#candle pavane

[birdofdawning]

The Bookseller’s Eldest Daughter and the Witch’s Girl

The first chapter is here; the previous chapter is here.

Chapter Three

Afterwards the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was never able to tell how long she was at the fairy revel, or even that much of what she saw and did there.

It was like a hideous fever dream that you can never quite forget nor entirely recall, the sort where small inconsequential things — a fly crawling on a hand, the ornate floral frame around a portrait, the pattern on the carpet under your feet — take on enormous significance, while the actual events fade into a hazy malaise. She knew that she was in a great ballroom, and that it was dark and crowded and uncomfortably warm. The air was close and heady and smelt of earth and spices. Candles were everywhere, dripping fatty tallow on the floor and burning with steady red flames that made the laughing faces in the crowd around her loom large and grotesque as they jostled past, appearing and disappearing into the throng.  

The music pervaded everything, though she never saw the performers. She could feel it in her veins, urging her to join the revelry, and she would suddenly discover herself performing a wild galliard with other laughing dancers  — some of whom she felt she ought to know, in that odd half-maddening way we all feel sometimes (if only she could think) — or taking part in a riotous cotillion with a man who seemed to be hollow from behind. A poorly-dressed girl who seemed about her own age danced past her looking exhausted, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter saw that wherever this girl stepped brambles grew, so that she must keep moving least the thorns catch at her and coil up around her.

She thought that she may have stared for some time at her own distorted reflection in an old mirror... and then someone laughed and offered her wine; but when she reached for a cup from their tray she saw that a large toad was sitting solemnly among the vessels and she recoiled, startled. And then everyone laughed again and she laughed too, and they all moved on into the dance.

She explained the intricacies of a Spanish novel she had once enjoyed to tall grey woman who had water dripping down her skin and a sodden gown. While the girl talked the woman silently caressed her face with both hands, which was both a little disconcerting and unpleasantly wet. When the girl got to the really interesting part of story the lady smiled, showing far too many sharp teeth.

She remembered the music slowing at one point, becoming more sombre, and the crowd parting for a languid pavane to pass. All the dancers wore crowns of burning candles, hot wax dripping down their faces, and among them she thought that she recognised a woman from the next street over who she knew had died two years earlier, and another woman who she was sure was married to the baker on Clock Street. Then the procession was lost to the sight of the girl, who forgot all about them almost immediately.

In fact, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had become so lost in the fairy revel that she may have stayed with them forever if it hadn’t been for a very fortunate thing that happened. She was deep in conversation with a smiling man in a velvet tail-coat; he was speaking of Roman law and she was staring in fascination at the snail that was slowly crawling up his cheek. She was only distracted from this when a child offered her a tray of golden apples. She took one without thinking, bringing it up to her nose to smell. And at once she was beset with the most delicious scent. The apple smelt of sweetness and long summer nights and dark eyes and secret kisses exchanged in an orchard, kisses exchanged with— who? She couldn’t think. The smiling gentleman asked her Why do you not eat? And she was just opening her mouth to take a bite when— oh! She felt a sharp pain in her foot, and looking down she saw— what do you think? An ordinary little black hen, just like the ones everyone kept in their yards in her neighbourhood. And this hen had cocked its head and was giving her a short, cross look, like hens do. Then all at once the girl remembered going out to the coop on frosty winter mornings to let out the hens, and throwing out grain for them, and gathering eggs for her sister to cook. And abruptly the reality of her sister’s awful plight came back to her, making her gasp.

When she looked back down the little black hen had already scuttled away among the throng of the ball, leaving the Bookseller’s eldest daughter feeling like she had just woken up from a heavy sleep. She glanced about her but everything was a nightmare of moving bodies and murmuring voices and that incessant unsettling music that seemed to make her bones vibrate like they were made of glass. The smiling gentleman again urged her to take a bite of the apple, but now she remembered exactly why she shouldn’t eat anything offered to her in this place and she said “Do you know, I think I shall leave it for later,” and dropped it into her satchel. The gentleman immediately lost interest in her and moved on to join another cotillion that had formed nearby and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think about what she ought to do next. She needed to find her sister’s head, but where to start?

She had just decided that she would climb up onto a table or chair so she could get a better look at the ballroom when a great cheer went up from the dancers. Looking around she saw that at the end of the ballroom a very Wonderful Person — why, the very same Wonderful Person that she had seen in Mr Prosper’s house only last night! — had stepped up onto a podium and, lit by a soft white light from above, was smiling down at the company. They wore a brocade dressing gown over a wine-dark suit, and an elegant pair of ram’s horns grew from Their forehead. Hands in Their pockets They waited for silence, smilingly.

“My dear friends,” the Person finally began in a melodious voice that rang out like a pistol shot, “It is that time of the evening when we must needs acknowledge the fortunate guests — O, how so very fortunate! — who have been received into our gracious company, and to take a moment to drink a toast to them. But more importantly we give them this opportunity to drink a toast to us, their kind hosts, to whom they are — of course! — so very obliged. (Or are they obliged? Who can say; Mortals are remarkably ungrateful creatures, and, to tell the truth, I have not paid much attention.) But still, a toast!” And at a gesture from the Wonderful Person a thin, pale young man stepped out of the crowd and handed Them a goblet of spun glass that contained some heavy golden liqueur. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter eyes lingered on this young man… there was something slightly familiar about him, as if she had seen him before but did not number him among her acquaintances. But then the thought was broken as all about her revellers lifted up old drinking horns, wooden cups, chalices of crystal or bone. A cup was thrust into her hand by an unseen person and she imitated the others.

Then, with an ironic twist of their mouth, the Very Wonderful Person cried “My friends — to our guests!”

To our guests! The company all repeated, laughing, and drank deeply.

Fortunately, when she was twelve the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had read a slim volume entitled The Parlour Mountebank: Twenty-Six Simple Stratagems to Amuse and Bewilder, and she had been inspired to practice the trick of appearing to drink while actually emptying the liquid down your sleeve, causing her sister (who even then did most of the laundry) to become very annoyed with her. So she downed her cup too and tried to ignore the unpleasant feeling of liquid soaking through her dress.

After drinking the Very Wonderful Person leaned down slightly to regard a befuddled beggar that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter vaguely recognised from about the city. Cupping the beggar’s chin in Their hand and turning his head first one way and then another, the Person regarded him thoughtfully.

“How small they are, and how fleeting. And ugly. Like mayflies. Mayflies darting about, always in a hurry, always trying to outrun each day of the short time they have in this world.”

“Wha—?” said the beggar, swaying.

“Quite so, quite so,” said the Very Wonderful Person kindly, and patted the beggar’s shoulder as They stood straight again. “Such is mortality.” They suddenly gave the poor man a sharp kick that sent him sprawling backwards into the laughing crowd. The Very Wonderful Person smiled down beneficently for a while as the beggar was roughly buffeted about by those he had fallen against, and then They raised Their hands, drawing back the attention of all.

“But these mortals who have found their way among us tonight! O, these lucky, lucky mortals…! Why, Dame Fortuna smiled on these few unhappy mayflies when we, their Very Good Friends, invited them into our sublime company. And for a time — only for a time! and this is their tragedy! — we have shown them such raptures and wonders that, upon their return to their grubby little abodes and unforgiving lives, they will soon likely wither away and perish for the want of our attentions. And how unhappy they shall be!” The Very Wonderful Person tilted Their head and took a moment to chuckle at this thought.

“BUT FOR TONIGHT!” They shouted abruptly, making everyone jump. “But for tonight…” They whispered, and a tear trickled down Their shining face while They stared beatificly into the middle distance, “O, how they shall live and delight and revel among us! How blessed a mortal who finds such kind friends as we!”

A chorus of agreement came from the crowd, but the Very Wonderful Person had suddenly become fascinated with Their goblet and had fallen silent. After a moment the viols and pipes again struck up and the dance began once more, but still the Person stood, turning the spun glass goblet this way and that, admiring how the soft white light shone through and formed colours that danced upon Their fingers. Asently, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tilted her head back to follow the light back to its source.

And there, suspended in the darkness, floated her sister’s beautiful head, radiant in that unruly place.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stifled her cry of astonishment and turned to fight her way to the edge of the crowd, narrowly avoiding becoming caught up in another processional, as she tried to see how her sister’s head hung in that darkness like that. Was it dangling from the rafters on a rope? Or floating through some fairy magic? (And if the latter, how on earth was she to retrieve it?) Stepping outside of the ring of guttering candles and shading her eyes, she was finally able to see that an upper gallery ran around the ballroom, with several fine ladies promenading around it and watching the ball through opera glasses. And there, at the far end of the gallery, her dear sister’s head had been rather brutally hung from a railing by its own long, brown hair.

Looking quickly about the Bookseller’s eldest daughter saw the stairs leading up to the gallery tucked away in the shadows across the room, and made for them. Two dancers whirled around her, reaching out to pull her into their sport, but the girl ducked away. A tiny wall-eyed old man appeared in front of her proffering a tray of plum cakes that she knew, somehow, would grant her the ability to read people’s dreams if she but ate one, but she stepped around him. A lady in a moss-covered dress crossed her path leading a great wolf on a silver chain and the beast glanced over at her, curious, perhaps, at her determined gait; but then it lost interest and followed its mistress back into the throng. Now her path was clear, and in seconds she had started up the stairs.

It took a moment for her eyes to get used to the dim light away from the ball, but when she did she came to an abrupt halt. Half-way up the staircase was a long, crouching figure swathed in a black shroud, and it was slowly descending toward her, feeling along each step with its hands as if searching for something. After a moment she took a hesitant step and at once the thing turned toward the noise, reaching out as if to grasp her. But its sleeve-covered hands found only air for it was still a few steps above her; and, with a dreadful sense of relief, she saw that its face was entirely covered with wrinkled cloth. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think of a plan. If she moved, even backing down the stairs, she was afraid that it would be upon her in an instant. The unexpected had occurred, she realised, and so she must extemporise.

Slowly slowly she reached into her satchel and found the golden apple she had put there. Slowly slowly she pulled it out. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she flung the apple past the thing on the staircase — but on the opposite side to where she herself stood. The apple landed with a thud, and then bump! bump! bump! it began rolling down the steps. The creature had immediately twisted back toward the noise with a swiftness that made the girl’s heart skip a beat, but every time it tried to capture the object that was coming down the staircase, the apple was already upon the step below it. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter squeezed herself against the wall as the thing passed her, and she felt worn fabric and long damp hair brush past her and smelt dust and the scent of a woman’s old-fashioned perfume. And then the figure was gone, lost among the crowd of the ballroom.  

Releasing a breath, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter turned and began ascending the stairs again.

The gallery was lit by fireflies that orbited like stars about the several finely costumed ladies as they walked and talked together, discussing the dances below. Behind them hovered pages holding ready the fans and refreshments of their mistresses. No-one even glanced toward the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as she slipped past them like a shadow, though one lady sniffed the air and said “Have you found a new page, my dear? How diverting!” But her interlocutrix denied this and said that on the contrary she had been meaning to obtain a new child for some time now, because her current page was beginning to complaining of stiff joints and grey hairs, and it was becoming rather a bore — she would probably change him into something diverting soon and release the thing he had become upon a village somewhere. The others nodded sympathetically and said Aren’t mortals such a bother?

By now the girl had made her way to the end of the gallery where her sister’s head hung, still radiating that lovely soft light.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter crouched down low beside the railings. From her satchel she took the knife, some string, and the large parcel tightly wrapped in oilcloth. And had any of those fine ladies turned their head to look back down the gallery a moment later, they would have seen her gently cutting away the beautiful chestnut tresses that tied the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head to the railings. And then the head itself was lifted away and gently wrapped in a large white handkerchief. And in its place the thing from the oil-skin parcel was hung.

But all were far too absorbed in their amusements to pay attention to the doings of a cheaply-dressed shopgirl; and in fact the merrymaking continued for several long moments before anything amiss was noticed. Then the Very Wonderful Person, who was still standing in a reverie, felt a drop of liquid strike Their shoulder. Glancing at it, They saw that it was blood — and, why, here was another drop! And looking up They saw, not the beautiful face of the Bookseller’s youngest daughter but — what do think? Ah, but you have guessed already! — it was a fresh sheep’s head, still dripping from the butcher!

“DECEPTION!” screamed the Wonderful Person, Their beautiful face contorting in rage as They pointed an accusing finger. “That false magician has tried to cheat us out of our prize with duplicitous counterfeiting spells!” The music stopped abruptly, and from all around came low angry murmurings that rapidly grew into bellows and shriekings of fury that were truly dreadful to hear. “To me!” thundered the Wonderful Person, “and onward! O, my friends, how we will pay back this petty-conjuror for his unspeakable impertinence!” [1] There was a swirling of shapes and colours, like a kaleidoscope of butterflies enveloping one before flying away, and the sound of a multitude of footsteps trampling over a hard wooden floor. And then the candles all blew out at once and the hall was empty.

A moment later the Bookseller’s eldest daughter crept out from the shadows of the staircase and made her way outside, gently supporting her satchel.

The Bookseller’s oldest daughter emerged from the waters of the river, quite dry as before, and staggered up the white steps to find the little black horse waiting for her. She threw her arms around its neck, wordlessly burying her face in its warm shoulder. After a moment the horse began nuzzling her hair in a comforting sort of way.

But soon the Bookseller’s oldest daughter stepped back from the little black horse, took a breath, and said “I suppose we should go home now.” The horse stood still while she awkwardly climbed onto its back, one hand guarding her satchel from buffeting.

And of course, all she wanted to do was to go straight to her home above the bookshop and restore her sister at once, just as you would expect. But she knew that she needed to return the little black horse first, and thank the Witch’s girl for its loan, and also to… well, to thank her for help again and so-on.

So the horse trotted back into that strange blue-lighted mist and they made their way through the dream-city. And perhaps the Bookseller’s eldest daughter dozed a little in the saddle (and if she did, well, no wonder after all her night adventures!) because it seemed to be almost no time at all before they were stepping through the Witch’s back gate behind the Brazier’s Quarter.

The horse came to a stop as the girl rubbed her tired eyes. The sky had lightened enough that she could see the tiny yard with its hen coop and little else. No Witch’s girl emerged from the house to greet them. She slid down to the ground and embraced the horse again, giving it a kiss on the cheek. “ Thank you!" she whispered, "I don't know if you are really a horse, if a very clever one, or a spirit in the Witch's service, but I think you are quite wonderful!” The creature rolled its eyes and turned its back on her, and she laughed and left it there.

But when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stepped into the Witch’s kitchen she found that it too was quite empty, and cold besides, for the stove hadn’t yet been lit for the day. And, why, here were their tea cups from the evening before, still sitting unwashed on the table! She looked about her wondering if she ought to do something, feeling that awkwardness visitors always have when faced with household tasks that obviously need to be done. Perhaps she should go back outside to unsaddle the horse and begin currying it?

It was at this moment the Witch’s girl appeared, coming in from the yard. She carefully carried several eggs wrapped in her apron and from a finger dangled the lantern that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had left tied to the little black horse’s saddle.

“Hallo!” she said, “Here you are, alive and unensorcelled. It must have been a good four-step plan after all, which I find surprising. You will have to tell me all about it while I light the stove.”

So the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sat down at the kitchen table (perhaps a little gingerly, for she was already feeling sore from riding) and began telling the Witch’s girl of her night’s adventures. She talked about that strange ride through the city, and discovering the revel being held in the reflection of the old villa, and of her careful preparations. But when she tried to speak of the ball itself, and what she saw and did there, her tongue stumbled in her mouth and her words failed… and then she found she couldn’t go on.

“I… I can’t… Why can’t I…?” she puzzled, and then looked alarmed. “Have I been I enchanted into silence? Is this how the fairies protect themselves from trespassers?” She gripped the table and tried to keep the panic from her voice.

But the Witch’s girl left what she was doing and knelt down beside her. “I don’t think so, my dear,” she said calmly, taking the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s hand and holding it between her own. “I think that you have just been through a very frightening experience, and you were able to carry on because you are a brave and clever woman. And now that it’s over, and you don’t have to be brave anymore, you can finally feel scared in safety. It’s all quite natural.”

Now I’m sure you yourself have noticed how we can all stay strong and stoic through the direst troubles but as soon as ever someone is kind to us about it we immediately fall apart. And to her great horror, as soon the Witch’s girl said all this of course the Bookseller’s eldest daughter burst into tears.

“Oh my dear!” said the Witch’s girl, embracing her, “Oh my brave girl.” And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter hid her face in her shoulder and wept.

“You poor thing,” said the Witch’s girl as she patted her back kindly, “You have been very courageous indeed. I fancy you only have an inkling of the danger you were in—” At this the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sobbed louder and the Witch’s girl went on quickly: “But you have come through it like a hero! Why, someone could write a poem about you.”

“In iambic pentameter?” sniffed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“Oh, dactylic hexameter or nothing!” proclaimed the Witch’s girl. “There, there. You’re quite safe now.” And she began absently untangling the verbena from the girl’s hair with her free hand.

“You smell of horse,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter into her shoulder.

“So do you,” said the Witch’s girl.

Finally the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sat back up. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve in a way that would have annoyed her sister, “I think you were quite right: everything all rather overcame me once I knew it was over.”

“That’s often the way,” said the Witch’s girl wisely, “and a well-deserved cry afterwards is no disgrace. Are you feeling better now? Then let’s have a look at your sister.”

Unwrapped, the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head winked and blinked at the two of them in confusion as the Witch’s girl examined her, but, having no breath to speak with, it remained silent.

“I haven’t the least idea of how to swap the heads back,” realised the Bookseller’s eldest daughter suddenly, “Honestly I hadn’t thought that far ahead!”

“Ha ha,” said the Witch’s girl obligingly, leaning down to look at the severed stump of neck, which was as cleanly covered with skin as the rest of the head, “But I must say, your lack of foresight upon this matter astonishes me. Surely you have some book somewhere-or-other on fastening magically detached heads back onto their bodies? I am afraid your bookshop must be sadly lacking if not. I shall certainly avoid it when next I require reading materials.”

“Not magically detached heads,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, annoyed. “We do have books on anatomy and chirurgy, of course, and—”

The Witch’s girl, stood back up and deftly wrapped the head back in its handkerchief “I think you’ll find,” she said, “that you will have very little problem. The head hasn’t really been separated from its body, not in any important way; that’s how both parts are still alive. Just… I don’t know, nudge the sheep’s head aside with her real head and see what happens.”

“I see,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter doubtfully. “Well then.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. “The sun is rising,” said the Witch’s girl after several heartbeats.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter started and glanced out of the window. “Yes, of course!” she said, spurred into activity. She quickly collected her things. “I expect the Witch will be up soon and wanting her breakfast, so you must get to work. She’s an early riser?”

“Not always,” said the Witch’s girl.

They stepped out into the Witch’s yard and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter turned to face the girl. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, “For all of your help and for, well…” She trailed off a little helplessly.

The Witch’s girl waited a moment and then she leaned up and pressed her lips to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s. They stood like that for a long moment, the taller girl dropping her hands to the other's waist; and then she pulled away and said “No, I was supposed to kiss you, so that doesn’t count. We must start again.” And, surprised at her own boldness, she reached up and ran her fingers down through the Witch’s girl’s silky hair until she cupped her chin, which she drew toward her until their mouths met again.

Kissing is like anything else — the more you practice the more you improve. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter suspected she was getting better at it, and when the Witch’s girl let out a little sigh she felt sure of it.

Finally the Witch’s girl stepped back. “That’s two,” she said huskily.

“That’s one,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quickly leaning forward to steal another, “That’s two.”

The Witch’s girl frowned. “Now you have overpaid.”

“I am a woman of business,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter airily, “and I consider it no bad thing to be in credit with someone I have had repeated dealings with.”

“Be that as it may,” said the Witch’s girl sternly, “with magic the price must be paid exactly, no more, no less.” And then she threw her arms around the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s head, tugging her down and bringing their lips together one more time. “There,” she breathed some time later, “Our bargain is fulfilled. Good-bye.” And she turned and went inside.

The sun was well above the city walls when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quietly let herself back inside the bookshop. She crept up the stairs and into the sisters' shared bedroom where the sheep-headed creature still lay passively, staring up at the ceiling. The girl gently encouraged it to sit up, then she opened her satchel and brought out her sister’s head, unwrapping it. “Just… nudge it aside,” she muttered to herself as she held the head up toward its body.

And a moment later her sister was sitting there blinking at her in astonishment.

“Ophelia!” she said. “Where is… what has… Oh! Why is there an old sheep’s head in my lap!” And she leapt to her feet, knocking the horrid thing to the ground so that it rolled away on the floor.

"Oh, Miranda!" cried the Bookseller’s oldest daughter, falling upon her sister and wrapping her arms tight around her.

“What has been happening!?" said the Bookseller’s youngest daughter,  squirming away, "Oh! Get off me you great lump… you’re squeezing me! Ow! Ophelia! You smell like a tavern! And a stables! Stop it!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter released her sister at last and looked her up and down. “What do you remember?” she asked.

The Bookseller’s youngest daughter frowned and thought. “I don’t really remember… Have I been ill? I dreamed that I was at a, a ball.” She shivered. “It was somehow quite awful, though I can’t now recall why. It’s all fading… But then you were there, and… who was that girl you were with?” Then she started moving her head about. “Why does my head feel so odd?”

“Does it?” said her older sister, stiffening in alarm.

“Yes, it feels… lighter—” and just then she put a hand to the back of her head, and immediately she shrieked “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HAIR”

When the Bookseller arose half and hour later he found his two daughters preparing breakfast in an icy silence. Both had their correct heads, he noted with satisfaction. Whatever it was must be over. He’d be able to marry them each off with no-one the wiser.

Musing philosophically over the caprices of women, he sat down at the table and awaited his morning cup of tea.

[1] Mr Prosper appears to have been forewarned of the fairies’ anger — perhaps through some cryptic remark made by the magic mirror he is supposed to have owned — for by the time the fairies came for him he was already racing to the city gates in a hastily packed phaeton. And it was here, as he was attempting — unsuccessfully — to use various classical spells of opening upon those great portals, that the fairies overtook him. Faced with the host of furious spirits Mr Prosper abandoned his luggage and transformed himself into a barn owl, in which form he topped the walls and flew away, pursued by his former patrons. Whether he managed to escape I do not know, but it was several years before he was seen about in the city again.

Bereft of its horses, his phaeton was discovered upturned in the spice-traders' square just before dawn and its scattered contents were quickly appropriated and divided up among the less cautious of the city’s inhabitants. And I believe that the Witch’s girl later purchased a writing set and a pocket watch belonging to that unlucky magician, both of which had somehow found their way to Carpet Street and Mr Shovegroat’s Emporium.

The next chapter

[alexlacquemanne]

Décembre MMXXII

Films

Détective privé (Harper) (1966) de Jack Smight avec Paul Newman, Lauren Bacall, Janet Leigh, Robert Wagner, Julie Harris, Shelley Winters et Pamela Tiffin

Le Grand Sommeil (The Big Sleep) (1946) de Howard Hawks avec Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, John Ridgely, Martha Vickers, Dorothy Malone et Peggy Knudsen

Rebecca (1940) d'Alfred Hitchcock avec Laurence Olivier, Joan Fontaine, George Sanders, Judith Anderson, Nigel Bruce et Reginald Denny

Le Baron de l'écluse (1960) de Jean Delannoy avec Jean Gabin, Micheline Presle, Jacques Castelot, Aimée Mortimer, Jean Constantin, Blanchette Brunoy et Jean Desailly

La Femme d'à côté (1981) de François Truffaut avec Gérard Depardieu, Fanny Ardant, Henri Garcin, Michèle Baumgartner : Arlette Coudray et Véronique Silver

De la part des copains (Cold Sweat) (1970) de Terence Young avec Charles Bronson, Liv Ullmann, James Mason, Jill Ireland, Jean Topart et Michel Constantin

Un Américain à Paris (An American in Paris) (1951) de Vincente Minnelli avec Gene Kelly, Leslie Caron, Oscar Levant, Georges Guétary et Nina Foch

L'Odyssée de l'African Queen (The African Queen) (1951) de John Huston avec Humphrey Bogart, Katharine Hepburn, Robert Morley, Peter Bull et Theodore Bikel

L'Arnaqueur (The Hustler) (1961) de Robert Rossen avec Paul Newman, Piper Laurie, Jackie Gleason et George C. Scott et Myron McCormick

L'Express du colonel Von Ryan (Von Ryan's Express) (1965) de Mark Robson avec Frank Sinatra, Trevor Howard, Raffaella Carrà, Brad Dexter, Sergio Fantoni et Edward Mulhare

L'Adorable Voisine (Bell, Book and Candle) (1958) de Richard Quine avec James Stewart, Kim Novak, Jack Lemmon, Ernie Kovacs, Hermione Gingold et Elsa Lanchester

Hannibal (Annibale) (1959) de Carlo Ludovico Bragaglia et Edgar G. Ulmer avec Victor Mature, Rita Gam, Mario Girotti et Carlo Pedersoli, Gabriele Ferzetti et Milly Vitale

Cléopâtre (Cleopatra) (1963) de Joseph L. Mankiewicz avec Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, Rex Harrison, Roddy McDowall, Pamela Brown, George Cole et Martin Landau

Astérix et Cléopâtre (1968) de René Goscinny et Albert Uderzo avec Roger Carel, Jacques Morel, Micheline Dax, Lucien Raimbourg, Pierre Tornade et Bernard Lavalette

Les Trois Mousquetaires (The Three Musketeers) (1973) de Richard Lester avec Oliver Reed, Raquel Welch, Richard Chamberlain, Michael York, Frank Finlay, Christopher Lee, Geraldine Chaplin, Jean-Pierre Cassel, Faye Dunaway et Charlton Heston

On l'appelait Milady (The Four Musketeers: Milady's Revenge) (1974) de Richard Lester avec Oliver Reed, Frank Finlay, Richard Chamberlain, Michael York, Raquel Welch, Christopher Lee et Faye Dunaway

Salomon et la Reine de Saba (Solomon and Sheba) (1959) de King Vidor avec Yul Brynner, Gina Lollobrigida, George Sanders, Marisa Pavan, Finlay Currie et David Farrar

Avatar : La Voie de l'eau (Avatar: The Way of Water) (2022) de James Cameron avec Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldana, Sigourney Weaver, Britain Dalton, Chloe Coleman et Stephen Lang

Fantômas (1964) d'André Hunebelle avec Jean Marais, Raymond Pellegrin, Louis de Funès, Mylène Demongeot, Jacques Dynam, Robert Dalban et Marie-Hélène Arnaud

Fantômas se déchaîne (1965) d'André Hunebelle avec Louis de Funès, Jean Marais, Mylène Demongeot, Jacques Dynam et Robert Dalban

Derrick contre Superman (Eine grosse Fünf) (1992) de Michel Hazanavicius et Dominique Mézerette avec Patrick Burgel et Évelyne Grandjean

La Classe américaine : Le Grand Détournement (1993) de Michel Hazanavicius et Dominique Mézerette avec Christine Delaroche, Evelyne Grandjean, Marc Cassot, Patrick Guillemin, Raymond Loyer et Jean-Claude Montalban

Séries

Inspecteur Barnaby Saison 7, 21, 22, 20, 10

Les Femmes de paille - Le monstre du lac - Epouvantables épouvantails - Les Lions de Causton - La Randonnée de la mort - La monnaie de leur pièce - Le couperet de la justice - Les Sorcières d'Angel's Rise

Friends Saison 1, 2, 3

Celui qui déménage - Celui qui est perdu - Celui qui a un rôle - Celui avec George - Celui qui lave plus blanc - Celui qui est verni - Celui qui a du jus - Celui qui hallucine - Celui qui parle au ventre de sa femme - Celui qui singeait - Celui qui était comme les autres - Celui qui aimait les lasagnes - Celui qui fait des descentes dans les douches - Celui qui avait un cœur d'artichaut - Celui qui pète les plombs - Celui qui devient papa : 1re partie - Celui qui devient papa : 2e partie - Celui qui gagnait au poker - Celui qui a perdu son singe - Celui qui a un dentiste carié - Celui qui avait un singe - Celui qui rêve par procuration - Celui qui a failli rater l'accouchement - Celui qui fait craquer Rachel - Celui qui a une nouvelle fiancée - Celui qui détestait le lait maternel - Celui qui est mort dans l'appart du dessous - Celui qui avait viré de bord - Celui qui se faisait passer pour Bob - Celui qui a oublié un bébé dans le bus - Celui qui tombe des nues - Celui qui a été très maladroit - Celui qui cassait les radiateurs - Celui qui se dédouble - Celui qui n'apprécie pas certains mariages - Celui qui retrouve son singe : 1re partie - Celui qui retrouve son singe : 2e partie - Celui qui a failli aller au bal de promo - Celui qui a fait on ne sait quoi avec Rachel - Celui qui vit sa vie - Celui qui remplace celui qui part - Celui qui disparaît de la série - Celui qui ne voulait pas partir - Celui qui se met à parler - Celui qui affronte les voyous - Celui qui faisait le lien - Celui qui attrape la varicelle - Celui qui embrassait mal - Celui qui rêvait de la princesse Leia - Celui qui a du mal à se préparer - Celui qui avait la technique du câlin - Celui qui ne supportait pas les poupées - Celui qui bricolait - Celui qui se souvient - Celui qui était prof et élève - Celui qui avait pris un coup sur la tête - Celui pour qui le foot c'est pas le pied - Celui qui fait démissionner Rachel - Celui qui ne s'y retrouvait plus - Celui qui était très jaloux - Celui qui persiste et signe - Celui que les prothèses ne gênaient pas - Celui qui vivait mal la rupture - Celui qui a survécu au lendemain

Alexandra Ehle Saison 3

Sans visage

Coffre à Catch

#92 : Kane tombe dans un traquenard ! - #93 : The Brothers of Destruction à la ECW ! - #94 : Edge, Kofi, Shelton : Catch Attack représent !" - #95 : Tac Tac c'est l'anniversaire d'Ichtou ! (feat. David Jouan)

The Rookie Saison 4

Dénouement - Toc toc toc - Les trois quêtes - Tir à vue - Témoins à abattre - Un meurtre pour de vrai - Négociation - Traîtres - Simone - Enervo

The Crown Saison 5

Comme un déjà vu - Le système - Mou Mou - Annus horribilis - Des précautions salutaires - La Maison Ipatiev - No woman's land - Une vraie poudrière - Couple numéro 31 - Déclassement

Columbo Saison 4, 3

Inculpé de meurtre - Play Back - Candidat au crime

Affaires Sensibles

Leonarda, l'adolescente qui a défié le président

Meurtres au paradis

Le fantôme de Noël

Spectacles

Bénabar : tournée des indociles (2022) au Cirque d'Amiens

Alain Souchon au Dôme de Paris (2022)

The Glenn Miller Orchestra Live at the Avalon Theatre (2021)

L'orchestre fait son cinéma au Zénith de Pau (2013)

Livres

La vengeance du Chat de Phillipe Geluck

Nota Bene, Tome 5 : La Mythologie Grecque de Benjamin Brillaud, Mathieu Mariolle, Phil Castaza et Joël Odone

Détective Conan, Tome 3 de Gôshô Aoyama

Mémoires d'un gros mytho de François Rollin et Stéphane Trapier

OSS 117 : Gâchis à Karachi de Jean Bruce

Tatiana K. Tome 3 : Le stygmate de Longinus de François Corteggiani et Emanuele Barison

Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours de Jules Verne

Kaamelott Tome 9 : Les renforts maléfiques de Alexandre Astier et Steven Dupré

The Clash en BD de Jean-Philippe Gonot et Gaëts

Le Voyage du Père Noël des Editions Korrigan

Astérix Tome24 : Astérix chez les Belges de René Goscinny et Albert Uderzo

Lucky Luke Tome 56 : Le ranch maudit de Morris, Claude Guylouis et Michel Janvier

[woodelf68]

Forever bitter that the music for the Candle Pavane wasn’t included on the soundtrack for the show. 

[rherlotshadow]

Beyond the circle of Whin's light, the sea moves, sleepless in its heavy gown. She walks beside it slowly, toward, away. And to her, from her, endlessly it shifts the longways of its slow pavane. Within her candle's burr, sparse flakes of snow blink, vanish. There is nothing there to see. Salt rime and shingle. Sea wrack. Stones, a curve of jetty, tumbled in a storm. Sticks and weed. They stir. A wave? They draw breath harshly. The lantern swings and halts.

A Crowd of Bone by Greer Gilman

[cardest]

Belgium playlist

The Allied forces have launched an offense and the strategy is to use Plastic Bertrand. See you in Waterloo! This is the Belgian playlist. Dank u (wel)

Have a listen here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC19kFE2Ch75otguETyB8yv-0 Have I forgotten a song or band? Blistering barnacles! Let me know. Add your songs.

BELGIQUE 001 Channel Zero - Black Fuel 002 Mijne vlieger - walter de buck 003 AMENRA - Razoreater 004 Hemelbestormer & Vanessa Van Basten - Portal II 005 Brian Eno - The Fat Lady of Limbourg 006 Front 242 - ANIMAL 007 LENG TCH'E - 1-800-Apathy 008 They Might Be Giants - Meet James Ensor 009 Carnation - Explosive cadavers 010 De Vlier - Bezemdans Van Pulle 011 BLIKSEM - Twist the Knife 012 AC/DC - Bedlam In Belgium 013 Lugubrum Trio - Aldi Iacta Est 014 Wolvennest - Tief Unter 015 't Kliekske - Stokkendans 016 Oathbreaker - Immortals 017 Jacques Brel - Ces Gens La 018 Emptiness - Meat Heart 019 Witch Trail - Altered State 020 Mad Curry - Man 021 Iron Maiden - Paschendale 022 Bathsheba - Demon 13 023 WANNES VAN DE VELDE - Pieter Breughel in Brussels 024 HEXA MERA - Inhuman 025 R.Roland - Ethero-Disco 026 Ancient Rites - Mother Europe 027 The Neon Judgement - One Jump Ahead 028 The Casualties - No Turning Back 029 In Bruges Soundtrack-Medieval Waters 030 Pavane La Dona - Tielman Susato - Danserye 031 Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Christina the astonishing 032 Zita Swoon - My Bond With You And Your Planet Disco! 033 Die Anarchistische Abendunterhaltung - Drieslagstelsel II 034 BLACK MIRRORS - Funky Queen 035 Hidden Trails - Leaving Like That 036 Eddy Wally Cherie 037 Bobbejaan Schoepen - Cafà Zonder Bier 038 In Bruges Soundtrack-Shootout Part 1 039 De Kreuners - Zo Jong 040 Enthroned - Goatlust 041 Aktarum - Party Troll 042 Black Strike - Rat 043 The Black Tartan Clan - Dont Walk alone 044 Slow Crush - Glow 045 Claude Lombard - Les Enfants Perle 046 chakachas - Jungle Fever 047 Integrity - Hymn for the Children of the Black Flame   048 MANTIS - WELP 049 EXUVIATED - Last Call To The Void 050 Plastic Bertrand - Ca Plane Pour Moi 051 Lais - La Plus Belle de Cans 052 EVIL INVADERS - Raising Hell 053 Brutus - Drive 054 Elg - Panorama 055 Bil Tze - Wing Chun Kung Fu 056 LOTUS - L'Appel du Vide 057 Liquid G. - Selfdestruction 058 LVTHN - Eradication of Nescience 059 Hedonist - The Urge 060 Squash Bowels - Shit Oneself 061 Chakachas - Stories 062 COCAINE PISS - MY CAKE 063 Wolvennest - Void 064 Willem Vermandere - Onderweg 065 Evil shepherd - Darkness engulfs 066 dEUS - Quatre Mains 067 BEAR - Masks 068 Mark Hollander - Aksak Maboul Saure Gurke 069 àGRUMH - Ha People 070 Brutal Sphincter - Big Mouth, Tiny Hands 071 Chapell International with Rene Costy  - Scrabble 072 Acid - Maniac 073 Aborted - Die Verzweiflung 074 Ground Nero - Plethora 075 Crossfire - See you in hell 076 O Veux - Strange 077 Marc Moulin - Tohubohu II. 078 Agathocles - cheers mankind cheers 079 Ostrogoth - Queen of desire 080 SLOW - Aurore 081 Perverted Ceremony -  Light the inverted candles 082 Plastic Bertrand - Tout petit la planete 083 Brutus - Sugar dragon 084 Bathsheba - At the end of everything 085 Zeus - Held it 086 Possession - Sacerdotium 087 S to S - I'm a Killer 088 Francis Coppieters - Cross Talk 089 Saqra's Cult -  Inkarri 090 Butcher - Iron Bitch 091 Dario Mars and the Guillotines - Soulless 092 Whitesnake - Belgian Tom's Hat Trick 093 Integrity -  Cradle To The Grave (Motörhead cover) 094 PARAGON IMPURE - Sade II: Juliette, Queen Of Vice 095 ABORTED - Global flatline 096 Serpents Oath - Nihil 097 Red Zebra - I Can't Live in a Living Room 098 ABBA - Waterloo 099 Incredible Bongo Band - Last Bongo in Belgium 100 dEUS - Theme From Turnpike (from In A Bar, Under The Sea) 101 Enthroned - Sine Qua Non 102 Elton John - Just Like Belgium 103 Agathocles - Sieg Shit 104 The Bee Gees - Walking Back to Waterloo 105 Maurice Chevalier - Manneken Pis 111 Schizophrenia - Perpetual Perdition 333 Tintin theme song 666 Channel Zero - Suck My Energy

Grab your Guylian chocolates and have a good time listening. Play the songs here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC19kFE2Ch75otguETyB8yv-0

[ambidextrousarcher]

Sarcastic StarBharat reviews: Episode 7- The episode in which Arjun should have been mentioned for the first time.

Tagging @ratnas-musings @avani008 @chaanv @iamnotthat @shellweed @butchcaroldanvers @mayavanavihariniharini @medhasree

This episode concludes the first arc, which is Bhishm’s oath and its (short term) effects. The long term effect can honestly be the whole mess that follows, so...

Anyway.

Here are the links to the first six episodes: 

1. Bhishm says hello to daddy

2. Bhishm’s Bhishm pratigya

3. Bhishm abducts the Princesses of Kashi

4. Bhishm watches his brother choke to death

5. Bhishm sanctions Niyoga

6. Bhishm chooses death over marrying a crazy princess

Parashuram emits blue light from his hands, taking a sword out of the light. Me: Huh? I thought only arrows can appear like that. Bhishm joins his hands, whispering, a sword lands from the air at his feet. Both of them leap. Camera focuses to Ganga entering, psycho Princess glaring at her. A fancy sword fight occurs, Bhishm falls, attacking Parashuram again. They dance around, cutting trunks, causing snowfall. Heaven knows how they aren’t shivering yet. Bhishm disarms Parashuram, who clamps his hand on Bhishm’s sword and knocks it off. Both of them summon divyastras. Ganga looks distressed. She calls out to Shiv. “If Parashuram’s parashu (axe) and Bhishm’s Brahmastr collide, the world will end!” she says. I’m not sure what actually happens in canon. Ganga does call to Shiv, though I doubt it’s this dramatic. I doubt she’d call her own son Bhishm. The warriors release the weapons. A globe of light sucks both the weapons in. Enter Shiv. Wait, this guy doesn’t have a blue throat! Anyway, all and sundry join their hands in respect. Shiv commands them to stop fighting to preserve the Earth. “I still haven’t gotten justice, Mahadev.” Ah, psycho Princess, yet again. “How can you stop this war? Until I get peace of mind, Parashuram has to fight. Fulfill my dearest wish, Mahadev. This man’s (Bhishm’s) death is my wish. I want to be the cause of his death.” “As Parashuram is bound, I have to fulfill your wish. But revenge cannot have my blessing. If you ever do something great and then pray for Bhishm’s death, then you will definitely be the cause of his death.” Wait, this prophecy is incomplete. Canonically, the prophecy says that Bhishm can’t be defeated and killed by anyone except the reincarnation of Rishi Nara, born as the son of Indra, Arjun. Seriously, they omitted my favourite part!! CANON FAIL x2, for good measure. This is the first chronological mention of Arjun!! I mean, yeah, it’s unfair on him that people are literally turning him into a death knell before that kid is even born…but he WAS mentioned in canon at this time. I remember that very well. Let’s continue. “If so, I do not wish to live.” Ofc, it’s psycho Princess. “Please let go of the hardness of your heart. When the day comes, I will lay down my weapons in front of you.” Mr. Paragon of Perfection. I can’t even. “I don’t need your generosity. I will not forgive you. Even 25 years later, I will take birth with your death as my objective in life. The throne you destroyed my life for will be the reason for your struggle day and night. That throne won’t let you sleep peacefully even for a day. You will keep running because of that throne, when your soul will be tired and old, I will come then, as your death.” I can’t see how suicide is a great thing, but hey, who am I to judge. Flash forward 25 years. A baby is born in Panchal. “Strength is born in Panchal” says the King. “Rajyotishi, I am certain that Draupad’s Queen has given birth to a girl child. I have been waiting for 25 years for the birth of this child, ever since I knew that Bhishm will be killed because of a woman. From then, I have been praying that that girl should be born in our family.” A young man enters with a baby. I guess that’s Draupad. “It’s a girl, father.” Mr. King of Panchal thanks maa Kali, lifting the baby in his arms. “All our wishes have come true. Bhishm has humiliated Panchal too much,” he flashes back to Bhishm’s grandiose words when he’d rescued drunk Prince. “The entire Panchal will burn like Lanka if you set fire to Bhishm’s heart.” He sees Bhishm slapping his face again. “Revenge is what we should look out for. This maiden will take our long due revenge from Bhishm.” He names the child Shikandini. I hope she’s less psycho than Amba. “Rajyotishi, what do you make of the time of my grand-daughter’s birth?” “She will be successful in her life objective,” he says, “But after a lot of struggle.” Before that, he says some astrological mumbo-jumbo that I don’t understand. “Struggle is the best teacher. I will poison this maiden against Bhishm. I have full belief that she will be cause of Bhishm’s death, that it will be the objective of her life.” CANON FAIL. Amba is reborn as Shikandini, it is because of that he/she fights against Bhishm. Panchal doesn’t have a long-standing enemity with Bhishm. Oh, Crap. Krishna gyaan again. He’s talking about how ancestor’s thoughts affect the future generation. Sorry not sorry. Skip. The camera focuses on the map of Gandhar. We enter a room lit with many diyas, our focus is on a girl sleeping. It goes without saying that this is Gandhari. The wind blows out the candles. Gandhari breaks out into cold sweat and bolts awake. “Sukhda!” she yells. “Sukhda!” “Kumari Gandhari, I am here. The diyas will be lighted again. The diyas will be lighted again.” She yells at two other women, reminding them that Princess Gandhari is scared of the dark. Seriously, these guys are adding drama everywhere. This show is less of the Mahabharata and more of a soap opera. The diyas are lighted again. “Why am I so afraid of the dark?” asks Gandhari. “It’s not only you, all of us are afraid of it. Only through our eyes can the world come near us. If we have eyes, we have everything. In darkness, we feel like we have lost everything. But there is no cause for fear now. You go to sleep.” Gandhari nods. Sukhda smiles as she leaves. We focus on a campfire. The wood moves due to wind, making the soldier to run. He sees the shadows of a large army. He mounts his horse and gallops towards Maharaj Saubala. The camera focuses on a man, I assume he is Maharaj Saubala. “A large army, talent beyond belief, richer than Kuber. In such a Kingdom shall my daughter be wed, Gurudev,” he says. “The groom too shall be stronger than Pavan and of more virtues than Indra.” I still don’t get why Indra is the gold standard of Virtue in Hindu myths. I mean, he isn’t really the best warrior, he’s literally defeated by mortals, one of whom is his own son, along with Krishna. And Nahusha also defeats him. He doesn’t really have much of a moral compass either, basically raping Ahalya by proxy. And yet, he’s the King of the Gods. Why so? No idea. “My Gandhari cannot marry a man with even a smidgeon of problems,” the King continues. “My daughter is like that, Gurudev” says the Queen. “Bhagwan Shiv has blessed her with the boon of 100 children, after all.” The Guru looks at them strangely. “What is the issue?” asks the King. “You look tense.” The Guru begins. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I…” A servant enters then. “Maharani, the senapati asks permission to enter,” she says. “At this time?” asks the Queen, confused. “The King is busy now.” The senapati enters. “Forgive me for my offence,” he says. “However, the news is such that I need to speak to the King now.” “What is the news?” The King and his Senapati descend the stairs. He’s firing questions about the army at his gates. “Where is Yuvaraj Shakuni?” “He is out on an expedition for a special purpose.” They are getting angry at the enemy army. They are also boasting about their army. “This is going to be a terrible war.” The Mahabharat theme plays. I think this is CANON fail. I don’t think Bhishm goes to Gandhar with an army, canonically, but I don’t really remember. Someone who does, please help. Precap: Saubala asks whose army is at his gates. “That great man is as effluent as the Sun, Maharaj.” Ah, so it’s Bhishm. “His eyes are like two balls of fire,” Camera focuses on Bhishm. I was right. “On his forehead, the symbol of the moon is present.” Camera shifts to Gandhari. “I am going to join the war with Pitashree,” she says. “If death is certain, then I die in the battlefield.” With this, we finish season 1 of Mahabharat, according to the Hotstar app listings. See you tomorrow with season 2!

[aspho-dele]

« Éteins‐toi, éteins‐toi, court flambeau : la vie n’est qu’une ombre qui marche ; elle ressemble à un comédien qui se pavane et s’agite sur le théâtre une heure ; après quoi il n’en est plus question ; c’est un conte raconté par un idiot avec beaucoup de bruit et de chaleur, et qui ne signifie rien. »

« Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

William Shakespeare - MacBeth, V, 5

[deathmimedream]

Astaroth was in comfortable clothing, cinched into his spellbound corset, his hair piled into a tidy updo.

Hell’s infernal library tables and chairs were cleared away, the room lit by a million candles, each flickering in frozen, blue, fire.

Vengeance was a dish best served cold, and Astaroth was, despite it being spring, trapped in a melancholy winter.

He smelt of crisp pine boughs, bayberry, new fallen snow, and hints of frankincense and myrrh.

Here it was, nearly May, and he smelt like December, instead of his usual, bright, floral scent.

He was barefoot, feet leaving whorls of frost on the hardwood as he twirled, spun, and lept.

He looked almost like the ice fairies in fantasia’s nutcracker suite.

Star’s eyes were closed as he moved, as if the entire dance were a sort of ritual. He was in the middle of a pavane when he realized he was no longer alone in the room.

The candles flickered, said to convey annoyance, until he looked up, eyes an impossible blue, glowing with grace, and saw who it was....

[farplane]

on this side of the grave

août + décembre 2019: pavane, sairsel, and imagining. takes place some time after this. 5,088 words. 🎧

“You could have anyone you wanted in this city, really,” Relienas had said to him once, reclining against the pillows with a heavy, satisfied gaze and the sprawling of a man who was as lazy as he was intent on the display. The curving smirk on his lips said as much as any word. He dropped his eyes, almost coy, tilting his head to look down at himself as he traced one finger around the fresh, pale welt colouring the milky skin of his inner thigh. “And of all beds, you fall into mine.”

“You flatter yourself so well it’s a wonder you don’t prefer the comforts of your own hand,” Pavane shot back. He bent to retrieve his shirt, ignoring the pull of Relienas so close in reach, the greed making him want him again, more, as though walking out of this room would mean never knowing whether he could have him—could have anyone—again. 

He didn’t want to feel like he could never have his fill of him.

Relienas clicked his tongue. “I praise you and you call me arrogant.”

“You praise me to praise yourself.” 

Pavane began to slip his shirt over his head, met Relienas’ eyes, and paused. Caught like a prey in a net. 

He could never decide which had more power, between that rich amber gaze or the bow of his mouth. His elegant, straight nose; the sharp lines of his jaw; the smell that clung to him, spellwork incense and lilac flowers. Handsome, pretty, too charming by half. Pavane wished himself stronger as he so often did in so many ways, strong enough not to be a fool who fell to men like him—like Relienas, and like himself.

“Be kinder to me, my prince,” Relienas said, his smile twisting because he knew Pavane loathed the very words almost as much as the tone with which he uttered them. 

He reached for Pavane’s wrist, fingers against his pulse, a familiar dance from opposite ends of a room finally coming to a touch: as he had for so many years, Pavane found himself torn between wanting to blast Relienas’ jaw shut with a force spell and silencing him with his tongue in his mouth.

“I don’t need to be kinder to you, Haxcus, and I couldn’t do it without blinding myself anyhow. I see you like I see everyone else in this town; this game isn’t one you’ve invented, I’m sorry to say,” he said, tugging his hand back. When Relienas didn’t let go, Pavane grabbed his shoulder, pinning him down to the bed. “It’s a blood prince you like having in your bed, not me. And I’m in it because I don’t want to fuck any of the daughters my family’s friends are throwing at me, so let’s not pretend this is anything other than what it is.”

Relienas pressed a palm to Pavane’s chest, warmth spreading over his skin. “There’s no heart beating in here, is there?”

“You’d be a fool to think there is,” Pavane said, and caught Relienas’ lips in a bruising kiss.

Blood, in Acheron, was a thing of power. Magic flowed through it; and where magic flowed, so did power. It was a fine balance to build; many had been the fools and the power-hungry who were consumed in overuse of blood magic, and many would they continue to be. The power of blood could be a candle, a bright fire in a hearth—or it could be a roaring monster tearing through a street in a matter of hours. Pavane knew the song in his own blood, had seen it flow black from his veins since the curse had burrowed into him, had spilled it to wet the bones of the dead until he could touch spirits with only words and will.

Blood was familiar. He didn’t flinch at the sight of it, and neither did he expect others to. Not until the Continent, and not until he met the ranger; not until he found himself startled by the way Sairsel never batted an eye at the blood on his hands after a kill.

It was the strangest feeling, watching the same colour and finding that it was life and death more than it was power. Pavane felt as though the world had been turned upside down, because the familiarity was gone; it seemed to dislodge every certainty he had. If blood wasn’t power, he no longer knew what was. More and more, Sairsel—quiet in words as much as magic—seemed to be strong in every way that had never meant power in Pavane’s mind.

On his hands, blood was nothing. He didn’t mind the sight of it, but he didn’t use it, either. It simply stained until it was washed away. Every hunt ended the same way: with the peeling of his gloves, his hands bare against the red; with quiet words on his lips that Pavane didn't understand, and then a practiced knife. What he whispered then had seemed almost like an incantation, at first, but none of the magic Pavane knew to recognize stirred. He did not know how to listen for the whisper of the wind fluttering in the leaves, an answer in a voice Pavane had never known could be heard—old gods, nameless and nearly forgotten.

“Is it Elvish?” Pavane asked him one evening. It was a wonder he'd managed to make himself wait this long as a courtesy for Sairsel’s taciturn nature before his curiosity got the better of him. “Those things you say when you kill an animal. It sounds like Elvish.”

Sairsel glanced at him—sharp green eyes that never rested long enough on him. There were days when Pavane wanted nothing more than to take his chin and meet those eyes and say please, look at me, if only for a moment. He never found the courage, faltering in a way he had never faltered before.

“It's a dialect. Elvish roots, Sylvan leaves.”

Always the shortest possible answers, the least revealing sentences. After so many hours together, Pavane still felt like he knew only half of Sairsel’s voice: only the tones that were deep and quiet and felted. He wanted to hear it laugh—not just restrained half-chuckles—hear it sing, hear it soar. Every day, Pavane dared a little more when Sairsel didn’t shut himself away; it should have seemed like so much work, coaxing every little thing out of him, but he barely noticed it.

He had always been hungry in the face of a mystery.

“What do you say? Are you—I don’t know, comforting the beasts?”

“Of course not. Why would I comfort something that’s already dead?” Sairsel asked, perplexed. “It’s a prayer.”

“A prayer,” Pavane repeated. “I didn’t realize you were religious. Who do you—”

Sairsel shook his head. “I don’t pray to any god who’s got a story. It’s just—nature. The earth. It provides, so I give thanks. No death should be meaningless.”

That, Pavane understood. He had touched too many spirits of dead who had passed on cruelly, or without purpose, and they were different. Taut, like bowstrings. The first thing he had been taught was not to care, but he had never been able to tune his own spirit in such a way; it was always, at the very least, like using a knife that was too blunt, a staff that was too heavy, a current of magic that didn’t flow right.

Sairsel glanced at him again, then dipped his bloody hands back into the carcass on the ground, pulling out entrails as simply as plucking fruit from a tree. In time, Pavane found himself watching his hands not because of the blood, but because they were his hands.

“He is handsome, your friend, lord,” said the merchant from Hiskaris. She leaned comfortably against the table at her stall, fingers beside the pooling silks and flowing sheers with which Pavane laboured to distract himself. If he followed her gaze towards where Sairsel stood negotiating with a tanner—with surprising ease, given that the tanner was as reserved as he was, and they seemed to find a silent understanding in that—he feared he wouldn’t be able to draw his eyes away.

“You think so?” he asked idly.

The merchant smiled like they were lifelong friends: the warmth of compatriots meeting in a foreign land. Pavane was beginning to realize that he ached for home even only in the language of her body. “Well, not like the men back home. Not like you, lord.”

“You flatter me,” Pavane said, working an easy smile onto his lips to counter the stiffness that threatened to settle into his bones, make him stand in her line of sight so that she’d be looking at him and not across the market alley. In Acheron, half of business was flirting. He didn’t have the heart for it. 

“I flatter you and the company you keep.”

“Have a care, my friend, so that it doesn’t seem like empty guile. Most people back home would say he’s rather uncouth, and I would say from experience that they are right.”

She responded to the quirk of his eyebrow with a sly, knowing smirk. “I am not most people, and I am not back home.” If anything, Pavane enjoyed her confidence. He touched a length of patterned black gossamer, drawing her gaze down only for a moment. “Call me adventurous, but he reminds me of the shadow-hounds in the Lethan Plains. Have you ever seen them hunt, lord? True grace is in the wild.”

Pavane hummed, noncommittal. Wild grace. The back of his neck prickled, and his senses left him—and with them, his careful restraint. He glanced back over his shoulder for a heartbeat too long, and another; lingering, always lingering.

He snapped his attention back to the table. “All right, you’ve seduced me. How much for this?” he asked, running his fingers along the gossamer.

“For a countryman? Five silver, lord,” the merchant said, grinning.

On the Continent, it was a steep price—but a fair one, for something brought all the way from Acheron. Back home, Pavane would have paid twice that, even after haggling. He held the merchant’s gaze, not bothering to look down as he dipped into his coin purse and produced the silver pieces. He took up the length of fabric, stroked his thumb over it as he watched how the violet of his skin bled through sheer black between the thicker parts of the pattern.

“Fine wares,” he said, and paid her what it would have been worth back home.

“Thank you, lord. You honour me.”

Pavane smiled and draped the gossamer over the back of his neck, tucking it down the front of his coat—making no effort to cover up the skin he already left exposed. “Not really.”

His feet moved too quickly to return to Sairsel; his mind balked at it like it was a betrayal. Every day he felt more like a fool, tangled up in some pointless want for what was in front of him because he had nothing else. I think you think everyone wants to fuck you and it gets misleading. Sairsel had smiled, then, everything about him furtive, and Pavane’s gaze had lingered on him and never seemed to stop.

Coins jingled in Sairsel’s hand as though he were weighing them, a supple leather strap in his other hand.

“Fruitful trip, Master Strider?” Pavane asked lightly as he came up next to him.

“Mm. The strap of my quiver was starting to fall apart,” Sairsel said, glancing up; his eyes flicked down to the gossamer, then away. “And you’re buying dire essentials too, aye?”

Pavane smirked. The effort was wasted—it had to be; Sairsel could never look at him longer than a glance—but he still ran a finger under his collar. “Certainly. A little piece of home.”

“Feeling homesick already?” Sairsel asked, turning away without any other direction; he simply started walking, leading Pavane out of the market as he led the way on the road.

Pavane walked a half-step behind. After all the time they had spent in the wild, watching Sairsel in the city felt stifling. Perhaps it was noticeable only to him, because he couldn’t stop himself from stealing too many glances, but the minute changes in Sairsel’s gaze and his posture almost made him ache. Like a bird with its wings pinned to its back. In the crowd, they walked close, shoulders almost brushing. Pavane would have barely had to reach out to press his palm between Sairsel’s shoulder blades; he shoved them in his pockets and found dwelling on yearning thoughts of home to be preferable to thinking of how clearly he remembered the exact way the muscles of Sairsel’s back shifted under his skin for the few times he had seen him remove his shirt.

“It doesn’t take much to feel out of place out here,” he said.

That, Sairsel understood. “I could drink to that.”

“Splendid idea. I’ll buy.”

For once, his dour companion was content to follow his lead, even if the destination was a murky tavern that smelled like rain. In the low light, Sairsel looked almost like he belonged; Pavane almost felt like it was the world in which he had always lived. By their third round, the wisdom that only came to drunks hit him with the full force of a mace blow: it wasn’t that either of them belonged. Sairsel’s place was with the earth under his feet, the sky above him, centuries-old trees towering over kings and queens in their majesty.

Pavane’s place… he no longer knew. Was it back in Hiskaris, with a token seat in the periphery of the Acheronas Consul as a blood prince, finding meaning in stolen moments of study and in hiding away his lovers, a stranger to the worth of his own position outside the mere possession of power? He had run from that life as much as he had run from his father and the curse. He had run from the emptiness, the gnawing hunger. 

Even now, he no longer knew whether he was still running. The Continent did not feel much like a place for him, either: he was a foreigner here, a devil in dark finery; he was as cursed as he had been in his homeland, and no closer to answers. The great lurking thing beyond his reach, so far it sometimes seemed removed from reality entirely, still ate at him. His dreams were no more peaceful. His own mind no less maddening.

He had no place, perhaps, and neither was this Sairsel’s. 

But sitting in a tavern, deep in his cups across from a man far rougher than anyone at home would find suitable for his company—and yet, kinder and a better man than Pavane could ever be; willfully anchored in his solitude, even when it gave way to something that spoke in his ear that he was worthless—Pavane dared to think that this fleeting arrangement was where they both belonged.

By morning, they were back on the road. Even heavy with a bottle-ache but bereft of the drunkard’s wisdom, Pavane couldn’t get the thought out of his mind that this felt more right than slumming it with a surly hermit of a ranger ever should have.

And he wanted that ranger.

“We’ll be getting to that, uh, that ruin of yours tomorrow,” Sairsel had said as they finished their dinner at an inn so decent—in Pavane’s view—that he said he ‘would be better off sleeping on the floor.’ The luxury made his shoulders stiff. Pavane didn’t know whether he found it endearing or maddening; then he no longer thought of it as the realization sank with Sairsel’s next words: “Suppose this is our last night before we go our own ways.”

Pavane glanced at the map Sairsel was poring over, wrapping silks around the disappointment before it could be in his voice. “You’ll be glad to be free of me, I imagine,” he said with too easy a smile.

“Will I?” Sairsel asked, looking up. His resolve immediately faltered when he met Pavane’s eyes, and his gaze dropped down to Pavane’s neckline.

“I’m sorry, you choose to be mysterious now? What does that mean?”

Sairsel grimaced. “Means what it means. Maybe in some mad way I’ll miss having someone around to talk like they’re waiting for applause. Striders aren’t half as entertaining.”

“And I’m sure the ruins won’t be half as miserable as you,” Pavane said.

In a way, Pavane was glad to be free. This had gone on long enough; with any luck, he would find his answers and be able to return home, where he wouldn’t be eaten by this foolish yearning. He would settle back among his people, take lovers who suited him, and dispense with all the doubt. That alone was enough to put a spring in his step: he had never nurtured doubt, not in himself and not in his desires. He’d always taken what he was given, reached out for what he wanted. Around Sairsel, he was half a fool, always with unsteady ground underneath his feet. He wanted to feel himself again.

He wanted it, he knew, and he told himself that it didn’t matter that he wanted him, because it was only desperation. And Sairsel had laughed him off, and he was many things—glib, arrogant, greedy—but he wasn’t the sort of man to persist in his attentions when they were unwanted.

But there was still a part of him that always asked what if, because he had always been curious—and because, sometimes, it seemed like Sairsel’s gaze lingered, too. Pavane had lacked the courage to make something of the question every single day, every single night, and the thought of never finding its answer made him feel empty.

He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to be alone again. He didn’t want to never see that man again.

It wasn’t just courtesy that made him walk to Sairsel’s room when the evening was done, because he was oddly, unreasonably afraid of letting this night bleed into the next day. Afraid of letting go of something without first finding out what it was—and yet not at all intent on driving towards an answer at all.

“Last night,” Pavane said, presenting a bottle to Sairsel as soon as he opened the door. “I know you won’t let me compensate you for your time with coin, so I won’t even try, but I— Well, proper thanks are only right. There is, unfortunately, not a single cellar in this town that could possibly hold even one bottle of the calibre that would be appropriate by my standards.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with fancy wine, anyway,” Sairsel said, because of course he wouldn’t.

Pavane almost smiled, but he kept his expression unimpressed. “You drink it, Master Strider,” he said flatly, then held out the bottle. “They had this, at the very least, downstairs. I'm told it's earthy. I thought it might fit the bill."

"I like sweet wine and honeyed ale."

Sairsel held his gaze, a faint smile passing over his lips, and took the bottle—slowly, fingers curling around the neck and slipping it out of Pavane’s hand. For once, his eyes weren’t furtive; something like a lock clicking into place. He said nothing as he pressed his back to the door and held it open, waiting until Pavane was inside to close it behind them.

“Funnily enough,” Sairsel said, surprising him—speaking without first being spoken to, “I don’t even like sweet things all that much. I mean, I grew up in the woods; fruit was what we ate that was sweet. Anything sweeter than berries makes me nauseous. But we got the stuff with honey from travelers we traded with—usually Striders, in fact—and to me, it tasted like… I don’t know. Warmth. I never got tired of it, and most wine tastes like vinegar compared to it.”

In spite of that, Sairsel uncorked the bottle with a satisfying pop, and turned to a small table under the window. He picked up the wooden cup that sat there, sniffed it, and poured. Pavane watched his every move and hoped that, if anything, he seemed only to lay his gaze there because nothing else in his periphery moved. The fact of the matter was that there was something about his gestures that fascinated Pavane, like Sairsel was the only real thing he could see for miles.

Sairsel offered him the cup and raised the bottle by the neck in a toast; Pavane dared to look him in the eye, because that was the polite thing to do, as he tapped the bottom of the cup to the bottle, and drank.

It was decent wine; no more than that, certainly, and no less. Earthy, as promised, and rich in proportions reasonable enough to be on the pleasant side of surprising.

“I think this might be the first time you’ve offered up personal information without me forcing it out of you first,” Pavane said, licking his lips.

Sairsel lowered the lip of the bottle from his mouth and swallowed, taking little time to taste the wine. He had the grace not to grimace. “That’s not true. I told you I liked dogs better than your snake,” he said, in a tone that was only half-serious. His gaze flicked down for a beat. “You might have noticed I don’t much like talking about myself.”

“I’ve noticed you don’t much like talking at all.”

That smile pulled at Sairsel’s lips again: bashful, reserved, but open all the same—a smile alone said more for him than for most. Carefully, Pavane added: “And I’ve been thinking it’s a shame, really, because you have a rather pleasant voice.”

“Killing me with kindness, Viper; that’s not like you,” Sairsel said, hiding his smile by taking a drink. Viper. It was like a fist tightening in Pavane’s ribcage every time he heard that nickname, and found it to seem more fond every time. Sairsel never said it enough.

“Will I be beating a dead horse if I tell you that I rather like the things you have to say, too?”

Pavane was too bold, he knew it; too daring, as though making up for all the times he hadn’t had the courage, and now it spilled out of him so quickly that he couldn’t measure it. By the next sunset, he would be alone again, and their paths would diverge permanently. He had been many things since coming to the Continent, but he had never in his life been one to like leaving things unfinished.

For all the good it did. Sairsel’s walls spun back up around him so quickly it left Pavane dizzy for his sake. His eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly; Pavane could almost see behind the guarded suspicion and glimpse the meaning of it, the reasons. Almost. Like sitting in a dream trying to read books in front of him, searching for answers, and never seeing anything but a blur no matter how much he focused.

“What are you doing?” Sairsel asked, halfway to an accusation; too weary to be wary enough. “What could you possibly be trying to get from me at this point?”

Pavane frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“The flattery. You usually use it to get something.”

“So that’s what you think of me.”

Sairsel’s lips parted; his eyes opened to what was beyond the walls. He looked at Pavane like he was surprised to realize that his words could offend—and Pavane, the smitten fool, could only find it endearing.

“I don’t—”

“I’ve only ever been honest with you,” Pavane said. Then he added, thoughtfully: “After a fashion. But I am honest now.”

The truth of it was that, much as he did use flattery like currency, he was well aware that there was no buying what he did want; not like this.

Sairsel looked at him in earnest; more squarely than he usually allowed himself. “I’m sorry.” 

“Please.” Pavane waved a hand and drained his cup. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that if you want to do any real damage.”

“Of course,” Sairsel said, and there was a tight smile on his lips as though he regretted something that had yet to come to pass.

He watched as Pavane set the cup back down on the table under the window, feeling like some shadow cut against the darkening sky—and feeling, perhaps most keenly, the weight of Sairsel’s gaze. Always so heavy; so inevitably sharp. Now that it wasn’t some furtive thing, some little beast hiding in the trees, Pavane wondered how he could have thought he had it in him to bear it and let himself be bared to it.

“Go easy on that bottle,” Pavane said with an eye on the door, his tone lighter than he felt. “I won’t be around to keep an eye on you in those wilds come tomorrow.”

Despite the obvious irony, Sairsel neither laughed, nor even smiled. He simply set the bottle down, independent of Pavane’s comment, his gaze catching on the cup beside it. Watching him, Pavane wished that he could pluck the shades from his mind, to give him some freedom while someone more deserving of curses battled with them. 

Someone like you? taunted some part of him.

Someone.

He had his hand on the door, its groan the only thing that found its voice in the silence as he opened it. Sairsel’s footsteps were barely a whisper upon the floorboards; he moved like a hunter, always—like a shadow even when the earth was too far from his feet, even when he stood in the light. Like some intangible, stalking thing.

But he wasn’t a shadow when he reached a hand to the left of Pavane’s shoulder to nudge the door closed again. He felt like everything but in the way he framed Pavane’s jaw with his hands, gentle with hesitation, and kissed him.

Pavane sank into the sea of him as purposefully as breathing. 

His touch, his mouth, his closeness. It filled him up like water in his lungs, made him burn from behind the heat of his skin; his body waited to ignite, but he could only kiss him back slow and careful, as though it might cut him up to rush it.

And, hells—hells, gods, saints—he didn’t want to rush it.

He had his hand anchored near Sairsel’s wrist, fingers a breath away from feeling his pulse, when Sairsel pulled back. He pulled back, but not away, and he didn’t flinch when Pavane’s hand ran up his arm. Pavane could almost hear the breath racing up his lungs, could almost see the roots tangling around his feet. He could still feel the press of Sairsel’s lips—and the lingering wasn’t enough.

Sairsel was still looking at his mouth, and then he looked up into Pavane’s eyes, and Pavane knew he wasn’t leaving this room without having the first of his answers.

He moved his hand to the back of Sairsel’s neck, pulled him in, kissed him hard because he knew—he knew—Sairsel would answer in kind. His back hit the door, and Sairsel’s fingers curled in the fabric of his jacket; it wasn’t long before he was tugging it down his shoulders, pulling it off of him, touching the bare skin at his open collar. He laid his palm flat against Pavane’s chest, thumb and forefinger framing the hollow of his throat, and felt his racing pulse.

He left open-mouthed kisses along Pavane’s neck like a trail of fire. Every part of him burned; every part of him felt free.

Pavane tangled his fingers in Sairsel’s hair, tugged just enough to make him look up, caught his gaze with his, and then his lips.

“Tell me you want me,” he whispered, breathless.

“Fuck off,” Sairsel said, taking a fistful of his collar to kiss him again.

Pavane almost grinned against his lips. “I want you.”

All at once, Sairsel stepped back, mouth parted as he breathed. He kept his palm pressed to Pavane’s chest for one, two heartbeats; and then his touch was gone, but not his gaze. His eyes didn’t leave Pavane as he reached down, unbuckled his sword belt, and let it fall to the floor with a dull clatter.

He took off his own jacket, too, but it was Pavane who undressed him the rest of the way, because he needed to be close and to touch him and kiss the skin he bared. 

The bed was the softest thing Pavane had laid upon in weeks. He barely noticed; not until later, when he was lying on his back and Sairsel was shifting beside him, sitting up like something had bit him. Everything came back into focus: the ceiling above him, shaking with the shadows of a low-burning lantern; the warm body next to his, too far away as Sairsel swung his legs over the side of the bed to sit with his feet against the floor; the moon outside the window that counted their hours.

“What are we going to do?” Pavane asked, careful; meticulous in his distance. Sairsel’s head tilted to the side, but he didn’t look over his shoulder at him.

He ran his hand through the mess of his hair, tied it back again. “What about?”

“Tomorrow.”

Sairsel said nothing.

“Would you want this again?”

“I’d want it all night if you offered,” Sairsel said, almost scoffing.

Pavane reached out to run his fingers, feather-light, down his back; it made Sairsel shiver. It was strange to see him so still, so unburdened by restlessness, but Pavane wanted it to feel right.

He didn’t say that it was an idea. He didn’t say that he was flattered. To anyone else, he might have said half a hundred things, glib and charming and perfectly detached. None of it seemed to fit; there were half a hundred other things he should be saying now. 

He’d spent so long wanting, and now he’d had it, and instead of leaving him satisfied or disappointed, something greater than that want had opened up beneath his feet and he didn’t know how to walk around it and steady himself as he always did.

Sairsel didn’t make anything of his silence, for all that Pavane could tell. “I’ll take you to your ruins,” he said simply. “With luck, nothing will make a meal of us, and you’ll find whatever it is you’re looking for. And then you’ll go home, I suppose.”

“Almost sounds too good to be true,” Pavane said. 

It didn’t; not really.

[root-doctor-ryan-blog]

A Shamanic “Curing”* Using Kundalini Mantra

So this blog will need to go back in time, and it will.  Over the next few days I will be taking you back to how it all began - this journey of mine into African shamanism. 

But, before I do, I need to share an experience I had just recently with a client.  It is with his permission that I feel ethically permitted to share with you what I am about to... my first experience with using Kundalini Yoga mantras, in conjunction with the little knowledge I have gained so far in traditional healing - and the astounding results it had.

I have been seeing my client (let’s call him “Martin”) for several weeks now.  My weekly appointments with him are in capacity as a meditation teacher, hypnotherapist and life coach.  Up until now I have been prescribing multi-layered approaches, and working alongside my client’s doctors.  They take care of his physical health, and I look after his mental, emotional and spiritual well-being. 

My prescriptions range from the simple “Granny-would-have-known-this” remedies, to more complex meditative approaches.  Thus far Martin has been including the following regimen into his daily lifestyle as best he can (in conjunction with medical & nutritional advice from registered professionals):

walking barefoot outside on the earth

sunbathing in direct morning & evening light

blessing his water & food before drinking it - asking that they go into his body, and help strengthen and heal his cells

ensuring his room is cleaned daily by the house-keeper, windows open, and light enters in.  No healing can occur in a ‘sick room’ - the room must feel like a healing temple

visualizing himself doing regular Sun Salutations (his body isn’t strong enough yet for physical yoga practice)

daily gratitude, positive visualization, meditation, breathing exercises, and several other therapeutic aids.  

Today I did a gentle meditation with my client, which turned into a simple ceremony. 

1. Firstly, I lit a white candle (for Great Spirit/God/Divine) and asked Martin to pray from his heart. He is a deeply spiritual man, so he seemed to enjoy this (this is integrative healing - and the spirit is often ignored).  I also lit a yellow candle to honour the ancestors, guides, and angels. 

2.  As Martin was chanting the WAHEGURU mantra (relaxing on his bed), I was moved to rub my hands vigorously and then massage his feet, angles, and knees to stimulate blood flow.  

3.  The mantra that came out of my mouth was the PAVAN PAVAN mantra - which is used to stimulate the flow of prana/life force energy.  None of this was  planned.  Very intuitive.

4. When I got to his knees, my client shot up, his entire upper body lifted from the bed, eyes open and out of his mouth came a primal scream!  I initially thought I had perhaps hurt him due to his sensitive nervous system.  His face turned black (!!) and looked like a gaunt and deathly thin.  It looked as if he was expelling something from deep within (I couldn’t help but think of all the exorcism movies I had watched growing up).  Then, his body dropped back on the bed, and I placed my hands on his shoulders and just kept saying “It’s gone. It’s over. The worst is done. All is well now. You are healed” - these simple affirmative statements were all my mouth could say, and as he sobbed with relief, I knew the words would sink into the subconscious as hypnotic suggestions. 

5. I lit imphepho (what we in South Africa use similar to the Native American usage of sage) to clear the room, opened the windows wide, and moved the candles to the windows.  My client asked me to offer a blessing, which I did, and asked the angels to cleanse the space, and protect it (and him), going forward. I use the AD GURAY NAMEH / MANGALA CHARAN mantra when I do protective songs around a home or room. 

I am an academic. I have several qualifications in cognitive psychology, neuro-behavioural studies, and other fields of mental health.  I am also a yogi and a shaman.  For me, it does not matter if something is seen as “real” or “placebo” - it it works, it works.  Ancient Mystics were the doctors of the soul.  As a yogi, I understand how movement, breath, and sound stimulate physiological responses.  I also know how important belief is in the healing process. 

What happened with my client was not my intended session - but my practice must be Spirit-led in order for Divine Intelligence to flow through me into my patient.  Although I am comfortable in such a process, I had never personally experienced something as intense as that primal scream and release of whatever-it-was-that-had-to-go!  

When I left, I played RAKHE RAKHAN HAR all the way down the mountain.  This is our yogic protection and “cutting away the negativity” mantra, and it like a fierce body guard.  I felt urged to go and swim in the sea, to wash off any residue from the session.  I called a few colleagues in fields of medicine, yoga, and of course my sangoma teacher, and enjoyed their varied insights. 

This seems to be the beginning of a beautiful integration of the tools I carry in my tool kit.  I don’t want to live segmented - yoga here, traditional healing there, hypnosis here, life coaching there. It must be integrated. This is a part of my path.  

Thokoza. Sat Nam.

__________________________________________________

*DISCLAIMER: This blog provides general information and dis­cus­sion about traditional medicine, health, healing, faith healing, folk remedies and related subjects.  The words and other content provided in this blog, and in any linked mate­ri­als, are not intended (and should not be construed) as med­ical advice. If the reader or any other per­son has a med­ical con­cern, he or she should con­sult with an appropriately-licensed physi­cian or other health care worker.  Never disre­gard pro­fes­sional med­ical advice or delay in seek­ing it because of something you have read on this blog or in any linked materials. If you think you may have a med­ical emer­gency, call your doc­tor or local hospital immediately.The views expressed on this blog and web­site have no rela­tion to those of any academic, hospital, practice or other insti­tu­tion with which the authors may be affiliated.  The author of this blog is NOT a licensed medical professional, and he takes no responsibility for any reader who chooses to act contrary to the legitimate medical advice given by a licenses professional. 

[granatumre]

the last man standing || a near mix (8tracks) (spotify) 

another requested mix for the smart boy i love to death. the cover looks a lot like the Light one, i know. it’s a very ambient mix too because i’ve tried to stay canon. i’ve also slipped somewhere in the end.  

tracklist:

1. total solar eclipse - sleeping at last | 2. m.o.o.n. - pilot | 3. and the world was gone - snow ghosts | 4. sleepless in berlin - ak | 5. self - anima! | 6. pélléas - pavane | 7. sweet hell - haiah manser | 9. black hills - gardens villa | 10. candles - jon hopkins | 11. anvil - lorn | 12. scatter the scars - ritual howls | 13. all i need - clams casino | 14. melanchole - salvia palth | 15. jtc - nearr | 16. leave house  - caribou | 17. a new error - moderat | 18. quiet man - my dad is dead | 19. stars - brian eno

[nijjhar]

The 4 Advent Candles are related to the 4 Varnas = Professional people -... The 4 Advent Candles are related to the 4 Varnas = Professional people - Shoodar, Vaish, Khashtri and Brahmin Verna. https://youtu.be/Qc-_yVCEC04 Four Advent Candles = Four Varnas = Professions = Gospel is to all predestined. 12 Labourers = 7+5 https://youtu.be/k0BE_Jt2ZTQ FOUR GATES OF HARMANDIR = FOUR ADVENT CANDLES = FOUR VARNAS. Punjabi - Four Gates of Harmandir Sahib, the Holiest of Holy replacement = Four Advent Candles of four Varnas = Professions. https://youtu.be/_5knzdtGysU Article:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/fourgtes.htm Mandirs of Hindus have one gate normally facing East but the Harmandir Sahib has Four Gates. Why? This will become clear in understanding the functions of a "Mandir" and of the "Harmandir". Mandir is for the Hindus and by definition; a Hindu is one who knows his Remember that the Four Varnas are related to the Four spiritual states of the soul, HAUMAE, MUNN, BUDHI AND CHITT but today the fanatics are claiming a fifth Takht called Dam Dama Sahib. Yes, there is a fifth Varan called Shankar Varan and it is the Varan of the Super Bastard Fanatic Devils – John 8v44, the religious people of appearances and dead letters who have nothing to do with religion but they are "shameless" sons of Satan creating trouble all over the world. Such fanatics are asked to conceal their tribal identity under the name of the religious community or the other and the Mohammadans are number one in doing so. A product of this Fifth Takht Bhindranwala was neither a Sikh Sewadar of the order of Bhai Ghaniya Ji nor a Khalsa Soldier who have nothing to do with this Holiest of Holy Complex meant for the Sikh Bhagtan and Nirmallae Santan to render praises to our Supernatural Father Elohim, Allah, Parbrahm, etc. That is why the Foundation Stone of Harmandir Sahib for the Gurmukhs was laid by Pir Mian Mir Ji, a True Merciful Muslim of heart, a Gurmukh Sikh. So, Harmandir Sahib is expected to have Four Doors to preach the Gospel to the people performing the works of all the Four Varnas, professions. Remember that Bhagat Rav Dass Ji was performing the work of SHOODAR VARAN for his living but spiritually He was a Satguru or Christ. Finally, the Four Gates of Harmandir Sahib have nothing to do with the four directions as the directions could be many but such an explanation is good for the people who do not know their Satguru or the Four Advent Candles. PAVAN ARANBH SATGUR MATT WAILA; SHABD GURU SURAT DHUNN CHAELA. Here is a related Youtube Video on the Family of God:- https://youtu.be/bzWFWMyKNjE The more you spend "His Treasures", preaching Gospel, the more you please Father to receive more. Scriptures + holy spirit (common sense) = Gospel Hajj is for the Heavenly Peaceful living of the sons of Man, "Ba-Ilah" and not for the sons of Satan in "La-Ilah". www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/faithfat.pdf Punjabi - How did a Pathan Zaildar who performed Hajj become Super Bastard Fanatic Devil? http://youtu.be/9DqMvO1hb0U True Story. www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/Pathan201.pdf Four types of loves:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/loves.htm Family of God:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/FamGod-1.htm Solitary Royal Priests. Test for twice-born:- http://youtu.be/__X89iAI_cE www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/antichrist.htm Flesh + soul = Once-born natural Disciple of the Rabbis Flesh + soul + spirit = Twice-born sensible Labouring son of God Fanatics are super bastard Devils – John 8v44:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/seedterr.htm www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/fanbastards.htm Trinity is explained:- Playlist: - www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL0C8AFaJhsWyU_oUMJodHvSZGoNDPk5bu John's baptism:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/johnsig.pdf Please print these pages to understand Baani as well:- Punjabi Book:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/pdbook.pdf www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/trinity.pdf Youtube Playlist on Trinity: - https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL0C8AFaJhsWyU_oUMJodHvSZGoNDPk5bu John's baptism:- http://www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/johnsig.pdf Gnostic heretic explains why Jesus had 12 Labourers? 7 in the name of Yahweh (John, the Baptist) and 5 in Christ Jesus = 12. https://youtu.be/zNtyGuUbwuA From Judaism born of water + 7 to Christianity born of the holy spirit + 5 = 12 TANN (Physical tribal body) + MUNN (Mind, Nafs, etc.) = 12 Purified (Nirmall)   ATOMIC WAR SHOULD TAKE PLACE ON 14/05/2023 WHEN ISRAEL IS 75 YEARS OLD BUT BEFORE THAT ISRAEL WILL ATTACK A COUNTRY MAKING ATOMIC BOMBS. ISRAEL IS FULLY PROTECTED FOR 70 YEARS. THEN THE REAL TRIBULATIONS FOR FIVE YEARS WOULD START. MY LECTURES/TALKS ARE GIVEN “FREE”. IF SOMEONE WANTS TO MAKE A DOCUMENTARY, I CAN RENDER HELP. My ebook has been published by Kindle. ASIN: B01AVLC9WO For a full description, please visit my website:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/Rest.htm I need IT Graphic help to finish my Books:- ONE GOD ONE FAITH:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/bookfin.pdf and in Punjabi KAKHH OHLAE LAKHH:-  www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/pdbook.pdf John's baptism:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/johnsig.pdf Trinity:- www.gnosticgospel.co.uk/trinity.pdf

[ximxmix]

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Renée Fleming, Jeffrey Tate & The English Chamber Orchestra - The Last Rose of Summer Tan Dun - For The World Cater Burwell - Billboards On Fire Sébastian Tellier - Le Long De La Rivière Tendre Cater Burwell - Counter Move Robert Wyatt - P.L.A. Amy Annelle - Buckskin Stallion Blues Elliot Smith - Let's Get Lost Monsters of Folk - His Master's Voice The Troggs - Cousin Jane David Kitt - Lessa lit a Candle for me AIR / Alessandro Baricco - Musica David Kitt - Your Blues Lee Hazlewood - My Autumn's Done Come Iron & Wine - On you Wings The Cleveland Orchestra - Ravel: Pavane pour une infante défunte Cigarette After Sex - Sunsetz Black Sabbath - Planet Caravan Fráncois & The Atlas Mountains - Jeans Nino Rota - O' Venezia Venaga Venusia Mike Oldfield - Foreign Affair The Cure - All Cats Are Grey M. Rux - Djoungou The Band - I Shall Be Released Ray Charles - I Got a Woman Japan - Ghosts M. Rux - Work it Maribou State - Turnmills Anna SchuSchu - Gyrl Red Thievery Corporation - Transcendence Morcheeba ft. Benjamin Biolay - Paris sur Mer Georges Delerue - Camille The Floaters - Float On Bass Mati - Homesikh Blues Massive Attack - Unfinished Sympathy Bass Mati - Le Mystère Djorkaeff

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[uberchain]

(I Hope) This Is The Last Definitive TF2/OW Politics Rambling I Ever Keyboard Enthusiast About

TaiRong’s Twitter rant on why he left comp TF2 for comp OW cuts deep. His talk was very specific to AsiaFortress, but it’s a sentiment for many former TF2 pros and talent who prioritized OW. They wanted more than what TF2 was able to give them. In turn, what it gets interpreted as is a slight against TF2 and its community. 

I too, have also called brothers and sisters “traitors” at one point because I hated how not only they were leaving me, but then seemed to forget their roots. They didn’t owe me or TF2 anything. It’s not that they forgot their roots, it’s that the people who left are just as angry as the people who stayed. 

I will never forget Creep*, a prominent AsiaFortress player from Korea, telling me at i55 that he wanted to bring an Asian team to iSeries one day. In i58, that actually seemed like it would be the case, but the Asian players struggled to field a team for i58 because of a majority of their playerbase leaving for OW. When I reflect back on it, it would have been wasteful to collect who was left in Asia if the best players had left. Full Tilt and Crowns were the EU powerhouses, and even the weakest froyotech roster in LAN history would have probably beaten them. Australia still hurts from 4th Place LAN placements to this day.

Of course I would have liked to see Asia at a major international TF2 LAN, let alone South America or even Australia again. I hope they will get the funding they need if they decide to contest the powerhouses of Europe or North America, and I hope they will enjoy their experiences if they do so, as many TF2 players who fight for passion do. I wished the same for Australia when they came back for i58 and ESA Rewind, even though I knew the curse of 4th Place and the lack of monetary justification must have hurt a fair bit.

The fire/candle burning out metaphor is common in my scene. I’m saddened to hear about Pavane and TaiRong attempting to go through it all and fight hard after so many hours of dedication to TF2, but burning out or feeling helpless as so many others have done around me. I’m glad TaiRong asked Fl0w3r and Pine to follow him at the right time, and as such found more success in OW than they did TF2. It took me some time to accept it, but now I can say I think they made the right choice, as did so many others I saw succeed - Seagull, Muma, Mangachu. SDB, Knoxxx, Zebbosai. Some of the many old names and old faces that TF2 players remember fondly; that TF2 players miss.

I get rebuttals of how TF2 was marketed as a casual game a lot. I know this. It was one of the reasons why matchmaking was met with so much pushback when new devs finally were allowed to implement it. To some extent, I’m inclined to agree. My favourite shit to deal with has to be when I see comments that say that the competitive TF2 pros are ruining the game. That they should just leave and stop pushing competitive on a casual game.

Well...they did. 

After years of watching Valve to push the community’s 6v6, having to grow up and stop being a salt factory about my brothers and sisters going to OW instead, being paid for and thanked sincerely for my involvement in OW from Blizzard, never touching Valve’s Matchmaking since the first launch week until they adjust it again, and now overseeing what might be the most important piece of TF2 narrative in the form of 1 and a half years of filming - I’m okay with them leaving.

They left, because TF2 itself, as well as the majority of TF2′s playerbase, was insistent on TF2 being a casual game. Therefore, people who wanted more than that finally decided “alright, it’s going to stay a casual game” - and found a competitive game instead. Gameplay opinions, criticized business tactics, and other semantics aside - they found a game that did not limit itself to insisting on being a casual game, but wanted to also be called a competitive game.  

I am happy for TaiRong’s success and determination. I understand and sympathize with TaiRong’s anger and his frustration. I am happy he left TF2 if he was no longer happy with it. I can objectively say as a bigger TF2 fan that OW is treating him better so far. How long that will last, I don’t know, but I can 100% say it’s treated him better than AsiaFortress from his tweets and from what I know. Of course I’m sad that TF2 was not enough for him; I understand that his and many other’s anger is more at Valve than TF2 itself. I understand the other side of the story that disagree with that sentiment and will point out Valve’s decisions as wiser.

But that’s okay. I’m glad they left if they weren’t happy here. I’m glad they’re happier where they are.

I’m sure similar fandoms experience this: I see not just former pros, but content creators, artists, Youtubers, talking about how they fear returning to TF2 for anything. The reasons sometimes are similar: they’re afraid of angry TF2 fans who labelled them traitors. They’re afraid of falling back into the comfort TF2 will offer them rather than go out of their comfort zone to try new things for themselves. They’re afraid that they’ll fall back into a depressive state because they were either in a bad state when they ventured into TF2, or they simply will always want more than TF2 was or will be able to offer.

Let them leave then. They are not yours to keep. They were not meant to stay. Their relationship with TF2 was not as fond as you thought it was - who was wrong in that relationship is up to you. Their anger is not because they forgot their roots. Their anger iis not against the community. Some of their closest friends and teammates are all probably from the same roots. 

We did not forget their roots. They did not forget their roots. Their anger was because they couldn’t find what they wanted - so they found it elsewhere. And that’s okay.

*Pavane turned out to be Creep.

[tinydooms]

And just one more prompt in case: Little Adam caught trying on other servants' wigs, or something to that effect (now i'm imagining a tiny prince Adam wearing Lumiere's wig or something :D)

Wigsand Wings

“Hsst! Plumette!Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

Plumette, draggedfrom sleep by a small insistent form bouncing on her’s, groaned.“Adam. Go back to sleep!”

Adam flopped down,elbows on Plumette’s stomach. “I can’t! I’m too awake, so we haveto play!”

“Go play byyourself.”

Plumette gave ashove and the little prince rolled off the bed and onto the floor.Plumette pulled her blankets back around her and closed her eyes. ButAdam was not to be put off. He was five years old and full ofmischief, and Plumette was the closest person in age to him in thecastle. He climbed back onto her bed and tapped her face.

“I know whereNanny Beatrice hid the make-up! Do you wanna play dress up?”

Plumette opened hereyes at that, and sat up. Mrs. Potts had been moving the make-up boxaround all week, trying to keep it from them. Apparently they weretoo little for make-up, though Plumette thought that, being ten, shewas quite old enough to wear at least eye shadow. She climbed out ofbed and took Adam’s hand in her’s.

“We’re only goingto play for a while, and then it’s right back to bed, all right?”

“All right, allright, come on!” Adam tugged on her hand and all but draggedPlumette out of her bedroom.

Breathless fromtrying not to giggle, the two children ran through the servants’ wingto the kitchen and through to the larder, where baskets and trays ofingredients-eggs, beans, flour, sugar, jams and jellies, cured meatsand cheeses-sat waiting for daytime use. Adam pulled Plumette to theend of the room, and pointed to a high up shelf.

“There, it’s upthere! I saw her hide it!”

What were you doingin the kitchens, Plumette wanted to ask, but she knew Prince Adamwell enough by now to know that he used his tiny size to his ownadvantage. His forts and hiding places in the castle were legion.

“Wait here.”Plumette ran out to the kitchen proper and came back with a chair.“Hold this steady while I climb up!”

Adam clutched thebase of the chair, watching as Plumette climbed up in her whitenightdress to tease the make-up box to the edge of the shelf, andthen down into her hands. For a moment she stood there, tall as anangel, grinning down at him. Then she jumped down to Adam’s own levelagain.

“Come on, let’sgo to the table and I’ll light a candle.”

They settled at theround table with the cosmetics box between them, and Plumette fetcheda candelabra, lighting it from the coals in the stove. Adam wriggledin excitement. He adored make-up, loved watching his mama put it on,loved watching Chapeau powder his nose before parties, loved playingwith the powdered pigments, smearing them all over his face. Mama hadtold him that at the King’s court at Versailles, everyone woremake-up and fancy clothes, and that there were balls deep into thenight, and games to be played, and yummy food to be eaten. Adamcouldn’t wait to grow up and see the King’s court for himself.

“Plumette, whenI’m big we’ll go dance at Versailles,” he said, bouncing in hischair.

“You will,”Plumette replied. “I’m not a princess; I can’t go dance atVersailles.”

“Then I’ll makeyou a princess!” Adam replied. “I’ll tell everyone you’rePrincess Plumette. You’re pretty and no one will know that youaren’t.”

Plumette laughed.She dipped her brush in iridescent green powder and brushed it acrossher eyelids, then followed that with blue and gold swirls. Shebrushed powdered gold across her cheekbones and dotted ruby red liprouge across her lips, so that she looked like some exotic bird. Adamwatched, fascinated.

“Now me!”

“Shhh, not soloud! Sit still; you’re too wiggly.” Plumette dusted Adam’s facewith white powder, then painted his eyes in a blue-green-goldpattern, like the wings of a peacock. She put a little too much liprouge on him, but that didn’t matter, she could use it to blend spotsinto his cheeks. There.

“What a handsomeprince you are!” she said, showing him his reflection in the box’slittle hand mirror. “If only you had a wig, your father himselfwouldn’t recognize you!”

“Can we get awig?” Adam asked.

“Um. No, I don’tthink so,” Plumette replied.

“But I know wherethey are!” Adam cried, leaping out of his chair. “Cogsworth saidthey were all getting powdered, so they’ll be downstairs.”

“Oh dear,” saidPlumette, but she let the tiny prince drag her through the halls tothe little workshop where the staffs’ wigs were sent to be cleanedand powdered.

There sateveryone’s wigs: Chapeau’s tall one that looked like peaks of whippedcream, Cogsworth’s old-fashioned one, and all the rest, all fluffywith washing and fresh powder. Adam fetched Chapeau’s wig down andplumped it over his golden hair, giggling.

“You take one,too!”

Plumette castaround, looking for a wig she liked. Mrs. Potts said that she was toolittle for wigs, and that her curly black hair was too beautiful tobe hidden away, but Plumette liked to fancy herself a grown-up lady,and couldn’t wait to start dressing her hair. She selected a tallpeaked wig with soft tendrils hanging down and put it onto her head.She preened a little, fluffing her nightdress out like a ballgown.

“We look like twoprincesses at a ball!” she told Adam.

He gave her hismost affronted look. “I’m a prince!”

“Well, you looklike a princess in that nightgown! Come on, give me a twirl!”

Giggling, theyjoined hands and did a pavane down the room, mixing up the steps andtripping over each other. Plumette swung Adam around and dipped him,causing the wig to tumble from his head, which sent the little princeinto gales of laughter. The door opened.

“Good heavens!Plumette! Prince Adam! What are you doing?”

Plumette and Adamwhirled about to face Chapeau, standing there in his dressing gown, acandle flickering in his hands. Oops.

But Chapeau wassmiling. “Ah, a midnight party. I see. How fine you both look, monprince, mademoiselle. But it is late, and all parties must come to anend, no?”

“We’re wearingmake-up!” Adam said, bounding across to Chapeau and trying to climbup into the footman’s arms. “We found it!”

Chapeau sighed,amused. “And Nanny Beatrice thought she had hidden it so well. Comealong, both of you, it is time children sought their beds.”

“Are we introuble?” Plumette asked, hastening to pick Chapeau’s wig up andset it back on its stand. She gave her own borrowed wig a farewellpat.

“No, not if weget you cleaned up and back to bed before anyone else wakes,”Chapeau replied. “Come along, then.”

And it was back tothe kitchen, where Plumette put the make-up back in its box whileChapeau scrubbed Adam’s face clean. Plumette’s turn was next, Chapeaurinsing the soft cloth and wiping it over her face, removing anytrace of contraband powder and rouge. He chuckled, seeing theirdowncast faces.

“Come now,there’ll be time enough for cosmetics when you’re older,” he said.“And fancy eye make-up painted like wings, too. Come, Adam, let’stuck Plumette back into bed, and then I’ll take you to your room.”

Holding theirhands, Chapeau took the children back to Plumette’s room. She climbedinto bed and Chapeau tucked her in, and Adam leaned down in thefootman’s arms to kiss her cheek.

“Thanks forplaying with me,” the little prince whispered.

“I’ll always playwith you,” Plumette replied, sleepy and warm. “Good night, Adam,Chapeau.”

“Good night,Plumette.”

Mrs. Potts neverdid learn about the midnight escapade with the make-up, and neitherPlumette nor Adam nor Chapeau ever told her.

[nvmbr-music-blog]

yo what’s your music taste anyway?

as anyone with more than a passing interest in music would know, this question is terrifyingly difficult to answer, but seemingly vital to people. so to sum up my music taste: shit get’s weird.

i like a good pop song as much as the next guy but i’m definitely one of those people who loves the obscure artists - they feel like personal little treasure troves. to me, music should be the kind of thing that makes you smile, or cry, or dance - i’m done with the lifeless, generic cash-grabbing that too often dominates the charts. and on that bitter note, here are my music tastes, helpfully put in boxes because who doesn’t love a good label.

i - indie-pop/rock - this is my go-to, generic kinda music. the stuff that makes me wanna dance and sing along and generally have fun (which i suppose is the point of music). i like it to be groovy, fast and strong vocally, but really anything goes here. examples: kangaroo court by capital cities, told you so by paramore, apollo by last dinosaurs, am i wrong by anderson .paak, you know i’m no good by amy winehouse, redbone by childish gambino

ii - hip hop - yeah this a bit out there for a skinny white boy that uses the word indie un-ironically, but there’s something about the style, momentum and skillful writing involved in rap and hip-hop that I can’t help but love. hip hop makes me feel cool, yo. examples: foreplay by jalen santoy, fall in love by goldlink, the space program by a tribe called quest, thru the tundra by karma kid

iii - jazz - spend a hot minute with me and you’ll come to realise the full extent of my unbridled loved for snarky puppy, a modern fusion jazz-ish band that sums up what i love about jazz: it’s different. oh and i’m also a fan of the old stuff, the black and white record scratchy stuff that makes my head spin (in a good way). examples: what about me?, grown folks and lingus by snarky puppy, u-bahn by bill laurance, someday my prince will come by bill evans

iv - acoustic/sad songs - weird how people voluntarily subject themselves to songs that make them want to bawl their eyes out, but here i am, sad and proud (sort of). sometimes all you need to start your day is a song that hits you right and chest and generally beats you up until you realise that everything is beautiful, life is beautiful etc etc. examples: 6/10 by dodie, florence by adam barnes, candles by daughter, novels by rusty clanton

v - classical??? - i play piano (pretty badly) and am constantly falling in love with the complexity and rich texture of classical music. it’s also a great way to feel pretentious and intellectual with very little effort. i mean let’s be honest, all the best music was written by dead people. examples: clair de lune by claude debussy, pavane op. 50 by gabriel faure, nocturne no. 1 by frederic chopin

so hopefully this’ll help you understand what i like to listen to and what you might find on my blog. i love finding new music so please let me know your favourite songs and any suggestions for hidden tunes!