured you’d want company.” Michael winced and grabbed the fabric against his tailbone. They continued walking, the eerie silence of the university echoing.

“…You didn’t have to do that. I know what you were doing. But you seem hurt now.”

Michael shook his head, smiling softly at Terry.

“…You’re right. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’ll never be able to handstand again.”

“Your career is at its end,” Terry continued tonally.

“Hey, why don’t you tell me about that lecture. You were really excited about it.”

“Oh! So, we learned about social classes…” Terry began, blushing shyly, blissfully pronouncing what was, to him, something far more relevant than the forces of intoxication.

(The End)

[samanddeaninpanties]

@spncoldesthits Promo And Review #1

Bacchic Delight by @violetlyvanilla

Pairing: Destiel

Rating: M

Summary: In accordance with Roman tradition, Dean has been anointed Bacchus for the night, which means he presides as King of the Feast. For the god of wine and wicked delights to be appeased, Castiel must make any offering demanded of him. Turns out Dean has a particular appetite that only Castiel can sate.

Review: Do you like Roman AU's? How about purple prose? What about role reversals? If you answered yes to any/all of those questions, I suggest you check out this fic! Personally, I got a kick out of the first couple paragraphs. Really lets you know right away what you're in for. Cas is pining hard for Dean. Even going as far as drawing him. You just know even without reading the tags something is about to go down. And the payoff is pretty nice.

As a bonus, Sam and Gadreel make an appearance! The Sam girl in me was happy to see him included in some way.

If you read this fic make sure to leave comments and kudos!

[a--world--apart--fic]

A World Apart - Chapter Six 1.2

Notes: Ask and you shall receive! Wednesday we’ll post just a sneak peak of chapter 7. Enjoy part two of chapter six! Discusses serious & dark adult topics. Please heed the trigger warnings! Tagged long post for mobile.

Rating: M

Trigger Warning: Assault, Violence

Word Count: 3918

Musical Accompaniment: Florence + the Machine - Howl

Tag List: @writtenbycandy, @hopefulmoonobject, @heatherfilliez, @theroyalweisme, @indiacater, @tmarie82, @enmchoices, @the-everlasting-dream, @diamond-dreamland, @lizeboredom, @drakewalkerwhipped, @youwontlikewherewewillgo, @mfackenthal, @kingliamthirst, @snyggflicka, @debramcg1106, @choicessa, @drakelover78, @starstruckzonkoperatorbat@blackcatkita , @drakewalkerfantasy, @jadedpixiescribbles, @walkerismychoice, @walkerduchess, @hamulau, @simplyaiden-blog, @hhiggs, @drivenbyfantasy, @penguininapinktuxedo, @viktoriapetit @breaumonts

Chapter Six ~ The Beaumont Bash 1.2 May 1914

This night has gone from passing strange to decidedly bizarre. It begins with the ivy leaves. Lord Rashad and Maxwell pass a golden plate of them around the circle, and each man chews his while trying not to wince. 


"And what is the meaning of this, Lord Rashad?" Liam tries to frame the question genially, not missing Rashad's insolent eye roll. The man needs to be shown his place, but Liam will have to be swift and merciless when he does it. Disturb the waters too briskly, and it could incite a mutiny. And Liam, of all people, knows how flimsy the bonds of this court can be when threatened. Snip the wrong thread, and the whole labyrinth will collapse. "Why are we eating ivy leaves?"



His wife's lover snorts. "They are sacred to Dionysus, your highness." How is it that every honorific out of this man's mouth sounds like a slur? The smoke from the brazier is thick and aromatic, and when Liam stares into the coals, he can see faint shapes that look like men, moving through a hellscape. But when he breathes the sweetish smoke in, the faint honeyed scent of kythi, pine and moonwort perfuming the air, it is gone. 


Rashad signals to Bertrand, whose face is already flushed from drink. "Step forward and be crowned the Lord of Misrule." Bertrand beams from ear to ear, stepping forward.



Maxwell lays a crown of ivy on Bertrand's head, and intones in a sonorous voice, "I call upon loud-roaring and reveling Dionysos,
 primal, two-natured, thrice-born, Bacchic lord..."(1)



The servants beat on a tambourine beyond the topiary, and blow discordant pipes. The wind picks up suddenly, throwing long shadows dancing across the lawn in the firelight, and strange shadows leap across the faces of the company. Liam swallows, trying to shake the deep unease that has begun to creep across his flesh.



Some sort of signal passes between Rashad and Maxwell, and then Rashad signals a footman. "Bring the wine." 


The footman hands Maxwell the bottles, and then departs. The young lord places the three bottles atop the sundial and fetches his saber. The blade whistles through the heavy night air and the corks roll at their feet like the heads of men, dark red wine dripping thickly from the bottlenecks. 


"A Beaumont tradition!" Bertrand crows with jovial bonhomie, though his voice sounds strange and low, another man's voice, a wild god's; looking out across the faces gathered here tonight, Liam feels displaced from time, as though he witnesses a ritual three thousand years in the ancient past, when men drank the blood of bulls and danced with ritualistic frenzy to the beat of the cymbals and the drums. 


"This wine, gentlemen, will make gods of men. It is the root of the love apple, satyrion, and ivy, macerated and stirred in a clockwise manner thirteen times then left to steep under the moonlight for three weeks." Rashad raises his glass.



"Dionysos, bearer of the vine, thee I invoke to bless these rites divine: florid and gay, of Nymphs the blossom bright, and of fair Aphrodite, Goddess of delight. 'Tis thine mad footsteps with mad Nymphai to beat..."(2) Maxwell is swaying, his eyes already inky wells of darkness. Liam would suspect he has already been drinking this wine, but in truth, he does not know.  


He raises his goblet, and they all toast Bertrand, and then Dionysus, and wine and women and their cocks. The wine is red and honeyed, with a slightly metallic bite. He does not want to drink it, but the other men are staring at him with eyes gleaming in the torchlight, and Liam knows he must. He downs the entire glass, and holds out his goblet for another.



They drink until the wine is gone, and then a servant brings out a platter filled with something reddish, oozing. Before Liam knows what's happening, Rashad and Maxwell have stripped Bertrand's shirt off, and the other men get the gist, all stripping to the waist, some pale and pudgy, others sleek and taut with whipcord muscle.



"We will paint ourselves like warriors of old, and become the masters of the wild hunt!" Rashad proclaims amidst cheers and howls. The sun has almost sunk entirely now, and a blood red crescent is swelling in the sky. The torches gutter as the wind whistles through the wind chimes in the branches of the trees, tossing the remaining ivy leaves in a whirl around them.



"The god hears us!" Bertrand bellows, his teeth stained dark with wine. "The god has come!" 


All around Liam, their eyes glitter, pupils inky wells in the flickering light. Tariq begins to strip off his trousers as well, but Liam stops him with a firm shake of his head. 


"I smell them!" Neville says suddenly, his chin red with ochre or wine, dripping in the firelight. "I smell cunny!" 


Heads whip up around the brazier, and Liam's stomach curdles in revulsion. Only Maxwell looks slightly anxious, and Liam remembers his friend is a virgin, and wonders whatever possessed Maxwell Beaumont to take part in this madness. But he knows. The pressure is too much to refuse. Even Tariq, whom Liam has wondered about for years, is here tonight, when the man would normally prefer to avoid the company of the fairer sex. 


Rashad whistles, low and deep, and Liam hears the nickering of horses. They are led towards the men by the grooms, deep chested blacks and grays and a wild Gypsy horse that tosses its mane in terror at their smell. Rashad has brought his stallion, a big black called Lucifer, truly a warhorse, eighteen hands high. He mounts the beast with catlike grace, and watches Liam mount a frisky roan with his eyes like slits, searching for any show of weakness. Rashad would murder Liam if he could, and Liam knows it in that moment, and a sudden thought trembles on the edge of his brain, What if --



"Steady there, Bertrand, you'll make  a widow of the girl before she's ever a bride!" Hakim claps a hand on Bertrand's shoulder, and it takes two men to help Ramsford mount the horse without slipping off.



He cackles drunkenly. "Give me my horn, brother! I wish to summon the nymphs!" 


Maxwell makes eye contact with Liam as his brother jokes lewdly with Hakim and Rashad. "I'll distract them if you want to slip back to the house now," he whispers solemnly. 

Liam nods, barely. "I'll double back. Good luck tonight, my friend. If you do not yet have a lady in mind, may I suggest the one with the green and black sash? I'm afraid you may not find the pleasure you seek with one of Madame Louisa's strumpets." Because you are too soft, and they are too hard, he thinks. They will rip you to shreds. 


Maxwell grins sheepishly. "I'll do all right. Thanks for the suggestion." He wheels his horse around, and blows on the horn once before passing it to the drunken Lord of Misrule, and Maxwell turns back to Liam and gives him the barest of signals, his face entirely lost to the shadow of the night.

•••

Sophia feels a deep frisson of unease run through her at the sight of the moon, a fat red sickle hanging deep and preternaturally large in the sky. As the women wind through the gardens in single file, masked and nude, Sophia's foot catches on something, and she stumbles forward, just barely missing the sash of the woman in front of her, who hisses over her shoulder, annoyed. Sophia grabs whatever it is, and keeps moving. The torches gutter in the darkness, and a sudden wind has picked up, throwing the scattered ivy leaves in a whirlwind before her, whispering Run, run.



As the gardens end and the lawns stretch out towards a twisted wood, the women come to a complete stop. There is a smoking and scented brazier here, and the rich honeyed scent of kyphi is stronger now, almost intoxicating, mingled with moonwort and pine, teasing and taunting the senses. A sundial, seemingly innocuous, is covered in sticky red streaks in the torchlight. 


The wind rises, and the torches gutter for a sudden, warning moment -- and then the howling begins. All of the fine hairs on the back of Sophia's neck rise, and the woman next to her, nipples rouged red from the communal pot, clutches her arm and whispers, 
"What in the name of...?" Her fine, cultured voice shakes with terror. 


The whores answer the howls with ululating yips, while the noblewomen draw back, discomfort in their postures. But it is too late to turn back now. The ominous clatter of hoof beats seems to echo across the night garden, like the beating of a tribal drum, and Sophia does not want to turn, and yet she must.

Closing her eyes, she listens to the grey wolves in the wood howl with the men, calling to them to their pack. Sophia pictures them lined on horseback, lips curled back, teeth bared, hungry for the flesh of their prey and shudders, tightening her fists in a panic, gasping as she pricks her finger on the object she picked from the ground. She opens her palm and is aghast, balking at the notched stone carved with a symbol -- Thurisaz. She has seen this symbol once before; cast in the bone runes of a Roma fortune teller the night before she ran from Kane. She recalls the old woman's warning (that she did not heed) and her throat constricts.

The howling stops, and in the still, fleeting silence she takes a deep breath, forcing air into her lungs, steeling herself for what is to come should she be caught. Sophia focuses intently on the dark shadows between the looming trees, anxiously plotting a path to asylum. The lawn is long, but if she is quick and crosses through the gardens, she may escape the clutches of the depraved men behind her.

The long, low rumblings of a hunter’s horn is heard, its vibrations thrumming through her body, quaking the earth beneath her feet. There is one measured blow, then another and she is running, against the whipping wind fast as her feet can carry her to the black of the wood, the raucous laughter of the hunters and the drumming of hooves muffled by the sounds of her raspy breath.

•••

Sophia is not in the room, nor is she anywhere in the house, and Liam has begun to have a terrible suspicion creep over him. He thinks of the other men, stripped to the waists, chests and faces painted in red ochre not ten minutes before: Bertrand crowned in ivy, looking like a wild god, Maxwell and Rashad beside him with their pupils blown out in the torchlight. On their black and white steeds, they could very well have been ancient centaurs, half-men, half-beasts, come down from the hills to slake their lust on mortal women and drink wine until they go into frenzies of ecstatic, wild madness.



Liam, too, is painted and masked, and the housekeeper lets out a scream of pure terror when she sees him in the kitchen.



"Where is the girl who showed my lady to her room?" Liam bares his teeth. "I am your king and you will answer!" 


The servants pull a girl with a copy of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales in her hands out of the larder, and she blinks like a mole in the light. When the housekeeper prods her to answer, she stammers out that she put Sophia in the room "with the other women." Liam feels the blood drain from his face. With the servants on their knees in terror, he storms from the house. 


That's when he hears the haunting call of the horn. And Liam runs.

He mounts his horse in one quick movement, clucking his tongue so it breaks into a steadfast gallop. No one but I will lay a finger on you. His words repeat in his mind like a broken record as he rides, pressing his spurs into the side of the gelding, urging it to go faster, faster.

But it is too late to stop it. It is bedlam on the lawn now the horn has been blown, a cacophony of unsettling sights and sounds unfolding before him -- the garish moaning of women on their knees in the grass, thundering hooves, the boisterous roars of nobleman. He rides on, desperately searching for any sign of her, but there must be a dozen women with honey hair in the horde. So he calls to her, intending to keep his promise, no longer caring for social station or who hears him shouting her name.



•••

Sophia’s leaden feet pound the ground beneath her, each footfall more painful than the last. The horses are so much faster than her and the lawn is long, too long. Her heart beats frantically in her chest, her breath labored, thighs burning. She’s so exhausted she feels she could collapse involuntarily at any moment, though she does not slow her pace. The silhouette of a great oak is in her sights, and she will run until her feet bleed to hide in the crest of its branches, enduring what she must to free herself from the fate of what awaits her if she gives up and allows herself to be taken by one of the devil men.

She’s almost to the oak tree when, so faintly she’s almost sure she’s imagined it, she hears his voice calling for her through the thick of the noise. Liam! Against her better judgment, she turns away from the haven in the wood and runs back into the heart of the field, following the sound of his voice growing louder with every step.

The calls stop for a moment, then begin again, closer than before, but her name on his lips is different… the voice sounds coarser, darker, and Sophia cannot put her finger on why. Still, she pursues him, raring to feel safe in his arms and get away from the madness around her. Then, suddenly, she lets out a sharp cry of pain as a strong, unwavering hand grips her by the back of the neck, pulling her up onto their horse by her hair. She looks down at the hand bruising her thigh, squeezing tightly, and is horrified, for it is indubitably not the hand of the king.



"Hello, Sophia." It is the Queen's lover, captain of the Royal Horse Guards, the man whom Savannah warned the other maids about. A flirtation with him means death. 


How he knows Sophia's name, she knows not, and she struggles against him, clawing at his cheek, drawing blood. "Let me go," she begs hoarsely, and he laughs, low and dark.



"He thought to keep you all to himself tonight." Rashad's voice is threaded with vicious delight. "Well, let him see how it feels to have the thing he loves most taken from him." 


Sophia opens her mouth to scream, and then his lips are upon hers, hard and bruising. She bites his mouth and he draws back, bleeding, his eyes dark and terrible beneath his devil's mask. 


"Bitch!" he snarls, and his palm connects with her face, her head snapping back from the force of it. Sophia tastes blood on her tongue, thick and coppery, and she screams Liam's name. 


"Sophia!" she hears Liam's anguished howl as though from far away, and the world is blurring before her eyes, though she cannot tell if it is from the tears or the blow; branches whip at her face as they plunge into the dark wood, and Rashad is laughing, low and dark, filling Sophia with terror. 


She hears Liam shouting for her, hears his horse plunge into the thicket after them. He's coming. Liam is coming for me. She twists in Rashad's grip, pummelling his chest and his face, teeth bared. Rashad pushes her down, holding her by the back of the neck, and they break out of the woods, beside a ruined shrine and a little spring.



He dismounts, his hand twining in her loose hair, holding her up by it, and she has never hated her long hair more, for the weakness it brings. He seems to be waiting for something, listening, his head cocked toward the wood. Sophia listens too, and she hears it: Liam fighting against the thicket, almost upon them now. 


Rashad forces Sophia to her knees, his hand twitching on the buttons of his breeches. He is waiting, she realizes, for Liam to come. He is playing some terrible game here, dark and twisted. 


"Unhand her!" Liam bursts through the trees and Sophia nearly sobs in relief to see his face. He dismounts, striding towards Rashad, who jerks Sophia up and kisses her roughly. Liam wrenches Rashad away from her, and then he is atop of him, his fist making a monstrous noise as it slams against Rashad's flesh. "Have you had enough?" Liam hisses, his face twisted with rage. 


Rashad begins laughing, laughing, the harsh echo filling the night. 


Liam hits him again and again, and then he is in a frenzy, and Sophia grasps at him, trying to pull him off Rashad, screaming in his ear, "Liam, stop!" but he does not hear her. He will murder Rashad tonight if she cannot stop him, and the realization of what it will mean chills her straight to the marrow. She dashes to the spring and fills her hands with water, which she throws upon Liam, breaking his concentration.

He shakes his head like a bull, coming back to himself. "Sophia...?" Liam asks, unsure. His hands are slick with Rashad's blood.



"He didn't hurt me, Liam," she says firmly, drawing him away. "Come, let's return to the house."



Behind her, she hears Rashad moving in the grass, so she knows he lives, but beyond that, she does not care.

•••

Sophia kneels before Liam on the bed, gently wiping the blood from his mangled hands with a cold cloth. She has wrapped herself in thin blanket, hiding her wounds from his view.

“Sophia --”

“Don’t, Liam,” she whispers sharply. “I want to return home at first light. Please, I cannot bear to be here any longer than we must be. I want…” she trails off. Drake, she yearns to say, but does not dare, for tonight she has seen to what violent lengths Liam will go to keep her as his own, and it strikes fear in her heart.

“I cannot just leave, Sophia. It would be unspeakably rude to the Beaumont’s, and they are a valuable alliance to the crown. The estate will look different in the light of day. I’m here now. You have nothing to fear,” Liam smiles gently, pulling her into his arms, the blanket falling from her body. He gasps seeing her in the light, stunned by the sight of her battered frame: deep purple welts on her back from Madame Louisa’s switch, bruises in long lines the shape of fingers on her thigh, burning red marks settling in the crook of her neck from being carried by her hair.

“Oh gods,” tears well in his eyes, his voice breaking. “You said he didn’t hurt you. That pompous animal will pay for his sins, Sophia. He will pay for what he did to you, my love.” Liam’s eyes darken, and Sophia tries, in vain, to swallow the bitterness burning in her throat at his hypocrisy.

“You will not kill a man in my name, Liam. Rashad has paid for his sins tonight at your hand, it is you who has not paid for yours,” she rises from the bed, ripping her hand from his. “I should never have come here with you. I am not your plaything.”

“My sins? I know you are upset my love, as am I, but I had no more control than you over what happened here tonight. You were never meant to see those horrible things, and for that I am contrite. I acted the moment I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Surely you do not blame me for the mistakes of a silly servant girl.”

“You forget, I too am a silly servant girl,” she spits his words at him, fuelled by the feelings she has kept tightly coiled since laying in his marriage bed with his queen. “You promised me no one would lay a finger on me but you and look at me!” Sophia grasps his jaw and turns his head to her. “Look at the marks left by the hands that have been on my body this night! I have been beaten, tormented and nearly…” she stops, a choking sob swallowing her words.

Liam rushes to her, holding her in a warm embrace. Her hot tears cascade onto his shoulders as she grips him tighter, weeping. “You promised me, Liam. You promised me. You promised.”

“Oh, my darling. I know. I know and I’m so sorry. No one will ever hurt you again, Sophia. I will protect you. Always.”

“And who will protect me from you?” Sophia gently pushes Liam away from her, thoughts of Drake swirling in her troubled mind, thinking of how she has never felt so safe in Liam’s arms as she does in his.

“You don’t mean that, Sophia. I would never hurt you,” his voice is small and frail, his face twisted in anguish, like she has shot an arrow through his heart.

“But you already have, Liam! Beyond measure. When you summoned me to you and Madeline, you swore I was safe with you, but I wasn’t, was I? I was so terribly drunk I could not stand, Liam. You barely gave me a choice. What’s worse is you would not even look upon me when the deed was done, like I was nothing to you.”

Tears are slipping down her cheeks freely, every bit of raw emotion she has buried deep since that fateful night pouring out of her like a burst dam. The anger, confusion, the pain, overwhelming and pure joy when she discovered… their child. And then, unimaginable grief realizing she could not keep it, not now. How could she after what they had done?

“I never meant to hurt you. I was so ashamed, Sophia. I love you, and I will be with you until my dying breath if you will have me. Without you, I am nothing. You are my strength, my joy. Madeline, what we did to put a child in her, that is the terrible price of wearing the crown.”

“And will our child pay a price as I have?” Sophia cries, so tired of keeping her secret that it spills from her mouth unwittingly. “Where does it end, Liam?”

Liam’s eyes widen at her admission, as do hers, and he stares at her for a long moment, assimilating her words. “Our child? No, it’s not possible,” he proclaims, mystified.

“I have not bled since early March.”

Liam falls to his knees before her and presses his forehead against her stomach, kissing it over and over, softly, weeping.

“I am with child, Liam. Your child grows inside me.”

Orphic Hymn 30

Orphic Hymn 46

[femgirlfriend-moved]

Tagged by @disbander-of-armies​ omg thank you <3 i haven’t done one of these in...so long but i’m at least 56% a human being i can assure you

Rules: Answer 30 questions and tag 20 blogs you would like to get to know better

Nickname(s): i..actually don’t have any nicknames lmao...everyone just calls me by my n//ame which is not my favorite but shrug emoji. i mean people have tried various shortened versions of my already short name and it sucked even more tbh

Gender: gaye lesbian bitch that’s my gender

Sign: sc*rpio

Height: idk like 173cms or something like that 

Time: 10:52 pm night is young

Fav band(s): obviously this is at the moment right because no person can actually like...choose just one so right now probably...the sisters of mercy

Fav solo artist(s): right now probs lady gaga

Song stuck in my head: fghjkl;;kjlhj like that song that was playing when dennis from iasip was dancing for older women which is the chorus of stacey q - two of heats 

Last movie I saw: omg i have no idea....the sad truth is i haven’t been interested in any movie recently...i don’t remember honestly

Last show I watched: rupaul’s drag race, the new ep from season 10 lmfao i need my weekly drama 

When did I create my blog: i honestly don’t know it was a long time ago but i only started to actively use it since....2 years ago maybe...before that i would just reblog lotr fanart 

What do I post: besides my depression logs i’m aware a lot of my followers are here for the classics ramblings and that’s a big interest i have and like sharing so i guess that? of course there’s also voltron nonsense from time to time but trust me it hurts me more than you

Why did I chose my URL: it’s just the description of who i am as a person

Following: 146

Followed by: like i would doxx myself and tell y’all how unpopular i am haha

Average hours of sleep: either 13 or 4

Lucky numbers: none numbers hate me

Instruments: took some violin lessons but never talk to me abt that bcs i haven’t touched that violin since high school sjfhsdajklgfd i want to play the guitar tho... i’m not particularly gifted here but i love music :’(

What I am wearing: a white t-shirt my sister discarded that promos the university she went to and black underwear this is my sleeping outfit thank you v much

Dream job: bacchic artist who ascends to christ by painting naked ladies

Dream trip: tracing alexander thru asia

Fav food: literally any food if prepared well...i love food

Nationality: rom*nian but anicent greek at heart

Fav song: can’t say even at the moment this is like impossible for me

Last book I read: uhhh do some essays abt alexander count

Top 3 fictional universes I wanna join: none tbh i just want to live in ancient greece and write poetry isolated from the world play the harp eat a grape maybe two

I tag uuuuuh uhhh uuh @smokedgouda @eclogues @wyrmlovingwyrm @catullan @fellowshipofthegay @birdbian anyway i’m not tagging 20 people what am i some kind of popular