#chapel of the transfiguration

[queenlua]

apparently there's a chapel in Grand Teton National Park & its aesthetics go hard (h/t)

[goldkirk]

I finally found the photo of me in my old too-attention-drawing hot pink chapel veil I’ve been looking for for over a year now

[livefromtheyard]

do you study theology? you seem to know a lot about religion and it’s hype

i have before and my thesis was about christian satire 💖 it's just good candy for my brain. in an ideal world i'll get my mdiv and i'll talk about it even more somehow 🐻

[ohholydyke]

See the thing about fundamentalists and trads and Christian nationalists and MAGA evangelicals and ethnocratic bigots is that they render the faith so boring.

I take no issue with the fact that they would look at me and say that I’m not a member of the faithful because their faith is radically, inherently, ontologically distinct from mine. My God is too big and too loving and too esoteric to fit neatly into the gendered understanding of an authoritarian white father disciplining his children for not perfectly falling into lockstep. My Savior is the man who told the religious leaders “Caesar can have his idolatrous blood money, but give God your heart and your faith,” challenging the notion of an earthly ruler. My apostles wrote of the throne of man being empty—there are no masters or kings or governments, there is only Jesus Christ, Basileus Basileōn, king of kings. I believe in radical oneness with God through Christ—one flesh and one body, biblical marriage with the bridegroom whose flesh and blood make up the holy Eucharist. My faith is Queer, ancestral, esoteric, anarchist, insurrectionary, anticolonial, antiracist, unorthodox, disruptive, free. When I encounter the divine, or pray to the saints, or sit in the chapel to pray, I am experiencing communion with the sublime, in every sense of the word, the same presence that made the apostles fall to their faces before the transfiguration, that shaped the world from void, that animates the deep care and rage which boil into every aspect of my being.

When conservatives tell me I am not a Christian it is only because they cannot conceive of a Christ and a faith so big, so all encompassing, so beyond anything our human minds can comprehend, and they cannot conceive being in tune with this divinity and being left senseless by the knowledge that the divine above all else is us and loves us more than we could ever comprehend, such that experiencing this love is enough to leave one fundamentally, ontologically changed down to the fiber of their being. I feel sorrow for them. I pray that Christ may reach into their hearts and open their eyes, that they may see not only the horrors that they commit but also the deep love and freedom that awaits them through abandoning their fundamentalism and their bigotry.

Or, in other words, me every time I see another conservative Christian whining about how people aren’t doing Christianity right because they don’t adhere to a super narrow and watered down version of the faith:

[marigold-hills]

Dunes & Waters, part 19

PART 1 • PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART

Remus watches Sirius eat.

Sirius shouldn’t be eating, but he’s a sneaky one and managed to smuggle a bag of dates into the museum when Remus wasn’t looking. He gets snacky, he said when he took them out and put them on his desk. Helps him think, having something to chew on.

Remus should not be watching Sirius eat. For his own self preservation, really. Not when the dates are sticky and Sirius licks them off his fingers. There’s a hint of teeth, a flash of tongue. Remus is pretty sure he would hate seeing anyone else do this, but on Sirius… he still hates it, but for different reasons. It’s obscene. His mouth opens and his fingers enter it and each time, Remus has a vivid, gut-pulling, earth-shattering reminder of the dream he had. Has to bite the inside of his own cheek to stop from moaning.

It’s been an unproductive day. He’s stuck on a translation of a word from the 30th sequence of the tomb-chapel of Rekhmira. There are some Muggle translations but none of them makes sense within the context of what Remus knows and what the Muggles wouldn’t: Rekhmira is a key.

Hng r.k mxA.i n.k r.k r qsw.k

Your mouth is ..., I measure your mouth for you to your bones

Sirius, despite emptying his stash of snacky brain food, is also getting nowhere with the Box.

“Let’s finish for today,” he says, “it’s almost midnight.”

“Run out of food, did you?”

“Yes,” a grin with so many pretty white teeth, “and I want to feed Ziggy. Poor thing’s been alone for hours.”

They walk through a night-quiet Aswan. It’s clear, star-lit, moon-bright.

“There’s my star,” Sirius point out, “bright, aren’t I?”

“That you are,” Remus answers, “very pretty.”

Sirius points out constellations as they walk, the main star in each. There’s Leo, and Regulus, it’s heart. There’s Cassiopeia, the Stag.

“And look, Aquila. Like on your Box. But it’s Altair, the Eagle’s eye, that’s the brightest, not…” he stops dead, arm he was using to point towards the sky suddenly limp by his side.

“Sirius?”

“It’s the Falcon.”

Remus wants to ask more but there is something so wonderful about watching Sirius put pieces together. He’s loath to disturb it and scared to move – he knows the face of breakthrough. He knows how easy a thread of new thought can be broken.

“Aquila was the falcon of Horus in Egypt, not an Eagle - that’s Greek. And the red star, Alshain, on the Box - it’s the peregrine, also the falcon.”

Sirius breaks eye contact with the sky, looks to Remus, bright and elated. “The whole Box is a multi level riddle, like your bloody crosswords.”

They turn back to the Museum.

It’s strange walking through the ward and into a sun lit room straight from a dark night outside. Confuses something in Remus’ time perception. It’s a liminal space, this office of theirs, where nothing is real but the two of them and what they work on. Remus gets lost in it. Could spend days in it. Work away the nights.

Sirius transfigures a blank sheet of paper into an enormous blackboard. Draws the Box on it – an approximation of it, three dimensional son flat canvas, all sharp edges and quick, overlapping lines.

“There are constellations here,” he points to one of the edges, draws an arrow to it, “and here.”

Aquila, he writes, the Falcon. “We know this. On the other side is Lupus, the Wolf.” More arrows, more notes. “But Lupus has no named stars… so what’s the clue here?”

Remus does no work of his own, just watches the storm in front of him and lets it sweep him along. Thinks just how bloody lucky he’s gotten that the convict he pulled out of prison has an in-depth knowledge of star systems. Cringes at it because calling Sirius this now? Unthinkable. Senseless.

He tries to imagine it. Sirius, hurting all those people. Can’t: even in the midst of an attack, Sirius didn’t hurt Remus, only himself. He’s been so gentle. With Ziggy. With Remus. It makes no sense, that somebody could be both.

More writing. Lupus underlined, and below it: Wolf. Roman: Bestia. Greek: Therium. Babylon: Mad Dog – UR.IDIM.

Then a drawing, something with a head of a man and body of a wolf.

Sirius draws back. Thinks about it. Summons a book of deities and it flies into his hands. “I’m missing something.”

Then he’s quiet for a while, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He’s a beautiful mess.

“That’s Anubis and Wepwawet on the front. They’re both dog gods, but that makes no sense…”

“Wepwawet is a wolf,” Remus interrupts.

It’s dangerous, now, with the disfigured human drawn on the board, how close Sirius is to figuring out the core of the research. Remus knows it, and he sees in Sirius’ eyes that he does, too.

“It’s time you give me another piece of information, Remus. The missing link.”

Remus knows he’s right. To have a chance at figuring this out, he has to know just why the Box stroke his interest. He was hoping to delay it. He was hoping not to do it at all. And Sirius was so good, he got so much of it already – more than Remus has, more than anyone since the Box had been found. Falcon. Bestia. Dog-Man.

“I’m studying werewolves.”

NEXT PART

NOTES:

Does this make sense? It makes sense to me but that could be because I know the big picture.

extra long chapter today to make up for missing yesterday :)

@tealeavesandtrash

@moon-girl88

@hoje--aqui

@cocoabutterandbooks

@onion-sliced-apples

@prancingpony42

@digital-kam

@remoonysiriusly

@sweetstarryskies

@a-sunset-outside-my-window

@procrastinatingstuff

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged!)

[leroibobo]

holy transfiguration of our lord chapel in ninilchik, alaska. this russian orthodox chapel was built in 1901 to replace a former, larger church. it still serves the sizable local native population, who are today largely orthodox.

[carnalapples]

How about "Own, Growls, Hymn" for DADWC? :3

Happy Friday!! For you and @demarogue for @dadrunkwriting, I have some (faint) Morrigan/Amell:

“What do you require of me?” Morrigan stands to her full height and Amell thinks, briefly, that this was a mistake. 

"I wanted to ask you a question."

“Speak it.”

Somewhere behind them, he hears the low growls of what he thinks are wolves but is too skittish to ask, and he can’t stop his eyes from flicking toward the noise. Something plays across Morrigan’s face then, her lips curving up in a wry smile.

“There is nothing you can do about them,” she says.

“I’m just not used to it.” Like he is not used to armor instead of robes, or to the open air and the itchy grass, or the way he is addressed as Warden above all else.

“Still?”

“I was in the tower for eighteen years, and out here for just these months. You’re clever enough to do the math.”

“And I thought you were a quick learner.”

“Did you?” Her eyes narrow at that, at the earnestness he fails to cut out of his voice.

“You cannot tell me you miss that place,” she rejoins, as if it is a fact that he cannot refute. Does he miss it? He does not know.

He knows that each night, he lies in his bedroll and he tries not to dream. Sometimes he will turn over well-worn sections of the Chant in his mind, as if he can ward off a demon with words alone, with the pretense of holiness that he has always been denied. Worse than dreaming, really, is the fantasy. Sometimes he will wonder what it would be like if he had been allowed to stay, but mostly he wonders what his life would be like if he never had magic at all, if he didn’t have to live with the curse of it. 

He thinks maybe he would be okay, giving it up. But then he cranes his neck to the side, and down by the fire lies Morrigan, who has never seen her magic as a shameful thing.

“You do not miss your own home at all?”

“It is not my place to miss it. Flemeth told me I must go, and now I am here.” She adjusts her robes tighter around her. “I do not believe your prison can be called a home.”

“It was my home,” he says. “Are you cold?”

“What?” She blinks at him briefly before pulling her thoughts back together, the barest hint of a frown on her mouth. “I am fine.”

“Take my cloak," he offers quickly, too quickly.

"I do not need your cloak."

"Consider it a solution to a problem, then."

"And if there is no problem at all?"

"Consider it a gift." He's already unbuttoned it, the fabric hanging limply around his shoulders.

“You are sentimental.” The way she says it does not sound like a compliment. 

“Is there a problem with that?”

“Sentiment is a weakness. Although not as much as love.” At his silence, she cocks her head. “A Warden like you still believes in love?”

“I would whether I were a Warden or not.”

“They fed you many stories in your Circle, then.” Another one of her pronouncements, and even when he disagrees, which is often, he finds himself coming back here like a stray dog, to the fire that makes him sweat in his armor and her sharp tongue which does nothing to help.

“They fed us well,” he agrees. “Though stories do not do much for the stomach.”

And then she laughs, and he is reminded why he comes back. When Morrigan laughs… it’s like the hymns the sisters would sing in the Circle chapel.

He’d work nights in the chapel because it was slightly better than in the kitchens. One gave you extra food, and the other let you sit down. He’d light the candles, organize the books, and let the sisters’ and the templars’ hushed murmurs wash over him. And Amell had always carried it inside of him, the knowledge that the prayers were really meant for others. They could carry the prayer and the lightness of being, and he would carry the power, the magic, the sin that was his to bear.

But the song belonged to anyone that could hear it. It was not the peaceful melody of Transfigurations that brought him peace, but Threnodies, the harsh slant of the words on his ears. There was a beauty in there, a raw truth. 

Sometimes Cullen would be in there, too, and even now the thought of him stirs something fond before he remembers. He only ever lets himself think of one image now: the candlelight would catch on his face, on his eyelashes, pale golden as he looked over at him. And sometimes he would smile back, and Cullen would flush just a little before he turned back to his prayer, and Amell never knew if he was imagining the smile on his face or not.

Morrigan’s lashes are dark by firelight, dark shadows deepening her face. Cutting her sharper, more severe. She slips the cloak off his shoulders, his skin prickling as her hands brush it. "You had a question, I believe.”

He always walks away from talks like these feeling like it’s his fault, somehow. For believing in things he shouldn't, for not being bold enough. He is tempted to tell her about it, but he cannot figure out how to articulate it. That her laugh is like a hymn is too trite for such a clever girl as her, and she has likely never heard Threnodies and it would all be different through her ears.

"I think I have my answer," he says softly, and at that, she raises her brows, just a bit. Imperceptible if he weren't looking. And for him, raised on fleeting touches and the reading of meaning where there is none, it is enough.

[mariacallous]

Fugitive Wirecard COO Jan Marsalek wasn’t just responsible for Germany’s largest financial fraud in history. He was also a decade-long Russian spy.

In the city of Lipetsk, 300 miles south of Moscow, stands a yellow chapel. Somewhat out of place next to a modern mirrored-window building, situated on the lip of a roundabout, the 200 year-old Church of Holy Transfiguration caters to the faithful of a large mining town that dates back to the era of Peter the Great. Inside, Father Konstantin Baiazov performs the customary rites and rituals for his flock. Dark and bearded, with a short, military-style buzz cut, the church’s archpriest’s routine is standard – services twice a day. Father Konstantin inherited the job — and the calling — from his own father, a revered Orthodox priest who, as local legend goes, had challenged the authority of the formidable KGB during Soviet times.

Konstantin, the father of three, used to travel abroad. He liked visiting Europe, and was particularly fond of Rome. However, he has not left Russia since September 2020. Since the fifth of that month, Father Baiazov’s official passport, numbered 763391844, has not belonged to a man of God. Rather, it belongs to someone who wears a different kind of white collar, looks a lot like him, and is the most wanted man in Europe.

For more than four years, Jan Marsalek, the former chief operating officer of the disgraced German financial services company Wirecard, has been living in Russia under this assumed identity, a year-long investigation by The Insider, Der Spiegel, ZDF, and Der Standard has uncovered. Wirecard, the German equivalent to PayPal was once a DAX-30 listed company, one of the wealthiest traded entities on the German stock exchange, with a valuation of $28 billion. Then came June 2020, when, in the midst of an audit, Wirecard could not locate €1.9 billion in assets it claimed were being held somewhere in the world – Russia, the United Arab Emirates or the Philippines. In fact, the money didn’t exist. Wirecard’s worth was predicated on commissions supposedly earned from three companies, Al Alam, Senjo and PayEasy, based in Dubai, Singapore and Manila, respectively. Wirecard money flowed into all three but the only documented flows in reverse existed in the German conglomerate’s imagination. Or, as the now imprisoned former CEO Markus Braun claims, it had been funneled away to a complex web of offshore accounts controlled by his then number two, Jan Marsalek.

Marsalek, the man responsible for overseeing the forging of company records, money-laundering, and extensive espionage and harassment campaigns against the journalists and speculators who exposed the enormity of Wirecard’s graft, fled in a sinuous route from Germany to Austria to Belarus to Moscow on June 19, 2020, at a moment when COVID-19 lockdowns made movement across borders more difficult than usual for ordinary citizens. But Marsalek is not only an internationally accused swindler. He is also an agent of the GRU, Russia’s military intelligence service, and he has been for the last decade. More recently, since his defection to Russia, he has also done jobs for the FSB.

The Insider’s investigation is based mainly on confidential documents, emails, and chat transcripts, as well mobile phone and travel data. Research into Marsalek’s past also included interviews conducted by our consortium partners with people close to the accused. Among these are his mother and his longtime recruiter-handler, whom Der Spiegel met up with in February at a five-star hotel in Dubai.

The never-before-told story of how the Austrian-born “whiz kid” was recruited to Russia’s largest and most notorious spy agency, the GRU, bears all the hallmarks of a genre-bending ham thriller. Sacha Baron Cohen as Bernie Madoff the Bond villain. It is a saga replete with honey traps, MiG fighter jets, erotic models, sinister ex-spooks, even more sinister mercenaries, counterfeit passports, fake priests taking Syphilis tests, and cheap disguises. More ominously, the story also involves surveillance and kidnapping plots, including surveillance targeting a member of the team that investigated Marsalek’s case, Christo Grozev.

[eternal--returned]

From Rome they headed north into Tuscany, stopping in Arezzo to see Piero della Francesca's fresco cycle The Legend of the True Cross in the choir of the church of San Francesco, before arriving in what was the undoubted highlight of this first trip: Florence. In the chapels of the Bardi and Peruzzi banking families in the Basilica of Santa Croce, Rothko looked at frescoes by Giotto that he had previously known only in reproduction, and he would almost certainly have seen Masaccio's emotional painting cycle in the Brancacci Chapel in the church of Santa Maria del Carmine. Among the many places that he and Mell visited were two particular buildings that would have an enduring impact on Rothko's work and the decisions that he would take with it in the course of the next twenty years. The first of them was the Dominican church and convent of San Marco, with its tempera frescoes by Fra Angelico in the monks' cells (see below). He was captivated by the sourceless, evenly dispersed light that Fra Angelico achieved, which afforded the individual rooms a deeply meditative serenity. The social context and physical experience of the frescoes—intended to be seen by one single viewer at a time—were in themselves a revelation. 'When you go to Italy', Rothko later told Ben Dienes, 'you must see the Fra Angelicos'. 'He felt everything was of one piece,' said Dienes. 'The division was of one piece. That's the way he put it. You saw the wholeness of it'. Writing in the catalogue for Rothko's presentation at the Venice Biennale some years later, Sam Hunter identified this experience as the most deeply moving of that entire first trip to Europe.

Jasper Sharp ֍ "Looking for the Fabulous: An Account of Mark Rothko's Voyages to Europe." Toward Clarity (2019)

Fra Angelico ֍ Christ Mocked, San Marco Convent, Florence, Italy (c. 1436)

Fra Angelico ֍ Touch Me Not!, San Marco Convent, Florence, Italy (c. 1436)

Fra Angelico ֍ Crucifixion, San Marco Convent, Florence, Italy (c. 1436)

Fra Angelico ֍ Annunciation, San Marco Convent, Florence, Italy (c. 1436)

Fra Angelico ֍ Lamentation, San Marco Convent, Florence, Italy (c. 1436)

Fra Angelico ֍ Transfiguration, San Marco Convent, Florence, Italy (c. 1436)

Fra Angelico ֍ Coronation of the Virgin, San Marco Convent, Florence, Italy (c. 1436)

Fra Angelico ֍ Madonna and Child, San Marco Convent, Florence, Italy (c. 1436)

[rosesandalfazemas]

@engportevents

3. Your best version

Spanish version

Windsor.

That was undoubtedly the first stone upon stones that the Englishman could call "home." Although at first there had been only two towers and a small wall, over the centuries, technology and the importance of existence, Windsor gradually became a region in itself, covering hectares of extension in both buildings and complexes, roads, fields, hunting grounds, rural zones and urban areas.

It had been the place of birth and death of almost all the sovereigns of the nation, and was the undisputed home of the youngest of the Kirklands for many centuries, until the evolution of the world caused him to move with the royal family to new residences; but they always returned, inevitably to the same place, with some new excuse that only showed how deep the roots and the blue blood of their people had, connected beyond the obvious.

Its existence was so important and powerful that the castle, along with the Emerald Bastion in Ireland and Stonehenge in Scotland, were the only structures that were also transfigured in the Dreamworld; for its force in human history was such, that it refracted like the image of a mirror. Points so powerful that they were half of the complex called the Great Gray Castle, one of the most important spiritual structural bases in the West.

“Here we are…”

For this, they had to navigate much deeper than they usually did, conscious in reality with their humanoid skins. And a previous step.

"Meu Deus..."

Gabriel’s steps were light as he made his way down the carpeted hallway, until he was facing the leaves at the entrance to the room. Arthur looked at the guard in the background and gestured for them to spread out a bit; he took a key that no longer belonged to that time, from his pocket. In a quick gesture he opened the old but well-preserved wooden doors, with the original engravings that the couple remembered, stretching out his arms and sliding the leaves backwards.

“The door…”

"The same one," the blond smiled amused. “They’re the passage to the Christian paradise we chose back then, when inexperience made us more tense than we should have been.”

"Well, I was a little older and you had just gotten used to functioning on your own, after learning from Francis. It was quite a challenge for you.”

“Of course.” he smiled tenderly. “It was quite an adventure. But there was time for me to prepare this one for you.”

"It's true." He looked at him for a second. “What's more, I remember it took three tries to make this door, because it never reached the palace intact; something occured and the door arrived broken.”

“Ah yes, all the tension activated my magic; those poor souls took quite the scare” he laughed with a hint of bitterness. “ But after that I learned to control it…”

"... to use conscientiously."

“... to use it conscientiously, yes.”

The brunette smiled, a hint of sarcasm on his lips, and returned to the door, giving it a onceover before entering. He remembered the craftsman who had carved the doors, on days full of joy and bewilderment. He had come over to show off the idea, dirty and nervous, between stern knights in silver armor. And it was Portugal himself who chose him.

For some reason, all the descendants of that craftsman still had a connection to the Royal British Family to present day, offering their services at more sophisticated levels.

"It's like a time travel, marido," he admited, looking all over the room. “It's maravilhoso.”

"That's why I wanted to bring you, because of the expression on your face. I love it.”

Gabriel turned and smiled at him. They continued the tour, walking slowly between the corridors and the decorations of each corner; carding his fingers between some things, both melancholy and pride.

The entire wing had been planned out when the alliance was announced, and built up a couple of years later. With a view of ​​the Chapel of Saint George where they had been married, passing through the red room and the white drawing room, the old bedroom had been covered, decorated and then painted with blues and ochres, because Gabriel liked marine colors, replacing the reds a young Arthur had preffered.

The huge windows had been conserved, and through time they had added heavy curtains that let the light in. On the opposite side, facing north, were three huge standing mirrors with their own vanity table, two internal bathrooms, two work desks, a loveseat, a common library against the wall, two closets with walking room to change, recreation tables close to the door and a large piece of furniture that kept specific glassware for the refined alcohol stored in it, with its glasses and glasses gifted from all the courts of the world.

The bed, next to it, was still as immense as the first, with its dark oak colored carved headboard and high footboards; lined with white and blue velvet curtains, held in place by long golden cords.

In front of it, the walls were a pewter blue and the ceiling white, with hanging gold decorations. Saint George, patron saint of both nations, was painted on the ceiling just like a silhouette, whose sword pointed to the heraldic shields of both houses over the fireplace that was on one of the walls. 

The metal scale ornaments showed who this room belonged to, and why entire generations of humans were never allowed to be there.

“Everything looks the same as I remember.” Portugal walked in, England closed the door behind.

“I wanted to keep it this way. With all the happy and bitter memories.” the blonde spoke, his hands were in his pocket. “I did not want to skip over any details, it is not intended to be a fantasy.”

“Yes, I can sense it in the air.” The Portuguese looked at him sideways, while looking over the base of the steel shields on the wall, with a melancholic look.

“We made love in front of the fire many times, on the stone floor and fur rugs, with those sea storms the winter brought and cooled the whole room.”

"And on the other hand, overwhelmed by the summer heat, we argued much more when we were in bed." continued Gabriel. “We did everything backwards.”

"It was the charm of the marriage." Arthur walked towards him.

Gabriel smiled sadly when, after kissing his husband's hand, his eyes of that strange aquamarine went to a corner, landing on one of the tables near the room's central library.

“There’s where you yelled at me for the first time, I remember, and you threatened to go get our alliance act and tear it up with your own hands, condemning its writing to a hellish fire.”

Arthur blushed violently, looking to the side.

“... I said that?”

"You were angry. You found the letters that Antonio's king had with mine, and you considered it an infidelity in, what you felt, it was monogamy. You were hurt and jealous, and that hit you like an anvil.”

“Yeah, I'm not specifically proud of my reactions in the first decade. However, you didn't reproach me for that behavior afterwards, because you knew it was based on personal stupidity.”

“It wasn’t. You were young, you were scared and you were afraid that I would leave you. But I knew that I loved you and that it wouldn’t happen.”

"Well, there's the age difference," the other pointed out, with a hint of amusement. “You were already more on your feet. I had just stopped being a wild rabbit that Bonnefoy had tamed, wearing a metal armor that was too big for me at our wedding.”

Gabriel laughed slowly.

“It's part of your charm.” he kissed his forehead affectionately, letting go to continue the tour of the room, reviewing each object and piece of furniture, until the turn led him to the foot of the bed. “But you didn’t bring me here to remember our rights and wrongs."

"No, of course," he answered, walking towards him.

"Then, my dear husband, I look forward to hearing from you what you want to do here."

Arthur took his hand and lead him to sit on white feather padding, leaving him on the edge. Then he knelt on the ground and rested his elbows on the other's knees, getting between his legs and looking up at him with the expression of an anxious child.

“By my command, his place preserves all the things that we have gone through in our history. Only a few creatures that still walk the Earth can say that they have experienced what we have, together.” His tone lowered, showing solemnity. “And although time and sea have sometimes distanced us; wars or famines were only breaks from what really unites us.” he took the other’s hands and left the one that tied the weeding ring on top. "Something much deeper than vows in this reality."

"We can't go directly to the Dreamworld," replied the dark-haired man, catching on the intention. “You’ve taught me that you have to go in phases. Human reality is far away.”

“Not from here; in this bubble in which I keep the memories condensed on the walls, the memories on the floor and still drawn in the inks of the library books, witnesses of our time together, it will allow us to travel there at that level of depth and in full consciousness.”

"... So we don't need an ecstatic state to find it?"

The Englishman blinked suddenly, letting go of the hand and pouting childishly.

"...Hey, don't mock me, I do want to fuck you."

Portugal's laugh was as unexpected as well received. It was contagious, and dissipated the tension the conversation gave them.

"Well, that's really a way to get back to the present," he smiled mockingly, the freckles on the nose more visible due to the blush. Gabriel brushed the blond bangs back with his fingers, uncovering the forehead that always was unnoticed by the hair and his thick eyebrows.

"Did I ask a question outside of the lesson, professor witch?"

"It's clear that you don't pay attention" he raised an eyebrow, following the game “. So I'll give you a … practical lesson.”

Taken advantage of by the position, Arthur rose to his feet and leaned over Gabriel, pushing him under himself and laying him down on the bed. He supported all his weight, one that Gabriel received with a big smile, hugging him from behind and seeking his mouth to deepen a long kiss.

"Mmh, amor..."

“Relax, I'll lead… ”

Pale hands traveled to the sides of the other's torso, beginning to undo the buttons and push the fabric. The tanned hands undid the belt and released the trousers, opening the shirt more. Arms stretched out and both legs spread, making the other's work easier with a coordination that left no doubt for how long they had been lovers, between the intense kisses that sought to bite and get deeper.

"Ah! Arthur…” 

"We'll take it slow, okay? Seeing you naked is a problem right now, my control begins to break.”

“Bem.”

The Lusitanian raised his arms, while the Briton finished undressing him. A sidelong look and a complicit smile accompanied the silent acts, until Portugal was completely naked.

“You know, Ludwig told me this is a fetish.” he pointed himself out, still dressed. “I think we have nothing left to try, however. Still, seeing you like that makes me—“

"Marido, you're rambling again," he snapped his fingers at him, amused. “You said you were going to go for a practical lesson, but don't take it too literally.”

"Is that a bossy tone I'm hearing?" Arthur feigned an offended question, while Gabriel spread his legs, fully exposing himself against the head of the bed, tucked between the pillows.

"I'm a king, what did you expect from me? Begging?”  He smiled maliciously, “You must serve me. It is your conjugal duty, especially in our bed.”

Still dressed, the blond crawled over to the other, caressing the knees and lowering his hands to the huge scars on the thighs of both legs, pressing them. The brunette's reaction was reflected on a sigh and his growing erection.

“Damn the moon that guided my path to ever cross your own, gypsy. You only get me turned on.”

“Everything turns you on, Arthur. You are a pervert with beautiful eyes.” He rose his brows. “Stop making excuses about my so-called luring sorcery.”

“It’s real; I could only be comfortable with another witch, and here you are, giving me orders.”

"Are you going to fuck me or not?"

England applies pressure onto the scars, making the other moan loudly.

“I said we’d go slow, my dear husband.”

“Mhm… I’m getting desperate, do something before I go insane and stop listening to you.”

“As you wish.”

Arthur leans down onto the other’s hips, taking the hard member into his mouth. The skillful mouth made the lusitanian bang their head against the headboard of the bed, raising his eyes to the ceiling, half closed. Moans built up in his throat and he held onto the wooden bedposts, while his partner’s dominance made him feel like an anvil.

“Arthur!”

“Give yourself to me the way I do to you, no conditions.” The other asked for, “The way we did when we first made our vows. Just like that time…”

“Sim, sim.”

Arthur undoubtedly showed a great power; perhaps the most powerful nation in Western Europe, even with all its setbacks. But there was no action or comment from him that went unnoticed by anyone in the world; from a caress to a red button that he pressed, or how many cubes of sugar the ideal tea should contain.

Greece was right in thinking that his existence generated tidal waves; some that maximized his husband's bodily pleasure, found in the warmth of his mouth. Something that perhaps only a couple would endure and that would kill a mortal with a heart attack.

When the blonde spread the tanned legs with false kindness, holding them by the knees, the noises coming from his mouth were more obscene, causing a more intense arousal. Little by little, every soft word, etiquette rule, or dress code fell apart, as each piece of clothing was ripped open, a button broken off, and a zipper undone.

“Let me see you.”

Arthur kissed him again, letting the wandering hands continue their work. He was half dressed, and beneath him was Portugal, naked and ready. Pausing for a moment to caress the edges of his face, moving gently down his shoulders, arms, chest, waist, and thighs.

“This is your best version.” He whispered against Port’s lips, focused on the other’s pupils.

“Esta é a sua melhor versão.” Portugal repeated, reaching for the other’s hands with his own and interlocking his fingers.

They smiled at each other, conjuring up an old ritual they’d always shared. Something the old tribal women from here and there, between the Calé and the Celts, had taught them over time. Something that evoked a recognition among creatures conceived like those; long-lived and almost infinite, with thousands of folded sides in many dimensions. This way, they focused on a single form: the one that brought together a bit of all of them, and made it plausible to channel any quality of the other sides; since it was the most powerful, tangible and consistent.

The human form.

A breeze from nowhere blew gently into the room, bringing with it a strong scent of roses. The emerald eyes on Portugal seemed to shine in the soft gloom of the room. The answer was immediate: the pupils of a strange-green sea seemed to lighten up just a little, and a wave of lavender appeared around them. A brightness that called to another, in many places at once. Both smells could be felt and seen, surrounding and enveloping them like cocoons.

"You look beautiful like this, the real you." Gabriel whispered, obsessed by the vision above him. The blond smiled lazily.

“Then you should hold me closer, dearest, because for this trip I am the channel through which you must pass.”

"Oh, must I... ?"

“Indeed. That's why I prepared you with my mouth before.” he raised his thick eyebrows.

"Well, I won't deny that it's a pleasant surprise." Portugal laughed slowly, still caressing the pale skin. It’s been a long time since it was my turn.”

“It's your luck'ey day, mate. I’m not complaining too much either” he shrugged. “It’s always a pleasure when we switch”

“Bem! Someone was in the mood and didn't tell me.”

The blond laughed slowly and then positioned himself over Gabriel, allowing his hands to relax the sensitive skin, in ascending and descending all over his body. Eyes closed and a lazy smile, Arthur let himself settle down, until the warm hands on his cheeks made him see his lover’s face again.

"Ready to ride?"

“Yes.”

Arthur rested his hands onto the other's chest, deep kiss to hide his moaning. The Portuguese's hands found his pale waist and beyond, touching his ass to hold tightly and tenderly to make the ride easier.

“Ngh!”

“Just relax.”

After a moment everything became more gentle and the fingers more inquisitive. Arthur bit his lip, smiling and running his tongue over his mouth, anticipating the oncoming pleasure when he felt the tip of the other’s member at his entrance.

“Stop overthinking, Gabe, you’re making me anxious.”

“That’s the idea.”

Suddenly, Portugal sank him down quickly, and provoked in Arthur a lewd cry that turned into laughter and then a deep groan.

"Aaah yes! This is what I wanted! You're perfect.” Kirkland sat down better, biting his lip and facing towards the ceiling with half-closed eyes. “Just a little more... a little-“

“Mhh!” Gabriel frowned at the tightness, but the next thrust pushed him fully into his partner, sighing with relief and pleasure.

The breeze was more intense between them, the scent of roses and lavenders sweeter, until everything began to mix and instead of wisps of dust in the air, threads of light began to form, like spider webs that could barely be seen when hit by the sun; and it stopped, shining like gold. And again. And again.

Suddenly, it was night and day; and it was winter, and spring, and summer, and fall; there were noises, music and then silence; as if they passed between people and events with great speed.

As their bodies synched into rhythm and Arthur began to ride Gabriel, the sharpness of those golden threads around them began to narrow, surrounding them; they were everywhere, they were part of everything; they even came out of them. In those movements, their strings began to braid to a point where they looked like two creatures woven from the same skein, barely distinguishable from each other.

"Aah!"

"Ah-Arthur!"

But they didn't seem to notice; they only felt the building pleasure of where they were connected; one that grew closer and closer to orgasm.

"Gabe-!"

It all happened at the same time; the climax, collapsing onto the other's chest and hugging each other, squeezing their arms, as if they were going to disappear. But they laid horizontally on the bed, breathing heavily.

When they parted ways and looked at each other, they were no longer the ones from the mirror of the human world.

When they looked out the window, the skies were pink, the sun blue, and the fields orange.

After many centuries, they had come to the Dreamworld together.

***

[thesynaxarium]

Today we celebrate the Holy Great Martyr and All-Wise Catherine of Alexandria. Saint Catherine, who was from Alexandria, was the daughter of Constas (or Cestus). She was an exceedingly beautiful maiden, most chaste, and illustrious in wealth, lineage, and learning. By her steadfast understanding, she utterly vanquished the passionate and unbridled soul of Maximinus, the tyrant of Alexandria; and by her eloquence, she stopped the mouths of the so-called philosophers who had been gathered to dispute with her. She was crowned with the crown of martyrdom in the year 305. Her holy relics were taken by Angels to the holy mountain of Sinai, where they were discovered many years later; the famous monastery of Saint Catherine was originally dedicated to the Holy Transfiguration of the Lord and the Burning Bush, but later was dedicated to Saint Catherine. According to the ancient usage, Saints Catherine and Mercurius were celebrated on the 24th of this month, whereas the holy Hieromartyrs Clement of Rome and Peter of Alexandria were celebrated on the 25th. The dates of the feasts of these Saints were interchanged at the request of the Church and Monastery of Mount Sinai, so that the festival of Saint Catherine, their patron, might be celebrated more festively together with the Apodosis of the Feast of the Entry of the Theotokos. The Slavic Churches, however, commemorate these Saints on their original dates. May she intercede for us always + Source: https://www.goarch.org/chapel/saints?contentid=307 (at Alexandria, Egypt) https://www.instagram.com/p/ClWsh72LfKl/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[hierarchyproblem]

It was the anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing yesterday, and Nagasaki is in two days. I haven't seen Oppenheimer, but since the topic's been in the discourse lately, here's what Dorothy Day wrote in the Catholic Worker in 1945 following the dropping of the bomb.

Mr Truman was jubilant. President Truman. True man; what a strange name, come to think of it. We refer to Jesus Christ as true God and true Man. Truman is a true man of his time in that he was jubilant. He was not a son of God, brother of Christ, brother of the Japanese, jubilating as he did. He went from table to table on the cruiser which was bringing him home from the Big Three conference, telling the great news; “jubilant” the newspapers said. Jubilate Deo. We have killed 318,000 Japanese.

That is, we hope we have killed them, the Associated Press, on page one, column one of the Herald Tribune, says. The effect is hoped for, not known. It is to be hoped they are vaporized, our Japanese brothers – scattered, men, women and babies, to the four winds, over the seven seas. Perhaps we will breathe their dust into our nostrils, feel them in the fog of New York on our faces, feel them in the rain on the hills of Easton. Jubilate Deo. President Truman was jubilant. We have created. We have created destruction. We have created a new element, called Pluto. Nature had nothing to do with it. “A cavern below Columbia was the bomb’s cradle,” born not that men might live, but that men might be killed. Brought into being in a cavern, and then tried in a desert place, in the midst of tempest and lightning, tried out, and then again on the eve of the Feast of the Transfiguration of our Lord Jesus Christ, on a far off island in the eastern hemisphere, tried out again, this “new weapon which conceivably might wipe out mankind, and perhaps the planet itself.” [...] “We have spent two billion on the greatest scientific gamble in history and won,” said President Truman jubilantly. The papers list the scientists (the murderers) who are credited with perfecting this new weapon [...] Scientists, army officers, great universities (Notre Dame included), and captains of industry – all are given credit lines in the press for their work of preparing the bomb – and other bombs, the President assures us, are in production now [...] This new great force will be used for good, the scientists assured us. And then they wiped out a city of 318,000. This was good. The President was jubilant. Today’s paper with its columns of description of the new era, the atomic era, which this colossal slaughter of the innocents has ushered in, is filled with stories covering every conceivable phase of the new discovery. Pictures of the towns and the industrial plants where the parts are made are spread across the pages. In the forefront of the town of Oak Ridge, Tennessee is a chapel, a large comfortable-looking chapel benignly settled beside the plant. And the scientists making the first tests in the desert prayed, one newspaper account said. Yes, God is still in the picture. God is not mocked [...] God permits these things. We have to remember it. We are held in God’s hands, all of us, and President Truman too, and these scientists who have created death, but will use it for good. He, God, holds our life and our happiness, our sanity and our health; our lives are in His hands. He is our Creator. Creator. [...] Everyone says, “I wonder what the Pope thinks of it?” How everyone turns to the Vatican for judgement, even though they do not seem to listen to the voice there! But our Lord Himself has already pronounced judgement on the atomic bomb. When James and John (John the beloved) wished to call down fire from heaven on their enemies, Jesus said: “You know not of what spirit you are. The Son of Man came not to destroy souls but to save.” He said also, “What you do unto the least of these my brethren, you do unto me.”

[benedictserdon]

𝗖𝗮𝗹𝗲𝗿𝘂𝗲𝗴𝗮 𝗖𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵: 𝗔 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗦𝗼𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲, 𝗜𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲

Perched on the slopes of the picturesque Batulao Mountains. Caleruega Church located in Nasugbu, Batangas stands as a serene sanctuary that captivates the hearts and souls of its visitors. This beautiful place of worship is more than just a religious institution --it is a haven of peace offering escape from the demands of daily life.

You will instantly feel safe, relax and at home once you set foot in Caleruega. Be captivated by its architectural design that complements the natural beauty of the surroundings. The vast grounds provide a peaceful place for thought. The gardens enable visitors to take leisurely strolls and take in the beauty of nature with its lush greeneries, colourful flowers and winding pathways. The well-tended lawns also provide a perfect setting for picnics or simply finding a quiet spot to sit and enjoy the breathtaking views of the surrounding hills and valleys.

The Transfiguration Chapel, a stunning building that seems to merge in with its surroundings, is the main attraction of Caleruega Church. Its stained glass windows and wooden doors, which depict biblical events, invite guests to investigate their faith and find comfort there. The chapel's interior, with its tall ceilings, wooden beams, and natural sunlight, is equally magnificent. Whether attending a wedding, a retreat, or simply seeking a moment of prayer, the chapel offers a space of reverence to the Almighty.

In addition to the chapel, Caleruega Church also provides conference spaces and lodging for retreats and seminars. With these features, it is the perfect place for religious gatherings, team-building exercises, and educational events. The church also frequently offers retreats and recollections giving both individuals and groups the chance to enrich their spiritual journeys.

The experience of visiting Caleruega Church will revitalize the spirit and leave a lasting impact, making it a must-see location for both spiritual believers and nature lovers.

Love, Philippines

[troybeecham]

Today, the Church remembers St. James the Apostle.

Ora pro nobis.

James (the latinized version of his actual name, Jacob), son of Zebedee (died 44 AD) was one of the Twelve Apostles of Jesus, and traditionally considered the first apostle to be martyred. He was a son of Zebedee and Salome, and brother of John the Apostle. He is also called James the Greater or James the Great to distinguish him from James, son of Alphaeus (James the Less) and James the brother of Jesus (James the Just). James the son of Zebedee is the patron saint of Spaniards and Portuguese, and as such is often identified as Santiago or São Tiago.

His parents seem to have been people of means. Zebedee, his father, was a fisherman of the Sea of Galilee, who probably lived in or near Bethsaida, present Galilee, Israel, perhaps in Capernaum, and had some boatmen or hired men. Salome, his mother, was one of the pious women who afterwards followed Christ and "ministered unto him of their substance", and his brother John was personally known to the high-priest, and must have had the wherewithal to provide for the Mother of Jesus.

It is probable that his brother had not received the technical training of the rabbinical schools; in this sense they were unlearned and without any official position among the Jews. But, according to the social rank of their parents, they must have been men of ordinary education, in the common walks of Jewish life. James is described as one of the first disciples to join Jesus. The Synoptic Gospels state that James and John were with their father by the seashore when Jesus called them to follow him.

James was one of only three apostles whom Jesus selected to bear witness to his Transfiguration. James and John (or, in another tradition, their mother) asked Jesus to grant them seats on his right and left in his glory. Jesus rebuked them, and the other ten apostles were annoyed with them. James and his brother wanted to call down fire on a Samaritan town, but were rebuked by Jesus. The Acts of the Apostles records that "Herod the king" (traditionally identified with Herod Agrippa) had James executed by the sword. He is the only apostle whose martyrdom is recorded in the New Testament. He is, thus, traditionally believed to be the first of the twelve apostles martyred for his faith.

The site of martyrdom is located within the Armenian Apostolic Cathedral of St. James in the Armenian Quarter of Jerusalem. The Chapel of St. James the Great, located to the left of the sanctuary, is the traditional place where he was martyred when King Herod Agrippa ordered him to be beheaded. His head is buried under the altar, marked by a piece of red marble and surrounded by six votive lamps.

There is another tradition that his disciples carried his body by sea to Iberia, where they landed at Padrón on the coast of Galicia, and took it inland for burial at Santiago de Compostela.

The tradition at Compostela placed the discovery of the relics of the saint in the time of king Alfonso II (791-842) and of bishop Theodemir of Iria. These traditions were the basis for the pilgrimage route that began to be established in the 9th century, and the shrine dedicated to James at Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia in Spain, became the most famous pilgrimage site in the Christian world. The Way of St. James is a trio of routes that cross Western Europe and arrive at Santiago through Northern Spain. Eventually James became the patron saint of Spain.

O gracious God, we remember before you today your servant and apostle James, first among the Twelve to suffer martyrdom for the Name of Jesus Christ; and we pray that you will pour out upon the leaders of your Church that spirit of self-denying service by which alone they may have true authority among your people; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

Amen.

[sshbpodcast]

Don’t forget to remember these Star Trek memory wipes

By Ames

What did I start writing this blogpost for? I can’t seem to remember, so I might as well make a post about memory and how frequently our heroes in Star Trek seem to get theirs erased. We see enough tampering with people’s minds to give just about anyone an identity crisis, so this week A Star to Steer Her By will be focusing specifically on memory wipes.

Read on below and/or listen to this week’s episode (discussion at 1:03:36) for all the instances of memory wipes we could remember. And if I’ve forgotten any others, there’s an obvious reason for that… I didn’t feel like including them! Prepare to have your mind blown, and then reassembled again with some chunks missing.

[Images © CBS/Paramount]

“The Changeling”

An early instance of someone getting their mind erased happens when Nomad encounters Uhura and scrubs down her brain to try to understand why she was singing. It’s debatable how intentionally malicious this was but the results are the same: a vegetable for a comms officer. Somehow Nurse Chapel is able to teach Uhura how to be a person a little and we’re left to assume she’s relearned everything, though the implications are absolutely horrifying.

“The Paradise Syndrome”

Kirk ker-zaps his brain when snooping around an obelisk and manages to lose all his memories just in time to hook up with a hot native woman. As squicky as much of this episode is, Kirk’s not really at fault here because he literally has no idea what’s going on. If that’s not an effective way around the Prime Directive, as we discussed at length last week, then nothing is!

“Requiem for Methuselah”

Blink and you miss this one because it happens at the very end of the episode and doesn’t really get explained or lingered upon. After losing the love of his life of the week, Kirk is mourning Rayna the Robot and Spock doesn’t understand why. So when McCoy says it’d be nice if the captain could forget her, Spock (that cad!) decides on his own, entirely illogically, to go in and do something to Kirk’s memories without consent while he sleeps. It’s one of the most effed up things that Spock does, and many people won’t even notice it. Yikes.

“Pen Pals”

On the subject of our discussion of the Prime Directive from last week, here’s an episode that was pretty appropriate and has a memory wipe! It’s another sneaky way around lessening cultural contamination: just blank the relevant memories of the individual from the less developed society and it’s like we didn’t break our golden rule at all! Lucky for us, the Pulaski Method doesn’t work on all people or we could just use it in every episode and the show would never have any stakes at all.

“Transfigurations”

We’ve got an absolute ton of memory-related episodes in TNG, so let’s continue through with an amnesiac who’s evolving past his corporeal form and doesn’t even remember why. It’s kind of an interesting look at identity and a person’s potential, wrapped up in a kind of convoluted romance plot. But John Doe is a cool enough guy, especially when you look at memory loss episodes and how the individual still tends to shine through.

“Clues”

We brought up “Clues” recently when we discussed how Trek characters get possessed by entities quite a lot, so here’s a crossover in which they also lose their memories of meeting the Paxans. Like Pulaski performing a memory wipe on Sarjenka in “Pen Pals,” the reclusive aliens give a good brain cleaning to the Enterprise crew so that they don’t remember meeting them. Good for them!

“Conundrum”

Even better than the example in “Transfigurations” of amnesiac characters learning who they are is the episode “Conundrum.” The whole ship has lost their memories due to alien shenanigans, but the fascinating thing to watch is how the different crew members make assumptions about their identities through curiosity, logic, and wishful thinking while still acting fairly in character. They gravitate toward their natural personalities, which is kinda neat.

“Aquiel”

Trek doesn’t always nail mystery episodes, and “Aquiel” pulled out all the stops by including just about every red herring it could in this murder mystery in space. The top of those distractions was that the titular character couldn’t seem to remember anything about recent events for no good reason, except that there was a very good reason. Turns out nearly getting absorbed by a coalescent organism starts to wipe your memory. Who knew?

“Dark Page”

At some point (around, let’s say, “Half a Life”), TNG started writing Lwaxana Troi really well, and she gets a lot of really substantial character work in “Dark Page.” Lwaxana buried the memory of her deceased daughter somewhere in her mind. Maybe it’s a Betazoid thing. And in a much better memory-house adventure than catastrophes like “Distant Voices” and “Extreme Measures,” Deanna helps her through her trauma and it’s very sweet.

“Thine Own Self”

One more memory loss episode from TNG because there were just so many. With no memories of who he is or why he’s got so much radioactive material in his possession, Data makes himself comfortable on Barkon IV. Like the amnesia episodes discussed above, it’s very interesting to watch Data’s natural curiosity and intelligence pepper his actions even though he doesn’t know who he is as he saves the village from, well, himself.

“Equilibrium”

Moving on to other series, let’s trek over to Deep Space Nine and roll our eyes a whole bunch at how the Trill get retconned with just about every episode in which they’re the focus. It is from some big Trill conspiracy that the Dax symbiont had a whole past host’s memories removed so no one would know their big wormy secret. If it weren’t for Jadzia (or really, for Julian and Benjamin) uncovering the foul play, we’d have never learned about Joran. Oh no, big loss…

“Sons of Mogh”

Here’s another really unethical, rather uncomfortable one. If you can sort of shove Spock removing Kirk’s memories of Rayna under the rug, this one will be harder to justify. Bashir wipes Kurn’s memories with absolutely no consent because Klingon rituals seem barbaric and even less ethical to our soft Federation eyes. It’s a tough justification to make when you know that it goes against Kurn’s wishes. Ames wrote a whole fanfic about it. Frankly, he’s probably better off dead.

“The Killing Game”

Update 1/26/24: Apparently my memory got wiped at some point because I didn’t remember to include “The Killing Game” in this list when I first wrote it. But obviously the Hirogen blank the crew’s memories so they can play out their battle scenarios. And like in “Conundrum” and other amnesia episodes, it’s entertaining to see the similarities and differences between the French Resistance characters and their normal Starfleet personalities. No matter the circumstance, they will always fight for individuality.

“Unforgettable”

Moving on to our friends in the Delta Quadrant, let’s visit with the Ramurans for the very first time… every time we meet them! They’re a pretty neat race who naturally block memory engrams from forming in the people they interact with, and as a bonus they also have an instrument they can use on each other as well! So perhaps they can be blamed for how the romance between Kellin and Chakotay is adorable and yet perfectly forgettable.

“Latent Image”

On the podcast, we just covered “Latent Image,” which takes some of the squickier, nonconsensual memory wipe concepts we’ve just discussed, and actually brings the ethical debate to the forefront. It reminds me a bit of “Tuvix” which we liked so much because it explores the different sides of an equally impossible dilemma and puts a human face on it. Some may say Janeway makes a better decision here though.

“Workforce”

Update 1/26/24: Here’s one that we reviewed after this blogpost came out that I have to add since I never had these memories to begin with. When the whole crew gets abducted by the Quarren, they repress everyone’s memories so they’ll be docile, hardworking drones during their employment crisis. And like “The Killing Game,” it’s actually quite fascinating to watch how their personalities are reflected in their new characters, something I always love in memory wipe episodes. Tom loves B’Elanna no matter what, and it’s so cute.

“The Seventh”

Updated 1/26/24: Now that we’re finally doing our Enterprise watchthrough over on the podcast, I see I needed to add this T’Pol-centered episode to the memory wipes list. We learn that she underwent the fullara, a Vulcan mind-wiping technique that looks none too pleasant, because she was wracked with guilt for murdering a Vulcan defector to death. Apparently Vulcans aren’t logical enough to just get therapy.

“Observer Effect”

We brought up the Enterprise episode “Observer Effect” when we talked about possessions recently, so now I know to bring it up here too! Not only are the Organians possessing people’s bodies for periods of time, but they actively have a chat with a very pissed-off Phlox and wipe his recollection of it. Those guys’ definition of the Prime Directive has always been a little different.

“Despite Yourself”

Let’s jump ahead to Discovery. We didn’t mention this one on the podcast, but I wanted to bring it up here because it’s so messed up. L’Rell makes herself a sleeper agent when she crams Voq inside of Ash Tyler, turducken style, and blanks his memory, only to turn it back on later when it’s appropriate. And that happens to be in “Despite Yourself” when the poor guy is already having enough of an identity crisis.

“Reflections”

We here at SSHB (and I specifically) are quick to judgment of Lower Decks’s comedy, but it does also get a lot right, especially in the latest season! I’m particularly a big fan of Rutherford’s character arc, and the episode “Reflection” does some really great backstory building regarding his life before his implant, which is gone from his memory. He’s a fully different person from who he used to be, and I’m looking very forward to learning more as the show goes on! You never thought you’d hear me say that, didn’t you?

“A Moral Star” et alia

We give as much guff to Lower Decks as we heap praise onto Prodigy in its storytelling, characterizations, and pretty much everything else (opening title sequence, for instance). Somehow it’s still in season one as I write this so mild spoilers abound. I actually got chills when Gwyn lost her short-term memories by seeing Zero’s reflection outside their suit in “A Moral Star”. And then more chills later in the season as her and the Diviner’s memories are coming back! This plot development is still ongoing and I can’t encourage you more to check it out and see where they take it!

“Among the Lotus Eaters”

Update 1/26/24: Adding this one after the fact, so some spoilers for Strange New Worlds season two here. But this episode is just so clever in its use of memory to a very thought-provoking effect. The idea that memory is used as a way to control people and to exert power is so original and captivating that I just needed to come back and update this list. Knowledge of your own identity is literally power here on Rigel VII, and I’m such a fan of that kind of introspection.

—

My memories are returning, so let’s wrap this one up here. Let us know what other episodes you’ve remembered that have been purged from my mind somehow. Jot down a hand-written note to remind yourself to listen to the watch-along podcast over on SoundCloud or wherever you like to tune in, recall us on Facebook and Twitter, and remind me who you are again?

[flowersforroadkill]

Chapel of the Transfiguration, Grand Teton National Park