#delirium and melancholia

[deliriumandmelancholia]

I move through tar

I get up

I make coffee

At least I think the cup is clean enough

I sit at my desk

and I stare

My hands are busy

and my mind is numb but

inside I’m screaming

Why does nobody see me?

I have tried

so hard

to reach out

No takers

Too reliant

on those

too busy

too drowning

in their own

oceans of pain

Where is the

life boat?

I’m drowning

and I’m screaming

but no one is hearing

I might as well

just fade away.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

100 Vocabulary Words for Gothic Fiction | For Writers

Hello Writers! I've put together a list of 100 words to help you expand your vocabulary for writing gothic fiction in October. I categorized the words for easy reference. I did some research using thesauruses and dictionaries to compile this list for you. I hope you find it helpful! 👻🎃

Atmospheric Words

Tenebrous - dark and gloomy

Oppressive - overwhelming and unpleasantly powerful

Ominous - suggesting evil or harm is imminent

Eerie - strange and frightening

Uncanny - mysterious and unsettling

Nefarious - wicked or criminal

Malevolent - having evil intentions

Sinister - giving the impression of evil

Melancholy - deep sadness

Lugubrious - mournful or dismal

Sombre - dark and gloomy

Dreary - dull and depressing

Desolate - empty and lonely

Bleak - cold and depressing

Dank - unpleasantly damp and cold

Character Descriptions

Pallid - abnormally pale

Gaunt - thin and bony

Haggard - looking exhausted and unwell

Cadaverous - corpse-like

Wan - pale and sickly

Spectral - ghost-like

Enigmatic - mysterious and difficult to understand

Brooding - appearing darkly thoughtful

Tortured - suffering mentally or physically

Macabre - disturbing due to focus on death or injury

Architectural Features

Gothic - relating to medieval style architecture

Dilapidated - in a state of disrepair

Decrepit - worn out or ruined due to age

Crumbling - breaking into small fragments

Decaying - rotting or decomposing

Ramshackle - in a state of severe disrepair

Crypt - underground room or vault

Turret - small tower on a building

Parapet - low protective wall along the edge of a roof

Buttress - structure built against a wall for support

Supernatural Elements

Apparition - ghost or spirit

Phantasm - figment of the imagination

Specter - ghost or phantom

Wraith - ghost or spirit

Revenant - person who returns as a spirit after death

Ethereal - extremely delicate and light

Otherworldly - belonging to an imaginary or spiritual world

Paranormal - beyond normal explanation

Preternatural - beyond what is normal in nature

Occult - supernatural or magical

Emotions and States of Mind

Dread - great fear or apprehension

Foreboding - fearful apprehension

Trepidation - fear or anxiety about something that may happen

Anguish - severe mental or physical pain

Despair - complete loss of hope

Melancholia - deep and long-lasting sadness

Hysteria - exaggerated or uncontrollable emotion

Delirium - state of confusion and hallucination

Madness - state of severe mental illness

Obsession - persistent disturbing preoccupation with an idea or feeling

Gothic Settings

Moor - area of open, uncultivated upland

Wasteland - barren or desolate area

Labyrinth - complex maze-like structure

Catacomb - underground cemetery

Dungeon - dark underground prison

Mausoleum - building housing a tomb or tombs

Sepulcher - small room or monument where a dead person is laid

Necropolis - large cemetery, especially an ancient one

Citadel - fortress that commands a city

Monastery - building occupied by a community of monks

Weather and Natural Phenomena

Tempest - violent windy storm

Miasma - unpleasant or unhealthy smell or vapor

Fog - thick cloud of tiny water droplets

Mist - cloud of tiny water droplets in the air near ground level

Gloom - partial or total darkness

Twilight - soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon

Umbra - the fully shaded inner region of a shadow

Penumbra - the partially shaded outer region of a shadow

Crepuscular - resembling twilight; dim

Tenebrous - dark, shadowy, or obscure

Literary Devices and Narrative Elements

Foreshadowing - warning or indication of a future event

Omen - event regarded as a portent of good or evil

Portent - sign or warning that a momentous or calamitous event is likely to happen

Harbinger - person or thing that announces or signals the approach of another

Presage - sign or warning that something will happen

Doppelganger - look-alike or double of a living person

Grotesque - comically or repulsively ugly or distorted

Gothic double - character representing the duality of human nature

Unreliable narrator - narrator whose credibility is compromised

Frame narrative - story within a story

Liminal Spaces and Concepts

Threshold - strip of wood or stone forming the bottom of a doorway

Liminal - occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold

Betwixt - in between

Interstitial - of, forming, or occupying interstices (small spaces between things)

Twilight zone - undefined or intermediate area between two distinct states

Purgatory - place or state of temporary suffering or expiation

Netherworld - imaginary subterranean world of the dead

Abyss - deep or seemingly bottomless chasm

Void - completely empty space

Chthonic - concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld

Miscellaneous Gothic Terms

Sublime - of such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire awe

Ineffable - too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words

Eldritch - weird and sinister or ghostly

Atavistic - relating to or characterized by reversion to something ancient or ancestral

Numinous - having a strong religious or spiritual quality; indicating the presence of a divinity

Happy writing, and Happy October! 📜🕯️- Rin T.

[theboarsbride]

WIP Re-Intro - GHOSTS PLAGUE THESE HALLS

Title: Ghosts Plague These Halls

Comp: CRIMSON PEAK x Cocteau's LA BELLE ET LA BÊTE

Whitechapel, London 1894.

Sophie Wickes and her family struggle to survive in the underbelly that is London's East End. Melancholia eats away at her ailing father, her work as a flower seller brings no income, and her efforts to sell her hair in an act of desperation prove to be fruitless. After a series of strange encounters in London's streets, and the gift of a mysterious white rose from her pickpocket nephew, she is called upon by the reclusive Lord Edgar Cushing to tend to the gardens of his countryside estate of Rosenthorne Hall. Faced with destitution in a workhouse and the threat of her young nephew being sent to find industrial work, Sophie agrees to play the facade of gardener.

However, the estate, its gardens, and their master is nothing like what Sophie expected.

The house? Rotting, dilapidated, hideous.

The staff? Unfeeling, cold, strange.

The gardens? A graveyard of floral corpses guarded by an army of statues.

The master? A voice from the shadows that refuses to show himself.

With her heart tested by the thorns of anger and fear, Sophie tries to make herself of use in Rosenthorne Hall; something resembling friendship begins to blossom between her and her mysterious employer; she finally has a chance to rescue her family from the East End's grime, and perhaps allow old scars to, at last, heal. But with a lord who speaks kind words from the house's darkened corners whilst pleading to remain unseen, an unfriendly coachman, and the sudden emergence of eerie butterflies, loneliness becomes maddening.

The delirium only threatens to worsen once she starts to receive nightly visitations from a crooked-jawed ghost and moths that whisper of a bloody past, and a plea to rid Rosenthorne Hall of the misery, grief, and love that continue to plague its halls.

-----

Rough updated synopsis (i'm terrible at writing them hhhhsbhbshsbhbs sorry if it be sloppy-) and WIP intro for GHOSTS PLAGUE THESE HALLS! My Victorian gothic horror-romance ghost story baby... with yet another pathetic wet-cat-of-a-man love interest.🥰

[dogbiscuitrecords]

Source: bell hooks 'Art on My Mind' (1995)

[nukyster-blog]

Adrift Chapter 16 Opportune moment

.-.-.

A painful ache of melancholia swept over Ivar as he sat stiff-backed against the well of the city Troyes. Not even a summer had passed since he and Piglet turned the castle of de Haar into agony, death and ashes. 

It had been his glory, his revenge. He annihilated two of his worst tormentors; the Giant and Ludolf, slaughtered them like a wolf, using his knife, hands and teeth. 

He’d done unspeakable things in the eyes of Piglet, but from his perspective; he’d done the impossible. 

He’d survived. Pneumonia, drowning in a well quite similar to the one he leaned upon, pestering, torture, winter and it’s cold, starvation, incarceration, he’d even been given a taste of martyrdom, in the form of forty lashes minus one. 

He survived, not due to his physical strength, but  by willpower, stubbornness, wit and most important, observation. 

A rule he lived by, observe.

Blend in, pretend to be nothing and silently assess the danger, options, and opportunities.

It had taken a few weeks, in which Piglet became beyond impossible to tolerate; for she could not be seen in public. Ivar had his reasons to leave her behind; in treetops, hollow trees and caves. Her foreign appearance made it impossible to disappear into the masses and it could potentially put her in danger. Although she firmly believed she’d be safe as a free woman inside the walls of a large city; Ivar knew better. In his hometown Kattegat there was no such thing as a free woman outside of their community. It’s us and them. And Piglet did not belong, no citizen would see her as an equal; but as something unique and attractive.

Ivar inhaled and exhaled deeply; struggling to swallow the tumid bulge of guilt blocking his airways.  

Did he truly hide Piglet to keep her safe? Or did he want her exclusively for himself? 

Questions soared within the walls of his mind like eagles, and when he was at his weakest they’d claw deeply into his heart. The puncture of their talons was all he deserved and much more; because he did not deserve her.

Ivar half a man, she’d called him on occasion to taunt him. 

Oh, but if she knew that just the thought of her body, just the whisper of his imagination, could leave him panting in the midst of night, with his hand down his tunic realizing he could very much be a man. Once, that triumph would have been a blessing, but now it was a curse. 

Late at night, with heavy lids, only desire and the pain of knowing he could never have what he wanted; Piglet. It was a curse. He was a cursed one, just as Piglet predicted. 

So, as a weak excuse to find redemption Ivar drank until he couldn’t and suffered through delirium tremens; allowed strangers to gawk at him, take a poor piss at him, the cripple. The outcast, the freak.  

He sure did wish that the beatings he’d received would have knocked some sense back into his thick skull; yet he hadn’t been able to cleanse the memory of Piglet in the dapple light. 

A heavy, deep sign left the back of his throat as he nudged the back of his head angrily in the stones of the well.  

At these times, Ivar wished he hadn’t killed the Giant; for the brute was the perfect executioner to redeem Ivar from all these vile thoughts and rousing in his abdomen. 

Heartache replaced the melancholy, and Ivar’s self hatred grew thick in his veins.

  He’d known physical pain; all throughout his life and yet he begged for his insufferable acquaintance to consume him whole.

Because this burden inside his heart made him want to claw at his chest until he could rid himself of the organ. He hated separating himself from Piglet, yet he could not stand being around her. He could not bear the thought of tainting her virtue and sensed that even his presence would unravel his secret; he wanted her.   

She couldn’t know, not ever; that he wasn’t anything more than just men. Another one of many who’d wronged and abused her all throughout her entire life. She did not deserve to be objectified and denigrated into one simple thing: an object of desire. 

Ivar sank his teeth into his lower lip and banged his head backwards. And once more and once more; until he felt his skin split and a sharp ache diluted his thoughts and stirred up his other senses. He needed that; exhilarate himself and watch from a front row seat how his scheme would unfold. 

.-.-.

Valerie was up to her elbows in beer and ale. It was a particularly busy night; many traders had settled within the walls of Troyes for the upcoming fair. 

The Glambloux was hundreds of conversations told in loud voices with different accents. The atmosphere was thick with heat, drunkenman’s tales and overall anticipation for tomorrow's festivities.  

Valerie wrung her way through the warm bodies to serve drinks. Tonight she was La roube jaune; the fabric of her skirt covering up the bare minimum of her full breast. Fluttering lashes, a coy smile for every flirtatious word, and her hands that managed to remain attached to any man's arm until they pulled her onto the dancefloor or the table.

She sang her Chansonniers on top of her lungs  and melted her body into her dance partner, in between serving drinks and smiles. 

Nights like these brought her joy and that did not happen very often. 

When her hair lay like a second skin over her cheeks and her yellow dress clung to her back, the inn-keeper handed her a glass of the finest wine; it sure did taste like heaven. 

Feeling pure bliss, Valerie loudly growled when the thorn in her eye managed to struggle though the mass of people. The cripple; unbalanced and unsteady, he shifted his weight to the crutches. Bringing his body forward, dragging his useless feet along. 

With a sour face, Valerie watched him get closer and closer to the bar, one step, crutch, one step, crutch. It was a true miracle he made it to a seat; heavily intoxicated and so many moving bodies around him. 

She didn’t want his attention, and ignored him for as long as she could. His boozed up stare did seem to follow her anywhere she went. 

And he was a customer after all; the inn-keeper gave her a second stern look to get her pretty ass to the unwanted outcast pumping his fist into the air to get her attention. 

“What will it be mon cheri?” she said with a honey-soaked voice all while her fingernails dug in the palms of her hands. Why did he return? Why did he, of all people, manage to get so deep under her skin? 

The cripple slouched in his seat, swaying his hand to get her to come closer, in ears reach. Unenthusiastically, Valerie set her palms on the table and leaned forwards.

“I am sorry I offended you,” his voice slurred in her ear, breathing hot and poisoned with alcohol, “kissed by fire,” he repeated once more, as if she was a dim-wit and didn’t recall his crude remark, “I-... It was meant as a compliment. You’ve… endured, you are strong and resilient. I admire that, you are very admirable- and…” 

There was some commotion between two men behind her; one, fat as a pot belly pig, started to throw up all over the other’s boot. Valerie jerked her head into the direction of the lurching knowing damn well she’d be the one cleaning up the mess. 

The fat man managed to slip over his own vomit, landing loudly in the midst of it holding his stomach.

“- I really do hope you did not eat the menu of the day,” the cripple stoically continued, ignoring the growing commotion around them, “if so, forgive me, it’ll pass. Eventually.” 

Wide-eyed, Valerie glanced back at the cripple, mouth dropping as his drunkenness seemed to be swept away in the blink of an eye. No trace of intoxication, just a very sly grin and huge blue eyes that made the tiny hairs of her neck stand up. 

The commotion spontaneously devolved into a panic as more customers grew unwell. Some started to sweat uncontrollably, while more and more started grasping for their stomachs. Fingers clawing into their flesh, as if their intestines were burning. 

‘He’d been alone in the kitchen,’ Valerie recalled in shock, she left him alone in the kitchen. Her gaze fixed on the fat man curling on the floor in fetal position, still retching up undigested bits of boeuf bourguignon. 

The customers inside the inn Glambloux dropped like flies; panic made place for pure dread. Some cried as they defiled their underclothes, others tried their best not to vomit, collapsing on their knees. 

A sense of relief washed over Valerie; she’d been too busy to eat her supper. The inn-keeper’s wife had been on her tail; pushing her into tasks and chorus. She’d been washing cups while her employers dined. 

The only substance burning in her stomach was the very finest wine and it seemed that the only other person in the room not affected by severe food poisoning was the cripple.

“I bid you farewell kissed-by-fire,” the cripple said, as he shoved himself against the wall, sliding down gently not to hurt his legs, “and thank you for the opportunity.”  

His crutches still remained against the bar, left behind by their owner who slithered away like a serpent around his victims on the floor. All the way to the kitchen, to the back alley. 

.-.-.

Utstott tilted his head sideways so his good eye could have a better look at Ivar’s attempt to pull himself up into an ox-wagon by the rims of the wheels. The pair of oxen did not in any way seem rattled by this stranger. Both continued ruminating hay while Ivar cursed, sweeping his useless legs over the basin of the wagon. All precious merchandise had been unloaded for the upcoming fair. But then again, the merchandise had never been the prize Ivar had in mind. 

Utstott hopped over the floor of Glamblouxes’ stable as Ivar managed to drag himself over to the bench and struggled with the reins.

 Utstott ruffled his feathers in delight when Ivar finally managed to put the colossal beast into motion. Another form of mobility had joined their humble pack, one that was sustainable and could carry both humans and their belongings with ease. 

The white raven took position onto Ivar’s shoulder, cawing in excitement and praise. Finally, they were getting somewhere again. Finally, it had been dreadful to witness this poor manchild destroy himself with alcohol and foolish fistfights. 

Finally, Utstott lifted off in search of shadows in the darkest of night, so he could warn Piglet to climb down her tree and dig up their weaponry and other possessions. 

The bird had been so eager to alert his least favorite human that he didn’t register the seething young woman heading towards Glamblouxes’ stable, the one kissed by fire. 

.-.-.

A/N: It was very interesting to write the first piece of Ivar’s POV. Throughout the tv show we’ve seen him hate himself because of his physical flaws. As this is his redemption arc, and I severely disliked the way he treated Freydis (and don’t let me get started on her child!), I figured it would be interesting to see how this Ivar (after everything he went through with Piglet) would react/respond to females in general. Since the first chapter of Changing Course this isn't the tv show Ivar anymore. This one has suffered, degraded, tortured and yet, at the end of the day became more in touch with his emotions due to the horrible AND the good things that happened to him. This Ivar has been saved by a young woman and has seen her worst fears come to life; men. 

As always, love to read your thoughts,

Xoxoxo Nukyster 

The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane

The tagged ones:

@youbloodymadgenius

@xbellaxcarolinax

@saldelys

@shannygoatgruff

@pieces-by-me

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

@readsalot73

@lauraan182

@conaionaru

@sarahh-jane

@peachyboneless

@adhdnightmare

@khiraeth

@funmadnessandbadassvikings

@ dekusdante  @neondragons7

@bitter-post-millennial​

@noway4u

[i-was-raised-by-a-polyglot]

Chapter II – “The Exponent Of Evil”

The more I bonded with Paradox, the more I found out about how finicky his being was. Once, we couldn't buy blueberry cupcakes, because of new government sanctions, and he sobbed uncontrollably for three hours. He only stopped when his emolument of blueberry muffins came in the mail.

Another time, I, being a waggish soul, tried to make some snide comments about how Paradox ate constantly despite not need food to live. He called me an iconoclast, and ran back to his room.

One day, I had had enough, and confronted him about this, causing us to muse about his life so far. Conscientious of the fact he was less than a year old, we wanted to chalk it up to his young age and unusual childhood, but something still felt wrong.

The answer didn't strike me until a week later, when I was taking in the pathos of the Better Call Saul episode 'Fun & Games'. Jimmy being extradited to Washington for pulling a slip and fall on the White House reminded me of something strange about Paradox. Despite being a product of Lincolnian dark magic, he was no Luddite. In fact, he was the very opposite, as evidenced by his love of space and large rockets, apropos of his work at NASA.

The ostentatious excesses of science and modernity were his favorite things in the world. He would stir up a brouhaha every time someone claimed that vaccines were killing off the Sasquatch population. Watching my creation eloquently defeat the intellectual riff-raff always gave me an ineffable pride, yet something retroactively felt odd about that.

To test the waters, I decided to perform an experiment with a menagerie of sewer rats. If Paradox willingly frolicked with the rats, that would mean he had the regular brain of a minion. If he didn't, that would mean he had... something more nebulous.

To hide my presence during the experiment, I camouflaged myself by wearing the green patina off of old statue.

I had nurtured the rats with only brackish water for a week, so they were in the optimal state for frolicking. It really pulled on my heartstrings when Paradox not only didn't want be around the rats, but called an exterminator to get rid of them. I tried to intervene, however, when I emerged from my hiding place, the rats bit me all over my body, even though I was about to adjudicate in favor of their side. I was eminently diseased for months thereafter.

My mind was foggy, the days would grow crepuscular without me even realizing. I would have debates with the imaginary, giving plenty of ripostes only to suddenly remember bedside lamps can't speak. Everything but my illness seemed trivial, or even nonexistent. Paradox tried to alleviate my pain by singing all the greatest hits from the 80s to me. My delirium and melancholia, unfortunately, did not subside.

My body felt carceral. My mind and spirit were in shards. However, I was still lucid enough to understand how dilatory all of this was. Unfortunately, there were not a litany of solutions to my problem. All I could do is take my medicine and wait for it to wreak havoc on the virus.

As the months dragged on, my situation proved immutable. Doctors loved me and, although they told me it was because of my innate charisma, I knew it was because my illness couldn't be cured by conventional means.

I remained unabashed about my connections to the Dark Arts, and knew that the way to fix all of this was to create an army of minions. I would train each one of them to become the epitome of medical practice, and they would cure me. Paradox told me that my decision was rash, but what did he know? I had once seen him abrogate an audience with the Queen of NASA, because he didn't believe in monarchies, instead of going and simply pocketing valuable objects when she wasn't looking.

I made 500 new minions, who were also part fog and part animal, and chose names like "Glitch", "Hip-Hop" or "Cash-flow". At first, I tried to make their training not too overwhelming, but this wasted a lot of time and, by the end, I was shouting instructions at them through ear-piercingly loud speakers. My vociferous comments guiding them through doing appointments, treating patients, performing surgeries, etc. When my minions would say that my words lacked sensibility, I would rebuke that this was all to save a life, and accuse them of insensitivity.

As my physical health devolved, my methods only became more extreme, my actions more visibly desperate. I longed for nothing more than to recapture my old, jaunty self. To regain my stolen effulgence. To once again brandish my incredible superiority.

Paradox still took umbrage with my plan. He said it was grandiose, but cruel and poorly thought out. He adjured me to find another way to beat my illness.

His demeanor irritated me, it was the same from when I tried to banish him to the dungeon. My plan was assiduous. I was so close to regaining my panache. How could he deny this after I went through such efforts to conciliate him? He had the mawkish mind of a five year old. My creation was virtually a facsimile of a diaper-wearing baby.

I tried to obliterate him, but, in my weakened state, the most I could do was lightly tapping on his left cheek. Not being capable of making any substantive attacks, I decided to placate him by promising that I would leave the training of my minions up to an actual medical school. I expected it to not be enough, and for an invective-filled rant, but surprisingly he simply thanked me and walked away.

I was glad I was able to titivate things for him. Specially since I was in no state to broadside him.

In time, my relationship with the medical community turned rancid. Doctors from all across the globe coalesced to oppose me and my machination. One day, I found a peculiar, laconic note left at my doorstep. "You're the exponent of evil.", it read.

Clearly, my life had gone haywire.

Shaken to my core, I purchased a bazooka and hid it beneath a pile of copper coins covered in verdigris. Only a soul with a perspicacious sense for finding weapons would find it there. I considered buying a bulletproof vest as well, but due to the difficulties of managing a village-worth of minions, I deferred it to a later time.

A week later, one my minions, Misnomer, was found dead on the downstairs toilet. The image of an anthropomorphic needle carved onto his forehead. Later the same evening, I heard news of a caucus being formed with the intent of making badmouthing me mandatory by law.

These events did not seem sporadic to me. These were only more proof that I had successfully fructified my endeavor, and, as a result, a conspiracy had been created to destroy me.

This kerfuffle could not be left one-sided or unopposed. I drafted a ritzy and ingenious plan to enact my revenge. I would proselytize my cause, my war, through pirate radio waves, and the world would understand the truth.

My first broadcast was an unfair and dishonest critique of my enemies. I emblazoned their reputations with the most repugnant of things. I would speak not with a languid sort of anguish, but enthusiastic wrath. I put the onus of every evil and vice on my opponents. I never asked them to atone, for their crimes were too great and awful. Gargantuan sins that made sure redemption was simply out of their reach.

Something bothered about my broadcast, I had proffered an excellent expose, yet the reception had been lukewarm. My spiel was convincing and articulate, by Lucifer's beard, why did it not set the world ablaze? Had I come off too avuncular? Had I bombinated too much during the Live Ritual segment, or, perhaps, not enough? Had the mnemonic devices for the names of my enemies I had shared not been useful? How had I failed to raise a rabble?

I paced in my decorous bedroom for hours attempting to crack this puzzle. I returned to Lincoln's accursed book searching for answers, and there, just beneath a spell for transmogrifying mice into presidents, I found them. My cadence was the issue. It was not spellbindingly hypnotic enough to turn my listeners frenetic. I needed to use demonic persuasion spells to have my opinions not be dismissed as simply hyperbole from emotionally-damaged simpleton.

In my next broadcast, I utilized a spell which made my words bespoke to each listener's personal taste. For some I cited statistics, for others made strong appeals to emotion, and for others still I simply made guttural screams as I writhed in pain for the entire 5-hour show, and that somehow got the point across.

The spell made me an incredible interlocutor even to Paradox, who, after the show, agreed to be my co-host. The listeners found him a tad cloying, but he developed a cult following nonetheless.

Unfortunately, however, we soon found out that the medical community could not abide our radio show. They found within themselves the volition to do something quite ghastly.

With a faux genteel demeanor, they made a television broadcast pleading with government to censor my show. To put my radio career in a sepulchre.

[wrongpublishing]

Review: McCaela Prentice's "Equinox"

by Tahlia McKinnon. (photography pictured is by Hoss.)

With every wounding word poised to mark the skin, hit the throat, wind the lungs—like a bodily trauma, McCaela Prentice delivers blinding impact in just a few short phrases.

There’s a delirium to the poem—a needing to make sense of things. A quiet unravelling. When we consider the titular word, Equinox, in this way, there’s an unpronounced prickle of melancholia, an undeniable ache of nostalgia – but not for what has come to pass in this protagonist’s life.

For what was lost. For what was stolen. For what could and should have been.

Shrouded in dark metaphors and allusions, the reader can only surmise, of course. But closing with a nod to winter—a season synonymous with death and decay, introversion and introspection—it’s as if the speaker is sharing a dark secret; making a confession; crying for help.

A cry that can only echo through your bones, with each and every haunting line.

Exquisite. Read Prentice's poem in Wrongdoing Magazine's first issue:

[gravedangerahead]

I just find the whole idea of Nona so lovely. Just who she is and that that's what she's like, it really warms my heart, even though in the end it's so sad.

She loves so much, she loves relentlessly through everything, she cares, and she finds all the tiny joys in life even through the underlying melancholia, and they're actually not tiny at all, they are so, so beautiful.

Holding hands with someone you love, playing with dogs, lying in sun warmed tiles.

This perceiving and giving due importance to the small beauties of the world, and letting them fuel you, even as the world seems to be coming down around you is something I've truly aspired to in my own life.

She has every right to hate us, humanity, and she does, but she also loves us dearly. And I love her. I will miss Nona deeply, now that she has remembered and will be essentially different as Alecto. So I'm thinking of how different she will be, what aspects of her will remain.

There's a book I love very much called Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas, and in the beginning the the narrator has a delirious dream as he's feverishly dying, where he travels to the origin of the centuries, seeing all the destruction and "progress" of humanity pass, and has a meeting with the giant figure of a woman:

I do know that a huge shadow, the figure of a woman appeared to me then looking at me with eyes that were flashy like the sun. Everything about that figure had the vastness of wild forms and everything was incomprehensible to human eyes because the outlines were lost in the surroundings and what seemed thick was often diaphanous. Stupefied, I didn't say anything, I didn’t even let out a scream; but, after some time, which was brief, I asked who she was and what was her name: the delirium’s curiosity.

— Call me Nature or Pandora; I am your mother and your enemy.

When I heard the last word I backed off a little, scared. The figure began to laugh, which produced around us the effect of a typhoon; plants got twisted and a long moan broke the muteness of external things.

Don't be scared, she said, my enmity won’t kill you; it's above all confirmed by life. You're alive: I do not want another scourge.

In the whole she embodies all the aspects, Nature or Pandora, mother and enemy, Nona or Alecto.

I think Nona was the curiosity and naivete, the warmth and affection, the hope of Pandora. And I expect those things to still be part of Alecto, but in her righteous anger she would lean towards being a much more fearsome creature. From what we saw of her in the epilogue ("but he has never appeased me, and now all he's done is teach me how to die") I can see a lot of parallels with the conversation in Posthumous Memoirs. Won't even get into the parallels between John and Brás Cubas, those assholes, cuz I'd be here all day, I'm just adding some more quotes.

This is all from Chapter 7: The Delirium, which is pretty short and self contained, and included in full in the kindle sample of the book:

— Yes, worm, you are alive. Don't fear losing these rags you’re proud of; you're still going to taste, for a few hours, the bread of pain and the wine of misery. You're alive: right now, even though you have gone mad, you're alive; and if your consciousness gets an instant of wisdom, you'll say you want to live.

Saying that, the vision extended her arm, took me by the hair, and lifted me up as if I were a feather. Only then could I see her face from close, which was enormous. Nothing quieter; no violent contortion, no expression of hatred or ferocity; her expression was unique, general, complete; it was that of selfish impassivity, it was that of eternal deafness, of an immovable will. Anger, if she felt it, was locked in her heart. At the same time, in this face of glacial expression, there was a young look and a mixture of strength and vitality before which I felt the weakest and the most decrepit of all beings.

— Do you understand me? She asked me after some time of mutual contemplation.

— No, I answered; nor do I want to understand you. You're an absurd, you're a fable. I'm certainly dreaming or, if it's true that I went mad, you're nothing but the conception of a madman, that is, a vain thing that reason can’t control or touch. You are Nature? The Nature I know is only a mother and not an enemy; she doesn't make life a scourge, and unlike you, she doesn’t have such an indifferent face, like a tomb. And, why Pandora?

— Because I carry all good and evil in my purse and the greatest of all, hope, the consolation of mankind. Are you trembling?

— Yes, I’m fascinated by your eyes.

— I believe you, I'm not only life, I'm also death, and you're about to give me back what I lent you. Great lascivious man, you are being awaited by the voluptuosity of nothingness.

When the word echoed like a thunder in that huge valley, it felt like it was the last sound that would reach my ears; it was like I was feeling my own sudden decomposition. Then I stared at her with pleading eyes and asked for a few more years.

— Poor minute! She exclaimed. Why do you want a few more instants of life? To devour and be devoured later? Aren’t you tired of spectacle and struggle? You know too well what I gave you the least vile or the least distressing: the dawn of day, the melancholy of afternoon, the quietness of night, the aspects of earth, sleep, at last, the greatest benefits in my hands. What more do you want, you sublime idiot?

— Just to live, I won’t ask you for anything else. Who put in my heart this love for life if not you? And since I love life, why do you have to strike yourself by killing me?

— Because I no longer need you. It doesn’t matter to time the minute that passes, only the minute that will come. The minute that will come is strong, jocund, it brings eternity in itself and it brings death, and it perishes just like the other one, but time subsists.

Re-reading this chapter and thinking of John in this situation is actually very satisfying.

As I contemplated this calamity, I could not keep myself from letting out a scream of anguish that Nature or Pandora heard without protesting or laughing. And, I don't know which brain disorder law caused me to be the one who started to laugh, — a wild and idiotic laugh.

— You're right, I said, the thing is fun and worth it — perhaps monotonous — but it’s worth it. When Job cursed the day that was conceived, it was because it brought on him desire to see the spectacle from above. Come on, Pandora, open up your womb and digest me. The thing is fun, but digest me.

This was way too long, if you got this far, thank you 💜

[deliriumandmelancholia]

From the vaults, March 3rd 2012

I cannot sleep

The sounds are much too loud

And my thoughts

roam free without control

Shadows are playing

upon my creamy walls

Peaking from the corners

they demand my full atten-

tion

I cannot sleep

when my mind whistles

back to the wind

[tt20260]

Cool Names my friend Caeba sent to me:

Karma

Rocket

Burial

Coochie

Cherry

Cadete

Sebebe

Glitter Clit

Speed Bump

Slinky

Angel

String Cheese

Code

Boro

Mags

Punch

Umbrae

Epsilon

Eucradies

Dernesto

Abdolem

Vimana

Star

Lisbeth

Slob

Glob

Snatch

Gloxxxy Rabbit

Harlequin

Angelino

Hatch

Blaine

Papi

Genesis

Sven

Agatha

Riley

Gaea

Envy

Lust

Halifax

Haxel

Rabbit

Cab Rabbit

Opal

Exposure

Darlene

Antoinette

Thresh

Thrash

Fizz

Edgar

Granola

Jinx Monsoon

Softy

Yma Sumac

Chromatica

Chromacta

Moxie

Luca

Gus

Dapperton

Norway

Noway

Ethel Cain

Mitski

Michi

Mitch

Briar

Duffy

Artemis

Cecelia

Aubrey

Audrey

Melange

Honey

Waffle

reverie

Claire

lillinette

hallibel

Khatia

Nelliel

quimera parca

mabel

katya

claudia

machiatto

orihime

noir

rhiannon

azrael

Skott

agnes

Ghost

Adore

Asia

Aja

cedric versaille

bites

elodie

lacey

infiniti

infinity

genus

genos

titanic sinclair

rhian

ryn

moxi

oblivion

plur

amity

edith frances

gage

claudio

claudia

gretchen

chloroform

lucille

thoki

silvester (silver)

melancholia

gekyume

foggy

Skin

Cubic

Vagina

Vagina Bo Bina

Delirium

Eqypt

Taystee

Tan

Karamo

Quiet

Manny

Kingston

Gatsby

Baskerville

Reeba

Nora

August

Huck

Orion

Indar

Rhys

Pierre

Valerian

Bronson

Kovu

Sage

Arden

Alastair

Xor/Zor

Vivaldi

Roel

Maximus

Percival

Charlize Theron

Bambadjan

Gear

Guardian

Roosi

Ren

Pollux

Castor

Gordon

Porter

Deep

Deepa

Sebastian

Ferguson

Steven

Odin

River

Lux

Kuze

Alice

Downy

Freddy

Atomos

Sonja

Pyxis

Ajax

Apax

Pawnee

(Russian name)

Vladimir

Henry (dog)

Andromeda

Deja vu

Minho

Bruk

Slit

Furiosa

Nux

Rictus

Michelangelo

Mo-mo

Ollie

Wolfgang

Daemon

Mona

Royal

Richard Parker

Gray

Hardy

Blair

Vladie

Nino

Moira

Adelaide

Harley

Troy

Jonas

Louise

Vivian

Marcus

Amara

Lucy

Tucker

__larm?

Monica

Mina

Yakoul

Brody

Todrick (Toddy)

(B)ungy

Agnes

Manny

Jon(ny)

Judd

Cola (Kola)

Bon Jovi (dog name)

Dom

Bruno

Constanse

Cesar (Cezar)

Ruthi

Margo

Juno

Glitch

Tip(py)

Gratuity

Tino

Gino

Digby

Eggsy

Iggy

Eggy

Lancelot

Pancake

Rufus

Hugo

Merlin

Journey

Roah

Jupiter

Cricket

[sasorikigai]

[ TAKE ] + [ GAZE ] ( for modern fire hubby )

‘TOL AND SMOL’ PROMPTS || @sonxflight || accepting

[ TAKE ]  for the taller muse to find the shorter one has ‘borrowed’ a shirt/sweater/jacket etc.  which is oversized on them.  

[ GAZE ] taller muse is sitting and the shorter one who is standing in front of them takes their face into their hands while they talk.

💥 || Happiness flows through him; fresh and crisp as the morning dew. Lingering and clinging to the leaves of grass as the proverbial sun of their coalesced warmth warms the ground, evaporating out of him, surrounding him, gently floating through the air, invisible yet present in every breath. Hanzo Hasashi takes in great gasping gulps of it, thriving as he takes it back into his lungs, into his veins, and into his soul. Now that it is back within his grasp, clinging like the morning dew again, he clings back, his long digits contouring around the familiar fabric of his merino wool blend sweater, its delicate herringbone weave retaining all of his contour and essence. Hanzo Hasashi finds himself in that delicious and important place; roaring with laughter, full of earth-praise of his hard work and dedication. 

The tides of life, the ebb and flow of events that decorate his history surge through the trudged way of his thoughts. How they swirl and crash, together and apart, over and over, eroding the walls of his subconscious. The silent screams of his mind and soul have turn into passages; for this had been his escape and rebuilding, the endless family paved on blue of his melancholia and depression; beautiful and messy and fragmented and true. A mere human could not dare to stand a chance (against the inevitability of beauty and unknown they hold in the fathomless depths of their beings) as Hanzo Hasashi harbors with more hunger, passion, and perseverance than anyone on Earth. 

Despite having to endure this unjust world that runs on his guilt-riddled masochism and perhaps his own lack of control, all of his concentration hones towards Ryou Sakai’s gaze, his voice, and his touch. All Hanzo used to have were pages that were once crisp and clean that he soiled and ruined with documenting his experiences in his vicious, cruel world. His beloved controls his breathing, suppresses it as he pleases. He could be rapt in his embedded horror, in his haste as his mind’s once abandoned guilt and despair becomes this feared glare as he’d be overcome with such excruciating pain of unforgetting. 

And how his mind and soul would have ceaselessly cried in anguish, deep in oblivion as the barren wastes of his feverous tears and breaths would strip the flesh from his palms, dimming his proverbial light underneath the assault of his eternal longing and long-bred existential despair. If his sadness could transform into longing, solitude into remembrance, the incurable darkness, along with such unbearably dark nights as this one could no longer be envisioned with such unburdened and unlikely shape of him dismantled beneath the arresting lethargy and exhaustion, staunching his growth and healing. 

Ryou Sakai’s mellifluous caress does not exude sickening sweet sentiments on how holding on will heal Hanzo Hasashi’s heart’ his soul may have ephemerally melted away, back into a corner of his mind to which he no longer has an access to, nor should he want it. How his beloved’s touch manifests as sun’s warmth prickling his skin, penetrating the writhing convulsion of his deep sorrow and grief. Hanzo recites a contemplative mantra; in the throes of his rapt delirium. Don’t let me drown as I dive beneath the surface, of the depths of you. Help me breath, as we exchange precious air between our kisses. 💥 ||

[woundgallery]

from “Everywhere and Nowhere: A Journey Through Suicide” by Donald Antrim

When telling the story of my illness, I try not to speak about depression. A depression is a furrow, a valley, a sloping downward, and a return. Suicide, in my experience, is not that. I believe that suicide is a natural history, a disease process, not an act or a choice, a decision or a wish. I do not understand suicide as a response to pain, or as a message to the living. I do not think of suicide as the act, the death, the fall from a height or the trigger pulled. I see it as a long illness, an illness with origins in trauma and isolation, in deprivation of touch, in violence and neglect, in the loss of home and belonging. It is a disease of the body and the brain, if you make that distinction, a disease that kills over time. My dying, my suicide, lasted years, through hospitalizations, through more than fifty rounds of electroconvulsive therapy—once known as shock therapy—through recovery, relapse, and recovery. It can seem recent in memory, though at times it feels ancient, far removed, another lifetime, another life and my life...

I was not on the roof to jump. I was not there to kill myself. I was there to die, but dying was not a plan. I was not making decisions, choices, threats, or mistakes. I was, I think—looking back now—in acceptance. It was a relinquishing, though at the time I would not have been able to articulate it. I did not want to die, only felt that I would, or should, or must, and I had my pain and my reasons. If you have had this illness, then you’ve had your reasons; and maybe you’ve believed, or still believe, as I have, that it would be better for others, for all the people who have made the mistake of loving you, or who one day might, if you were gone.

Depression, hysteria, melancholia, nervousness, neurosis, neurasthenia, madness, lunacy, insanity, delirium, derangement, demonic possession, black humors, black bile, yellow bile, the black dog, the blues, the blue devils, a brown study, the vapors, a funk, a storm, the abyss, an inferno, Hell, a pain syndrome, stress, an anxiety disorder, lack of affect, an affective disorder, a mood disorder, panic, loneliness, bad wiring, a screw loose, a mercurial temperament, irritability, schizophrenia, unipolar disorder, bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, attention-deficit disorder, borderline personality disorder, laziness, pain, rumination, grief, mourning, malingering, unhappiness, hopelessness, sadness, low spirits, invalidism, despondency, dysthymia, detachment, disassociation, dementia praecox, neuralgia, fibromyalgia, oversensitivity, hypersensitivity, idiocy, an unsound mind, cowardice, obstinacy, apathy, recalcitrance, spleen, a broken heart, battle fatigue, shell shock, self-pity, self-indulgence, self-centeredness, weakness, withdrawal, distraction, distemper, a turn in the barrel, a break in a life narrative, bad thoughts, bad feelings, coming undone, coming apart, falling apart, falling to pieces, willfulness, defiance, thoughts of hurting oneself or others, the thousand-yard stare, craziness, rage, misery, mania, morbidity, genius, suicidality, suicidal ideation, aggression, regression, decompensation, drama, breakdown, crackup, catatonia, losing one’s mind, losing one’s shit, losing one’s way, wasting away, psychic disorganization, spiritual despair, shame, raving, the furies, a disease, an enigma, a tragedy, a curse, a sin, and, of course, psychosis—suicide, in the past and in our time, has been called many things. Whatever terms we use, whatever the specific nature of their origins and progress, our so-called mental illnesses are themselves traumatic and stigmatizing. They isolate us from others....

When I was a boy, in bed I brought the covers up to my chin, wrapped them tightly around me, and lay without moving. I held my arms close to my sides, or crossed over my chest. I gazed up at my model airplanes, moonlit, hanging by threads from the ceiling. My chest, my body, felt tight, tight in the sense of a contraction, but also tight in the sense of being bound and squeezed. I remember that I felt paralyzed, or not exactly that, though something like that. I wasn’t paralyzed. It was just safer to lie still. Nonetheless, I shook, though not in a way that you’d notice—it was more of a hum. I felt numb yet in pain, and breathed shallow breaths, restrained.

Even now, at sixty, if I cry hard I will be frightened, and you may find me in a corner, crouching, turned toward the wall, my hands raised to protect my face. I will sob and shake, and make myself small, and beg, Please, go away. I will not be able to look at you. If you touch me, I will scream in pain and run from the room. Why can’t you see that it would be better for you without me? If any single feeling has defined my life, it is the feeling, more an awareness than a thought, that only lonely rooms are safe. This is how I feel and imagine shame, not as guilt or regret or remorse, not as some particular emotion or amalgam of emotions, but as a basic provision, abjection, the condition of those who have been cast out, neglected, harmed.

[lightleaves]

Manifesting a collection of vintage ailments such as breakbone and barrel-fever. Experiencing typhus delirium. Poisoned by melancholia. The worst case of rickets you have ever seen.

[thecasualstring]

Once one of the dead..

Eyes try to catch a peek,

It's dark all across,

Muscles sore, push open the door,

A graveyard full of auburn moss I see.

Gravity never felt so non existent,

All around dead aura I feel,

Look upon the coffin I broke,

Wind feels regal yet surreal.

My grave, it's depth I can't see,

Left nothing of my bones,

The moon makes my melancholia scream,

Alas in gloom my tombstone moans.

God knows the guilt swallows me up,

Soul burnt away yet the my iniquity surges,

Decayed body yet my sins so lively breathe, Arrogance assures it's nothing but an atrocious curse,

Withering body, skin peeling off my bones,

A coward gets what he deserves, nothing new,

Collapsed diaphragm, I witness the man I am,

Oh the life I lived, I wish my mistakes were few.

Blindly I led myself to my torment,

Blatant my corpse,

Incensed it aches, I resent,

Excruciating my thoughts.

Hefty breeze blows my bristly hair,

"There she is" it's bold voice sublimely whispers,

Redirects me to something startlingly bright,

Horizon adjoining the moon and the lake quivers.

A soothing warmth encapsulates my existence,

Something familiar yet unknown,

Lived my life blurred, encumbrance pushed me,

Can God give my misconduct a chance to atone?

Oh my virtues how they cried,

To Satan and to all the angels I lied,

Immoral conscious sprinting away , it's all clear

All and my demise I leave behind for the first time I've been wise,

Feet shift, through my lungs air flow,

Run across, legs wrecked as they groan,

Felt God in my heart once,

For the first time in eternity, towards Him I go

Owned nothing ever, nothing for which I fought,

Eyes never felt so acute, it obliterates my distraught,

On the rock above water I see the silhouette,

As hushly formidable as she is, how can one not?

Vintage helps my vision,

I see my beacon across,

Delirium subdued, never felt so strong

There she is, the wind's truth tossed.

Departed and I know I don't deserve heaven,

But never been more sure, I'm looking at it now,

Tousled hair, majestic she's the minute before the dawn

The night's grace, the day's warmth my pain all gone.

Bring my hands up give them a glance,

Never felt as alive,

Pensive to my new stance,

Rich blood pushes it's all now cleansed.

Walk up to her,

Tell her how she's the cure to my misery,

Desolation fades around you,

Foraging ataraxis, devise synergy.

The lake is calm the rock cold yet comforting,

I sit with her, staring at the stars,

Tell her how I was, how I've been hurting

Draw the dystopia for her, demons done lurking.

She sits still, serenity thrives,

Of all the stars, celestial bodies and all the lights,

Her presence is the one that's most bright,

Center of the solar system, her existence divine.

Reluctant to take her hand,

How my desperate cries echo under my ribs,

Her face moves, my heart stops,

Smiles, holds my hand, what's this?

A wave of thunder sparks within me,

A dam broke below,

Who knows what lies there in eden,

My eyes are weak yet ember tears flow,

Oh to all and everything I've been clinging,

Every inch of my soul naked,

Feel God cleaning my slate,

Her face, all my dreams I see conflated.

My eyes nascent,

Her grip around my hand grows,

My parturition she witness,

Dead brought back to life she's shown.

The wonders God plays on the fool,

My profanity deceased,

Never felt like this,

She bravely embraces my being.

As beautiful as she may look,

I know it's My Creator inside her,

Something slow yet vivacious runs across my veins,

With her the callous traumas I can encounter.

In her arms now I'm tightly wrapped,

Tranquility awaits us, clouded all agony and wrath,

The moment's beautiful can't speak,

Gleefully now in dusk we're entrapped.

The gratitude becomes immeasurable,

Something I never expected,

Infinity isn't half my love for her,

My flaws Oh God the way they were neglected.

It's her aegis and tenderness,

My nightmares they no more haunt,

An empty man given luminescence that's endless,

What apart from her can I flaunt?

I kiss her forehead,

I tell her I'm alive,

Once one of the dead,

Today You brought me back to life.

[reptileshrine]

Top 20 Albums of 2019

20. Äera – Schein https://aeera.bandcamp.com/album/schein A relatively late entry, but a worthy one as it was for me, the best post-rock/black metal album of the year and an impressively accomplished first album, incredibly well composed, paced and produced. 19. Oferwintran - Llyfr Coch Hergest https://oferwintran.bandcamp.com/album/llyfr-coch-hergest Based on medieval British folklore and oral stories, this is a brilliant raw, maliciously melodic album, that reminds me of the more bucolic moments among Legion Blotan's discography. 18. Umbra Conscientia - Yellowing of the Lunar Conciousness https://terraturpossessions.bandcamp.com/album/umbra-conscientia-yellowing-of-the-lunar-conciousness Of all the releases of orthodox styled black metal this year, against competition from bands (I probably unfairly, or inaccurately lump together…but at least gives me a chance to name check as honourable mentions) like Drastus, Hagzissa, Ateiggär, Crimson Moon and others – it was this collaboration of German and Costa Rican musicians that created the one that really worked the most effectively on me – released on Terratur Possessions, should give you an idea of just how black, dark and all-consuming it is. 17. Rostorchester - Die Sonne und der Mond in Ketten https://rostorchester.bandcamp.com/album/die-sonne-und-der-mond-in-ketten Not really seen much of this since it released right back at the end of January. Equally very raw and melodic black with a triumphant arc, from Austria, Germany and Switzerland. Go straight to So Verbittert Wie Verwittert and be immediately convinced. 16. Ossomancer – Artes Magickae Pacific Threnodies https://ossomancer.bandcamp.com/releases A truly epic mystical album of blackened conjurations, with the aggressive, trippy trance riffing of Inquisition, the cold tradition of Emperor, combined with the folk- heroics of Falkenbach. A superb concept album. 15. Vástígr - Aura Aeternitatis https://vastigr.bandcamp.com/album/aura-aeternitatis After teasing us all Summer with fleeting glimpses of his arctic masterwork, Order member Þ (aka Thorn Blakfyre) has finally unveiled his full debut Vástígr album - Aura Aeternitatis – and it is a majestic masterpiece of ice-blasted melodies and tundra churning riffs. 14. Thanatonaut – Interstellar https://thanatonaut.bandcamp.com/album/interstellar A true blackening of cosmic metal, as the awesome power of nature is brought to bear on mankind, and its futile efforts to explore the depths of space, and its insignificance in the face of cosmic enormity. 13. Imperial Cult – Spasm of Light https://imperial-cult.bandcamp.com/album/spasm-of-light One monolithic 30-minute cosmic flare of searing noise, hypnotic distortion and captivating rhythms. Those familiar with the label and circle of bands need no further intro to know how good this is. Unfamiliar ears prepare to transcend your cognitive limitations. 12. Peasant – Demo I https://peasantuk.bandcamp.com/album/demo-mmxix Another fantastic project from George Proctor (White Medal, Sump, Gammal Sed…loads more & Legion Blotan main man), and Steve Blackwood (Old Corpse Road, Thy Dying Light live band, and Blackwood Productions). Undoubtedly two of the mightiest Northmen the UK will ever see. The result, is this debut ep – three tracks of heroically melodic gnarled punk. A contorted majesty, like the gnarled roots of ancient oaks. 11. De Douăsprezece Statui ale Stărilor de Umbră ale Sufletului – All 12 albums of the Twelve Statues series. https://ddsasduas.bandcamp.com   Can’t (or wont?!) separate these into individual albums, as they are all parts of a single project which is a large aspect of what makes the undertaking so impressive. 12 tracks released in monthly instalments totalling around 4 hours of raw meditative blackened trance. 10. Starless Domain – EOS / Alma  / Tome Of The Unreplenished / Starless Domain - Epistolary Of the Fall https://starlessdomain.bandcamp.com/ And another full set - All the Starless Domain releases!  Described by the band as Deep Field Black Metal, it is some of the farthest out, exploratory cosmic BM, and another point in the development of a trve kosmiche black metal. Plus bonus Tome on the split, which worked perfectly as a somewhat more abstract complement to the Starless Domain side. 09. Voëmmr - O Ovnh Intot Adr Mordrb https://voemmr.bandcamp.com/album/o-ovnh-intot-adr-mordrb Voëmmr’s second album of derangement and hallucinatory incantation carries two of the more elitist elements of black metal – eschewing being an easy listen and enjoyable in any traditional sense – and warps the form though the occult prism of the Aldebaran Circle. Other projects from the collective, like Black Cilice, Occelensbrigg, and Trono Além Morte put out phenomenal albums this year too, but this one (and one more), push the eerie weirdness that much further. 08. Këkht Aräkh - Night & Love https://kekhtarakh.bandcamp.com/album/night-love Superb album, of raw atmosphere and nostgic reverence, with added imaginative dynamics and album structure. Very refreshing. Excellent Darkthrone-esque riffs. haunting passages of dungeon synth, acoustic interludes. and actual singing. 07. Skáphe + Wormlust https://skphwrmlst.bandcamp.com/album/kosm-skur-hryllingur The band we should be calling SkápLust. Second greatest incarnation of the Icelandic scene this year spawned this psychedelic masterpiece (though the members here are drawn from further afield).  This is the kind of dissonant churning BM I like. Not sprawling or chaotic or overplayed that it ever loses focus and momentum. 06. Véhémence - Par le Sang Versé https://antiqofficial.bandcamp.com/album/v-h-mence-par-le-sang-vers Five years after their excellent debut album Assiégé, which recalled the foggy grandeur of their nation’s historical LLN bands, the new Par le Sang Versé retains this background, reimagining it on an epic scale. A rousing mix of ancient folk, raw melody, choral passages, and of course, confrontational black metal. 05. Nyss – Dépayser https://avantgardemusic.bandcamp.com/album/d-payser Following up my #1 album of last year in his Över form, Nyss dropped another exceptional, emotional album of baroque post-black metal in his self-monikered guise, and with this I can repeat what I said about Facing Transcendence and describe it as an inspired composition that transcends genres and expectations. 04. Departure Chandelier – Antichrist Rise to Power https://departurechandelier.bandcamp.com/album/antichrist-rise-to-power It is one of the more bizarre and compelling features of this genre that some of the most aggressive, raw, feral spiteful black metal is also capable of getting you right in the feels when it is struck through with mournful melodic melancholia.  This album is an exemplary incarnation of that. 03. Bull of Apis Bull of Bronze - Offerings of Flesh and Gold https://bullofapisbullofbronze.bandcamp.com/album/offerings-of-flesh-and-gold A beautifully formed, ritualistic vision of an album that delivered a conscious black metal, expanding and contracting in kaleidoscopic fractal patterns of shimmering noise – and as a bonus, the music was set off with that blinding psychedelic artwork. 02. Degredo - E foi assim no Século Passado https://degredo.bandcamp.com/album/e-foi-assim-no-s-culo-passado Runners up for the second year in a row, this is the best of the Portuguese scene in my eyes and ears. Like a black metal Wicker Man, this is terrifying, unsettling, disorienting and reality-warping rural black metal. 01. Anadavald - Undir skyggðarhaldi https://andavald.bandcamp.com/album/undir-skygg-arhaldi Well, nothing came anywhere near the compelling other-worldiness and tangible delirium of this album. This is number one by a clear margin. And the fact I put Degredo behind this, which is also all those things is saying something. This may well be my favourite Icelandic black metal album of all time. The shadowy atmosphere, the eerie, creeping momentum, even through the ambient spaces, sinister forms swirling through the fog, and the vocal performance of the decade.

[lukeskywaker4ever]

1st Regnant Queen and 26th Monarch of Portugal (6th of the Bragança Dynasty): Queen Maria I of Portugal, “The Pious The Mad”

Reign: 24 February 1777 – 20 March 1816 Acclamation: 13 May 1777 Predecessor: José I

Maria I (17 December 1734 in Lisbon – 20 March 1816 in Rio de Janeiro) was Queen of Portugal from 1777 until her death in 1816. Known as Maria the Pious in Portugal and Maria the Mad in Brazil, she was the first undisputed queen regnant of Portugal and the first monarch of Brazil. With Napoleon's European conquests, her court, then under the direction of her son João, the Prince Regent, moved to Brazil, then a Portuguese colony. Later on, Brazil would be elevated from the rank of a colony to that of a kingdom, with the consequential formation of the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves.

Maria was born at the Ribeira Palace in Lisbon and baptized Maria Francisca Isabel Josefa Antónia Gertrudes Rita Joana. On the day of her birth, her grandfather, King João V of Portugal, appointed her the Princess of Beira.

When her father succeeded to the throne in 1750 as José I, Maria, at age 16 and as his eldest child, became his heir presumptive and was given the traditional titles of Princess of Brazil and Duchess of Bragança.

Maria grew up in a time when her father's government was dominated completely by the first Marquis of Pombal. Her father would often retire to the Palace of Queluz which was later given to Maria and her husband. The Marquis took control of the government after the terrible 1755 Lisbon earthquake of 1 November 1755, in which around 100,000 people lost their lives. (The palace of her birth was also destroyed in the disaster.)

After the earthquake, Maria's father was often uncomfortable at the thought of staying in enclosed spaces, and later suffered from claustrophobia. The king had a palace built in Ajuda, away from the city center. This palace became known as Real Barraca de Ajuda (Royal Hut at Ajuda) because it was made of wood. The family spent much time at the large palace, and it was the birthplace of Maria's first child. In 1794 the palace burned to the ground and the Palace of Ajuda was built in its place.

In 1760 Maria married her uncle Pedro, younger brother of her father Jose I. They had six children, of whom the eldest surviving son succeeded Maria as João VI on her death in 1816.

In 1777, Maria became the first undisputed queen regnant of Portugal. With Maria's accession, her husband became king as Pedro III. Despite Pedro's status as king and the nominal joint reign, the actual regal authority was vested solely in Maria, as she was the lineal heir of the crown. Also, as Pedro's kingship was jure uxoris only, his reign would cease in the event of Maria's death, and the crown would pass to Maria's descendants. However, Pedro predeceased his wife in 1786. Maria is considered to have been a good ruler in the period prior to her madness. Her first act as queen was to dismiss the popular secretary of state of the kingdom, the Marquess of Pombal, who had broken the power of the reactionary aristocracy via the Távora affair, partially because of Pombal's Enlightenment, anti-Jesuit policies. Noteworthy events of this period include Portugal's membership in the League of Armed Neutrality (July 1782) and the 1781 cession of Delagoa Bay from Austria to Portugal.

Queen Maria suffered from religious mania and melancholia. This acute mental illness (perhaps due to porphyria) made her incapable of handling state affairs after 1792.

Maria's madness was first officially noticed in 1786, when Maria had to be carried back to her apartments in a state of delirium. Afterward, the queen's mental state became increasingly worse. In May 1786, her husband died; Maria was devastated and forbade any court entertainments. According to a contemporary account, state festivities began to resemble religious ceremonies. Her condition worsened after the death of her eldest son (and heir-apparent), aged 27, from smallpox, and of her confessor, in 1791.

In February 1792, she was deemed mentally insane and was treated by Francis Willis, 

the same physician who attended King George III of Great Britain. 

Willis wanted to take her to England, but the plan was refused by the Portuguese court. Maria's second son (eldest surviving) and new heir-apparent, João, took over the government in her name, even though he only took the title of Prince Regent in 1799.

When the Real Barraca de Ajuda burnt down in 1794, the court was forced to move to Queluz, where the ill queen would lie in her apartments all day. Visitors would complain of terrible screams that would echo throughout the palace.

In 1801 Spanish Prime Minister Manuel de Godoy 

sent an army to invade Portugal with backing from Napoleon, 

resulting in the War of the Oranges. Though the Spanish ended their invasion, the Treaty of Badajoz on 6 June 1801 forced Portugal to cede Olivença and other border towns to Spain. (This cession is not recognized by the present Portuguese government, and the country officially considers those territories still to be Portuguese possessions.) On 29 September 1801 João VI signed the Treaty of Madrid (1801), ceding half of Portuguese Guyana to France, which became French Guiana.

The refusal of the Portuguese government to join the French-sponsored Continental Blockade against Britain culminated in the late 1807 Franco-Spanish invasion of Portugal led by General Junot. 

The ultimate Napoleonic plan for Portugal was to split it into three sections. The northern parts of Portugal, from the Douro to the Minho, would become the Kingdom of Northern Lusitania, and its throne was promised to King Louis II of Etruria. 

The Alentejo Province and Kingdom of the Algarve would be merged to form the Principality of the Algarves, of which Spanish Prime Minister Manuel de Godoy would be sovereign. The remaining portion of Portugal would have been directly ruled by France.

At the urging of the British government, the entire Bragança Dynasty decided to flee on 29 November 1807 to establish a government in exile in the Portuguese Viceroyalty of Brazil. Along with the royal family, Maria was transported aboard the carrack Príncipe Real. During her move from the royal palace to the docks she was heard screaming throughout the trip, in the middle of the crowd and in the carriage. The queen's dementia was so great that she feared that she was going to be tortured or robbed during her movement by her servants.

In January 1808 Prince Regent João and his court arrived in Salvador da Bahia. Under pressure by local aristocracy and the British, the prince regent signed a commercial regulation after his arrival that opened commerce between Brazil and friendly nations, which in this case represented the interests of Great Britain above all. This law broke an important colonial pact that had previously allowed Brazil to maintain direct commercial relations only with Portugal.

On 1 August 1808 British General Arthur Wellesley (later Duke of Wellington) 

landed a British army in Lisbon to initiate the Peninsular War. The impact of Wellesley's initial victory over Junot at the Battle of Vimeiro (21 August 1808) was wiped out by his superiors in the Convention of Cintra (30 August 1808), which allowed the defeated French troops to evacuate peacefully from Portugal.

Wellesley (now as Lord Wellington) returned to Portugal on 22 April 1809 to recommence the campaign. Portuguese forces under British command distinguished themselves in the defense of the Lines of Torres Vedras (1809–1810) and in the subsequent invasion of Spain and France. In 1815 the government of the Prince Regent João elevated Brazil to the status of a kingdom, and Maria I was proclaimed the Queen of the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil and the Algarves. When Napoleon was finally defeated in 1815, Maria and her family remained in Brazil.

Maria lived in Brazil for a total of eight years, always in a state of incapacitation. In 1816, she died at the Carmo Convent in Rio de Janeiro at the age of 81. After her death, Prince Regent João was acclaimed the king of Portugal, Brazil, and the Algarves and his mother's body was returned to Lisbon to be interred in a mausoleum in the Estrela Basilica ( Basilica da Estrela), which she had helped found.

Maria is a greatly admired figure in both Brazil and Portugal due to the tremendous changes and events that took place during her reign. In Portugal, she is celebrated as a strong female figure. Her legacy shines at Portugal's Queluz Palace, 

a baroque-roccoco masterpiece that she helped conceive. A large statue of her stands in front of the palace, 

and a pousada near the palace is named in her honor. 

A large marble statue of the queen was erected at the Portuguese National Library in Lisbon 

by the students of Joaquim Machado de Castro.

In Brazil, she is admired as a key figure in the eventual independence of Brazil. It was during her reign, albeit through the government of her son's regency, that many of the national institutions and organizations in Brazil were created. These institutions were the precursors to their modern-day equivalents and granted large degree of power to the Brazilian colonials. While she is often called A Louca (the Mad) in Brazil, Brazilian and Portuguese historians hold her in high esteem.

Maria married her uncle, Infante Pedro of Portugal on 6 June 1760. At the time of their marriage, Maria was 25 and Pedro was 42. Despite the age gap, the couple had a happy marriage. Pedro automatically became co-monarch (as Pedro III of Portugal) when Maria ascended the throne, as a child had already been born from their marriage. The couple had six children and a stillborn baby.

José, Prince of Brazil (20 August 1761 - 11 September 1788) José Francisco Xavier de Paula Domingos António Agostinho Anastácio married Infanta Benedita of Portugal and had no issue. His death led to his younger brother becoming heir-apparent and later king.

João de Bragança (20 October 1762 - 20 October 1762) João was a still born baby, born at the Ajuda National Palace.

João Francisco de Bragança (16 September 1763 - 10 October 1763) João Francisco de Paula Domingos António Carlos Cipriano was born at the Ajuda National Palace.

João VI (13 May 1767 - 10 March 1826) João Maria José Francisco Xavier de Paula Luís António Domingos Rafael married Carlota Joaquina of Spain and had issue. He was King of Portugal and Titular Emperor of Brazil.

Mariana Victoria de Bragança (15 December 1768 - 2 November 1788) Maria Ana Vitória Josefa Francisca Xavier de Paula Antonieta Joana Domingas Gabriela married Infante Gabriel of Spain and had issue.

Maria Clementina de Bragança (9 June 1774 - 27 June 1776) Maria Clementina Francisca Xavier de Paula Ana Josefa Antónia Domingas Feliciana Joana Michaela Julia de Bragança was born at the Queluz National Palace.

Maria Isabel de Bragança (12 December 1776 - 14 January 1777) Maria Isabel was born at the Queluz National Palace.