#discreet phenomena

[jordaneprestrot]

Jordane Prestrot, série Discrets phénomènes (2024)

Website . Instagram . Flickr

[simonh]

_JPR5523 - "Je ne suis pas fou" by Jordane Prestrot Via Flickr: ♍ 2013 / Clermont-Ferrand, France ______________ www.prestrot.com Musique : Spotify . Deezer . Bandcamp Littérature : Livres Vidéos : YouTube . Vimeo Réseaux sociaux : Instagram . Facebook . Tumblr

[ohbo-ohno]

Prompt requests: 1) Price x Reader - abandoned farm / waking up in a random room with no idea who/where/why/how you got there 2) Soap x Reader - forest / dealing with strange natural (or not-so-natural) phenomena 3) Ghost x Reader - the only other car in the abandoned parking lot / being followed

1k game here

i went ahead and just did one of these! i've got several requests in my inbox still, but i might come back and add another one you had later :)

1.7k of your ex-boyfriend ghost catching up with you. no smut!

The car's been tailing you since you left work.

It's a discreet car, and you probably wouldn't have even noticed it if you hadn't run several errands before starting to head home. The driver isn't even trying to be subtle - he never parks more than a spot away from you and he never lets another car get between you and him on the road.

You already know who he is. You hate to admit it to yourself, but you know.

Ghost always was possessive. It's not a leap to think he'd be pissed at the idea of anyone getting close to even your car.

Plus, he probably wants you to know he's following you. He always was a sadistic bastard, always liked the see the pain he was causing.

There's no one you can call for help. You didn't rat him out the first time you ran, and you're not going to now. There's no way you could get the police to keep you safe without telling them all about Ghost and his secrets, and you'd be better of just surrendering to Ghost's wrath at that point.

You take a deep breath and tighten your hands around the wheel.

You can't get help.

You can't run - he's tailing you too closely for that.

You can't fight - you don't keep your gun in your car, and you've never been a match for Simon hand-to-hand.

You pull into a dark parking lot, one that's almost entirely empty save for a few people waiting at the bus stop. You take a few deep breaths as you pull to a stop as far away from the bus stop as you can, trying to prepare yourself for the inevitable confrontation.

The car parks a spot away. Just seconds later, he's climbing out of the driver's side and striding towards you.

You knew it was him. He'd never send a henchman after you, even all these months later with so much distance between the two of you.

He's clothed entirely in black - like he always is on the job, apparently black hides bloodstains best - and comes to a stop right in front of your window, so your just staring into a wall of darkness.

You roll the window down, the awkward silence heavy.

The first thing you notice when he ducks down is that he's wearing the mask. Not the one sewn onto a balaclava, but one with the skull pattern printed onto the balaclava itself.

"Get out," he grunts. His first words to you in nearly a year and they're a command.

You scowl. This is exactly why you ran in the first place.

"No." You try to infuse as much confidence into your voice as possible, but you know you fail.

He huffs. "Love, c'mon, I'm not playing games. Get out of the car."

You shake your head, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white.

"No! I don't have to listen to you - especially when you've been stalking me all day-"

He sighs loudly, and before you can complain he's reaching through the window and opening the door for himself, quickly ducking into your car.

"Hey, stop!" You try, batting away his hands when he unbuckles your seatbelt, pulling you up by the waist until your standing unsteadily against him. "You have no right-!"

"Baby. Shut up." He growls, reaching around you to tug the key out of the ignition, the hand around your waist affording you no wiggle room.

"Don't you tell me to shut up!" You complain, pushing against his chest as he starts to nudge you in front of him. "I haven't had to deal with you in nearly a year and the first things you think to say to me are an order and shut up? Fuck you, asshole!"

There's a low chuckle at your back, and he turns you around to pin you to the car. Your breath hitches as he presses your chests together, ducking low enough that you can't look anywhere but his eyes.

"I missed you," he says, low and secretive.

God, you wish you could hate him. Everything would be so much easier if you hated him.

"Let me go," you say, forcing sternness into your voice.

"No."

"I'm serious," you try, pushing at the center of his chest. He only uses the pressure as an excuse to lean closer, draping himself over you.

"I'm serious too, love. You're never leaving my line of sight again."

You shut your eyes against the wave of longing that brings. He used to talk like that all the time, back before you realized how deep he was in his life of crime.

Gonna keep you forever, love.

Might chain you to the bed. Keep you safe at home, make sure I always know where you are. Little fuckdoll waiting at home for me, hm?

Never letting you leave me. Never.

I can't stand to be apart from you, love. It feels like I'm missing a limb.

You can't leave - you know that, don't you? I'll hunt you down, baby. This isn't a relationship you can get away from.

Simon was always a little possessive, a little controlling. Sometimes it got you off, and sometimes it scared you. In the weeks leading up to your escape, it did a lot more of the latter.

"We're broken up," you say on an exhale, looking back up at him. He's tugged the mask up to his nose, and his warm breath ghosts over your face. "I left you. We're not together anymore, Ghost."

He nearly flinches at that name, stiffening against you. "Don't call me that."

You don't correct yourself, and one of his hands comes up to collar your throat.

"I'm not joking. You don't call me that, understood?"

He applies just the slightest bit of pressure on either side of your neck and you fold like wet cardboard. Nodding quickly and taking a big deep breath in when he stop squeezing.

"What do you call me?" He bites, leaning closer until you're almost brushing noses. You try to flinch back but can't make it very far. "Say it. What do you call me?"

"Simon," you blurt out, nearly a plea. You haven't been near his intensity in so long, it's hard to handle now. You drop your eyes shamefully, unable to look at him.

"Good girl," he purrs, hand moving upwards to cup your chin and tilt it up. You can't help but meet his eyes, and the softness there nearly breaks your heart. "I'm never Ghost for you, only Simon. You got that?"

"You hunted me down like a dog."

He smiles at that, leans close enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. "I got you back. You're the one who ran away, love. It's a scary world out there, I can't leave you all alone."

"I don't need you to help me."

"You will. You'll need me again. Everything will go back to just how it was, and you'll see how good it is again. I'll take care of you."

That makes your heart beat a little faster, makes your breath quicken.

The first few months with Simon were... well, not heavenly but certainly good. Things were at their best when you first moved in - when he was still eager to dodge work for you, and when you didn't realize how violent "work" really was. Things only started getting bad when you started putting the pieces together.

"You can't protect me from your world, Simon," you whisper, tilting your head towards him just enough to bump your foreheads together. That's the whole reason you had run in the first place - nearly getting kidnapped and having a gun held to your head had been more than enough to scare you out of his world.

"I can," he growls, pressing closer to you. "You just have to let me. You didn't know before, but now you do. Now I can make sure you know how to keep yourself safe when I'm not there."

"But I shouldn't have to!" You exclaim, tears welling in your eyes. Why can't he just understand? "I don't want to always be looking over my shoulder, always waiting for someone to hurt me, or to hurt you-"

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that!" You explode, shoving at his chest as he tears slip past your waterline.

"I do," he snarls, the first hints of anger painting his words. "I can keep my woman safe. I can keep what's mine safe."

You sniffle as you look up at him, bottom lip quivering.

You're not even sure what to say at this point. What else is there?

He seems to realize you've run out of words and deflates against you, curling both of his arms around your waist and holding you as close as he can while resting his chin on top of your head.

"It'll be okay, love," he comforts, swaying side to side. "I get why you ran, alright? I know you were scared, and that's my fault. It won't happen again. But it's time to stop running and to come home. You know that's where you're meant to be."

You sniffle against him, blinking into the dark fabric of his shirt.

"You scare me," you confess quietly, safe without his eyes boring into yours.

He only stiffens for a moment, then goes soft against you again. "I know."

One hand moves up to pet over your hair, stroking across your head in the exact way that always makes you feel a little loose limbed. It works now, and you give him a bit more of your weight.

"You're scared because you're smart. I'd be worried if you weren't scared. I shoulda known before that I couldn't keep my job from you, and that's on me. If I had told you, you might not have run."

"I would have."

He snorts, tugs a lock of your hair. "Shush. I promise, things will be different this time. Better. All cards on the table."

Your hands tentatively wrap around him, linking at the small of his back. You've always loved how big he is compared to you, how protected you feel in his shadow.

Even now, knowing what you know, you still feel that way.

It's that thought that has you finally breaking down, leaning into his hold and squeezing him tight to you.

"Oh, love," he sighs, squeezing you as tightly as he can without hurting you. "It's alright, you're okay. Just get it all out. Everything's going to be alright."

As much as you hate it, you think he might be right.

[slaymitchabernathy]

Teamwork

| this was inspired by that one episode of 'Sex and the City' where samantha can't reach an orgasm because she was so real for that. |

Soarynn Nightingale has grown accustomed to certain sounds since moving into her boyfriend’s penthouse apartment.

The sound of the shower turning on early in the morning before he goes to work.

The muffled sound of his voice when he takes phone calls in his study with the door shut because she really doesn’t want to hear those.

The sound of him and Petunia silently fighting while trying to remain discreet.

The sound of Coriolanus snoring when he comes to bed too late after working for so long.

Right now, the only sound she hears is the headboard hitting the wall over and over again.

Sex comes with a lot of sounds.

Moans, groans, gasps, grunts, cries, whimpers, and sometimes, if he fucks her really well, screams.

Soarynn stares up at the ceiling while Coriolanus thrusts into her at a rapid pace and she can feel that familiar tingling she gets when she’s about to cum. She didn’t even know this feeling existed until she met her boyfriend and he inducted her into the world of sexual phenomena.

Now she can’t get enough of it, enough of him.

There’s just something about being as close as humanly possible to him that makes her all giddy inside. The feeling of his skin on her skin, his lips on her lips.

And it helps that he looks tremendously handsome whenever they have sex with his tussled curls and confident grin. He’s too sexy for his own good.

“So good for me,” he praises, bending her knee and pushing her leg back so he can fuck her even deeper. Soarynn moans, arching her back to get the ultimate pleasure. Coriolanus has never shied away from fucking her in all sorts of positions, always trying to discover their new favorite.

Soarynn is getting closer, her toes are curling, her nails are digging into his back. "I'm close," he pants, resting his head on her shoulder. Soarynn can feel it, she's on the cusp, on the edge, she's about to cum.

Then she feels Coriolanus reach his orgasm, groaning as he spills inside of her like he always does. He keeps thrusting in and out but at a slower rate and Soarynn...Soarynn didn't finish.

She always finishes.

Coriolanus finally goes still, panting while he comes down from his high. He gives her knee a squeeze before releasing it so she can fully lay down on the sheets but she's far from caring about her comfort right now. She's confused. Perplexed.

She didn't finish.

Soarynn stares up at the ceiling while Coriolanus whispers sweet praises about how good she was, how beautiful she is, and that's very cute but she still didn't cum. Coriolanus sighs and presses a kiss to her cheek, "That was good yeah?"

Soarynn blinks once, twice, "Yeah," she says, her voice cracking.

Should she tell him?

Coriolanus prides himself on being good at sex and she doesn't want to hurt his feelings because he didn't make her finish. But maybe it's not him. Maybe it's her.

What a terrifying thought.

Coriolanus slowly sits up and she knows how the rest will go. He'll pull out and start a warm bath for her. She'll lie there in a blissful mood until he picks her up and carries her to the tub.

But she's not feeling very blissful right now.

He's about to pull out when she stops him, sitting up on her elbows, "Did you finish?" She asks, already knowing the answer. Coriolanus furrows his eyebrows, giving her a confused look, "I did," he says slowly, "did you not want me to?"

Soarynn shakes her head, since the first time they had sex, he's always finished inside of her. She'd be worried if he didn't cum. But she didn't.

It suddenly dawns on him and he looks down at her, "Did you finish?"

Soarynn bites her lip, is this bad? Is something wrong with her?

"No," she mumbles, "I didn't. But I always do!"

Coriolanus nods, now lost in thought from the looks of it, "Maybe I'm just, just not feeling it," she suggests even though she was feeling it, she always feels it when she's with him. She was so close to feeling it until she suddenly wasn't and that worries her.

"You usually finish right before me," he finally says, resting his hands on her thighs, "maybe I finished too fast." Soarynn is quick to shake her head, he is not the problem and he's always held off until she's reached her peak.

"I'm probably just tired," she decides, shrugging it off, "it's fine." But Coriolanus doesn't look too convinced, not when she always finishes, not when he prides himself on being a good partner in bed, "Maybe I could go down on you," he suggests, "it'll only take a minute."

She doesn't miss the cockiness in his tone, Coriolanus loves how quickly he can get her to cum, how responsive she is to him but this is something different. "It's fine," she says again, not believing herself, "it's fine."

꧁ ꧂

The next day when Coriolanus comes home, Soarynn is sitting on the floor with her legs stretched out and a book between them. "Darling," he says slowly, setting down his briefcase, "what're you doing?"

Soarynn grabs her toes and leans forward, as far as she can go without feeling any pain, "Stretching," she explains as if it's obvious. He sits down on the sofa behind her, "I see. And what exactly are you stretching for?"

While Coriolanus works out regularly, Soarynn has never partaken in physical activity, aside from sex of course. Which is why she's stretching on the living room floor. "Well, I was reading this book," she tells him, grabbing her right foot with both hands, "and it said that stretching before sex helps ensure that both parties will reach an orgasm."

Soarynn would be lying if she said that she hadn't been obsessing over her lost orgasm all day. She's felt so...empty inside, so defeated. She didn't know life could be like this until now.

This is a life she refuses to live.

"Stretching before sex? Soarynn," he sighs, resting a hand on her lower back, "I think it was just a one-time thing, darling, you don't need to do all of these stretches for me to make you cum."

Easy for him to say, he's not the one who went to bed unsatisfied last night.

"I'm just taking all of the necessary precautions," she explains, switching over to her left foot, "you know as women get older, orgasms are harder to achieve."

"You're twenty-four."

She ignores his tone of voice, she doesn't need any of this negativity, "The book also said something about your partner having good energy," she adds, sitting back up, "it said that if your partner doesn't have good energy then it can affect you and your experience. It could block your orgasm."

Coriolanus scoffs and she glares up at him from over her shoulder, "My energy is just fine," he tells her, rolling his eyes, "and I think that you're literally reading too far into this. You're only going to get more obsessive."

Soarynn shakes her head, she's not obsessive, she's simply worried about her sexual health.

She's not obsessed.

꧁ ꧂

Soarynn brings the cup of tea to her lips, slowly swallowing it down while lying in bed, propped up against the headboard.

"Are you done yet?"

She looks over the rim of her cup at Coriolanus who's standing at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, wearing only his boxers. It's been one week and Soarynn still hasn't had an orgasm. So, she's turned to herbal remedies such as this tea that should cure all of her sexual issues. She has to drink the whole thing and Coriolanus is not a man who likes to wait to have sex.

She keeps drinking her tea, making sure not to waste a drop, "Almost," she breathes, gulping down the rest, "you remember the position I showed you?"

Coriolanus sighs, resting his hands on the foot of the bed, "Yes darling, how could I forget that wonderful sketch you showed me?" Soarynn figured she might as well kill several birds with one stone so she was also researching new positions, some were a bit outlandish, even she knew that. But this was for the good of a great orgasm!

Soarynn finishes her tea and sets the cup down on her bedside table, "Good, now come and fuck me really well."

He needn't be told twice. Coriolanus crawls across the bed until he's on top of her, he looks a bit skeptical and she rests a hand on his cheek, "We can do this," she says, "it's a team effort."

Coriolanus raises an eyebrow, "Even though I do like ninety-nine percent of the work?"

Soarynn drops her hand, she needs good energy, not sass, "Be positive," she reminds him, "good energy Coryo, good energy, positive mindset."

He grabs her leg and lifts it up, pushing it back until her foot touches the headboard, "Well, I'm positive that you've gone a bit crazy with all of your research but whatever you say, darling."

Soarynn blows out all of the air in her body, "Exactly, exactly, we can do this, we can do this."

It'll work this time.

꧁ ꧂

Soarynn lights the last candle before blowing out the match. She sits up straight and rests her hands on her knees, closing her eyes, "Oh Aphrodite, please hear our calls, we ask you to bless us with your magic, to help us, well, me reach an orgasm. Lead us down your righteous path."

Soarynn waits five seconds, ten seconds before cracking open an eye and looking over at Coriolanus who's also sitting cross-legged on their bedroom floor, and he's picking at his nails. "Coryo! You need to say your prayer," she tells him, pointing at all the candles they lit for this.

Coriolanus gives her a look that she's gotten used to over the past two weeks, "Darling, these are candles you bought last year for Christmas, and we're in our bedroom, not a temple. I think you should just go to the doctor like a normal person."

Soarynn wants to strangle him. He's practically refused to participate in all of her ideas to help her orgasm again and it's starting to feel like he just doesn't care.

"We need to be a united front," she whines, no longer in the mindset for a prayer, "we need to work together, I need...I need to cum!" Soarynn flops onto the floor and groans, maybe she's dying because that's the only explanation for this.

They've had sex almost every night and she still hasn't cum. She's done everything in the book, they've done every position, she's drank every tea, she even bought a vibrator. Nothing has worked.

"We could still try that couples therapist," she suggests sweetly and he shakes his head, standing back up, "We don't need a therapist, we need you to go see a professional."

Soarynn sighs, maybe he's right, maybe she should go to an actual doctor to figure this out.

What's the worst that could happen?

꧁ ꧂

"Alright Ms. Nightingale, go ahead and get undressed for me."

Soarynn's eyes widen at her doctor's request, and she nervously grips the edge of the foam mat she's sitting on, "Pardon me?" She asks with a slight tremor in her voice. She thought this was going to be a non-invasive visit.

"Get undressed so I can take a look," Dr. Kyte says, putting gloves onto her hands, "there might be a problem internally."

Soarynn doesn't mean to question a medical professional but she's a bit hesitant, "I'm sure my boyfriend would've noticed if there was something wrong down there," she tells her doctor, "he's seen everything."

Dr. Kyte raises an eyebrow, "Is he a doctor?"

Soarynn slouches, "No."

She slowly gets undressed and lies down on the mat, hoping there's nothing wrong down there. She hadn't even thought about that being a possibility but maybe something had gone amiss. Dr. Kyte pokes around there for a few minutes before standing back up, "Everything looks perfectly normal."

Soarynn lets out a sigh of relief, "Oh thank goodness, but then what's wrong with me? Why am I unable to..."

"Unable to finish? Well, it could be for a number of reasons, the female body is a great mystery. Do you and your boyfriend have sex regularly?"

Soarynn blushes, "Yes."

"How many days a week?"

"Usually six."

"Does he wear any form of protection?"

"No."

Soarynn looks over at Dr. Kyte and to her horror, the woman looks perplexed, stumped even, "Maybe you two need to try a different location," she says, "if you're having sex regularly in the same place, your body might start predicting what will happen. Spice it up."

"Spice it up?" Soarynn repeats, finding this advice to be very unhelpful.

"Yes, try a different location and things should change for the better."

꧁ ꧂

"So we need to fuck in my office at work? Is that what you're saying?" Coriolanus teases, wrapping his arms around her waist while she cuts up some strawberries. Soarynn rolls her eyes but tilts her head so he can kiss her neck, "Ha ha, very funny. She meant in the living room, or in the kitchen," she gestures to their surroundings, "my body is too used to the bedroom."

Coriolanus hums, sucking on her skin and sliding a hand under her shirt, "You want me to fuck you right here? Bent over the counter like a little slut?" Soarynn clenches her thighs together, the past couple of weeks have been hard on the sexual part of their relationship. She's been too focused on doing everything right and he's been focused on making sure she was enjoying herself.

But she wasn't.

"Yes," she whimpers, strawberries long forgotten.

Things move very quickly, clothes come off, skin is on skin and they're off to the races.

Soarynn moans while he fucks her from behind, hard and fast just the way she likes it. She can feel herself starting to get close and she's scared it might be another false alarm.

"You've got it, baby," Coriolanus says in her ear, "been so good for me, so good, you're gonna be my good girl and cum yeah?"

Soarynn whines, he's always loved saying the nastiest things in her ear and she can see how pent up he's been from two weeks of superficial sex. Soarynn has been without orgasms and Coriolanus has been without a present sexual partner.

He brings his hand down to her clit and plays with it with his fingers. Soarynn whimpers, grabbing the counter for dear life, "Please," she gasps, "please, please, please." She's in tears now, from the pleasure and the frustration.

Coriolanus fucks her even harder, even deeper than before. He grabs her right leg and lifts it up, pressing it against the counter so he can get as deep as possible. "Cum for me Soarynn," he grunts, "cum for me right now."

Her toes curl, her eyes roll back.

Soarynn's orgasm hits her like a fucking train.

Soarynn has never screamed so loud before. Their downstairs neighbors must be worried.

Soarynn's walls squeeze around his cock, gripping him like a vice while she works through her first orgasm ever as far as she's concerned.

"Yes," she cries, "yes, yes, yes, fucking yes."

She goes limp in his hold, resting her head on the counter while Coriolanus keeps going to reach his own orgasm. He tumbles soon after she does and they both let out a relieved sigh. "You came," he whispers, rubbing her side, "you finally came."

Soarynn lets out a crazed laugh, "Well it was ninety-nine percent you."

They both laugh and Coriolanus kisses her shoulder, "I'm happy for you baby, we should celebrate."

Soarynn sighs, "We should buy a cake."

It feels like so much tension between them has been released. The air feels lighter.

And just like that, Soarynn got her orgasms back and Coriolanus got his girlfriend back.

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

| taglist: @strawberriicakes @wonderlandbound111 @villiansarehottest @kickmybark @thevoicesinmyprettylittlehead @melodyoflovee @erensrealgf |

[chemblrish]

Actually, you know what @onewigglyworm I will tell you all about quantum things - from a spectroscopist's point of view, of course.

Let me introduce you guys to

✨ the quantum numbers ✨

which describe the state of an electron in an atom. This will be long. Ready? Let's go!

I’m not going to begin with how the quantum theory came to be – it’s a genuinely fascinating story and I suppose it would fit in here nicely, but let’s be realistic: with my inability to shut the hell up this post is already going to be way too long as it is. So, let us find ourselves in the year of 1913 when the standard model of the atom was still Rutherford’s model: a dense clump of positive charge in the center and tiny particles of negative charge (electrons) orbiting it – a microscopic analogy of the Solar System with its large star in the middle and the planets orbiting it.

Rutherford wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t pulling things out of his ass (his scattering experiment? A thing of beauty!), but that model simply couldn’t be real. A moving charge creates an electromagnetic wave and therefore radiates energy which means our electron should begin spiraling towards the nucleus, making the atom an unstable system.

If Rutherford’s model was true, we wouldn’t be here to learn about the crazy wonders of our world, so let’s say THANK YOU!! to Niels Bohr who enters our story at the moment and flips Rutherford’s shit upside down.

Bohr made the following suggestion: “Hey, what if the macroscopic electrodynamics and microscopic electrodynamics were two totally different things?” He figured out that the energy of an atom is quantized – meaning it can’t have any possible value you can think of, but rather those values are discreet, they come in lil packets, and the energy of an electron depends on which orbit it occupies = how far from the nucleus it is.

This is where our first quantum number comes onto the stage: the principal quantum number n. The principal quantum number tells us which orbit our electron is on and therefore what energy it has. Let’s take a look at the periodic table and pick some element, any element – potassium, maybe? It’s in the fourth period which means its valence electron (the one that’s the farthest from the nucleus) occupies the fourth orbit which in turn means its principal quantum number equals 4 (n = 4). Easy, isn’t it!

That’s all cool and dandy but doesn’t solve all of our problems. Bohr’s model described the hydrogen atom perfectly, but failed to explain some of the phenomena related to… well. All the other elements (stop booing! Bohr’s model was a huge achievement at the time and it’s still a handy simplification to this day, even if it isn’t exactly correct).

Enter Sommerfeld. Sommerfeld thought, “Well, Bohr’s model isn’t bad, but what if the orbits of the electrons aren’t circular but actually elliptical?” That gave rise to the second quantum number: the azimuthal (or orbital angular momentum) quantum number l. You know those balloon-like models of the orbitals of an atom? I mean those:

[via]

This is where they come from! The shape of an orbital is determined by the quantum number l.

If we have a quantum number, then something should be quantized, right? In this case, that “something” is, predictably, orbital angular momentum (in very simple words: if a moving object has mass, then it has momentum, AKA how much will it hurt if someone throws an orange at you vs a watermelon. If said object is moving in a circle instead of a straight line, it has angular momentum). The quantum number l allows us to determine the angular momentum of an electron.

But Sommerfeld went further than that, because why come up with one quantum number when you can come up with two? He knew of what we call the Zeeman effect in which the emission spectrum of an element looks different in the presence of a magnetic field (more spectral lines appear than there are without a magnetic field) and he concluded that there has to be another quantized parameter – the orientation of the angular momentum. Come to think about it, it’s pretty crazy. Electrons don’t orbit the nucleus of their atom only “in two dimensions”, in a flat manner, like planets around their star; but their orbits aren’t scattered randomly all around the nucleus either – their positions are quantized. We describe those positions with the third quantum number – the magnetic quantum number m.

Obviously, this is a pretty big simplification – perhaps my physicist friends here will scoff at this explanation – but I think it’s good enough for the layperson who doesn’t necessarily want a lecture on vectors, dipoles, and precession.

Okay, so far so good. We have three quantum numbers, great job! We can now describe the state of an electron pretty well and all that’s left for us to do is to prove experimentally that we’re right and that the orientation of angular momentum is in fact quantized, and then we can all go home.

That’s exactly what Stern and Gerlach attempted to do. Again, I’m going to skip the details of the experiment (although I do encourage you to look into it yourself!), but the shortened version is as follows: Stern and Gerlach passed a beam of silver atoms through a non-uniform magnetic field, then observed the results on a screen on the other side. If the quantum theory was wrong and the orientation of angular momentum wasn’t quantized, then the screen should show a smooth projection of all possible orientations. If the quantum theory was right, the screen should show several lines corresponding to the quantized orientations of angular momentum.

So, we switch on the magnetic field, we fire the silver atoms, we take a good look at the screen… and we get two lines. Not a smooth distribution and not a handful of lines either but only two lines. What? Looks like there is some spatial quantization, but “regular” angular momentum isn’t what we’re looking at here.

The mystery was solved a couple of years later by Uhlenbeck and Goudsmit who suggested that, “Guys, what if electrons have some sort of inherent angular momentum that’s separate from their motion around the nucleus? We should call it ‘spin’, let’s call it ‘spin’, can we call it ‘spin’?” And so, we arrive at the fourth and final (wellll… final for this post) quantum number: the spin quantum number s.

If you've made it this far: whoa, congratulations! I had fun writing this, I hope you had fun reading it too.

I tried to make it as understandable to the random non-scientist as possible which naturally called for many simplifications and glossing over some details - I hope the quantum pros here will forgive me.

[sigmaelxgr]

WIP show

Thank you @captain-of-silvenar for tagging me once again! To be honest, I dont spend much time on tumblr anymore except to have discussions and to share a few few things - I tend to forget I have an account here until some tag pops out of nowhere. I love them, and I'll try to give you some WIPs of mine. I've been working on young Xangr's diary. I have MANY pages of it and I'll try to translate them as correctly as possible... Now that it's my turn, I'll tag @yansurnummu and @lokorum!

So before we start, a little bit of context: We're years before the Planemeld. The coming piece of WIP comes from a whole diary that bears no date on it. It is at ESO days kept by the Mage Guild of Auridion, since it's trusted that it belonged to an ex-member of their cell and has been found in a Worm Cult nest. Here are the latest pages I'm working on (translated as I could) /!\ IT'S LONG :

[...]

[...] It's the strangest text so far. As I decipher and translate it, it keeps rearranging its characters. It annoys the crap out of me. The glyphs describe and can be used as an easy hook. That was the purpose of the Wayrest colleagues if I reckon and I think the project is about the same here. Among the non-orthogonal lines, I'm beginning to glimpse discreet characters impregnated with subreptice. They have an unpleasantly familiar aroma that I can't quite put my finger on yet. When I touch these irregular arrangements of symbols, they dance, belch and nauseate me. It's a putrid smell. I don't know what it's doing here, but keeping these sentences isolated from the rest might come in handy. I have an inexplicable certainty about it - the feeling that it will be useful to us. I should think about bringing him a bouquet of flowers. I think he'd like it and it would help us get back on track. We can't stay in this situation.

Have returned to the text. The sketches I've isolated have stopped moving and describe a phenomena that can barely take shape in our reality. I can easily deduce that they break the laws of the Veil and obey only their own. I'm intrigued, but I won't say anything to the others for the moment. I wait until I've finished the task and understood everything before sharing the news. The other stuff? Simple, wordy equations about transliminality. They'll be useful for those who need to be reminded how to count. I wonder when I stopped being impressed by all these signs. I even wonder why I understand them so well. I get the feeling that they're speaking directly to me, and that the language used on this dusty paper isn't what carries the point. I'm beginning to wonder about the languages of other planes. I read an interesting book the other day that I'd pulled out of the laboratory stash. There are theories about the probable immaterial nature of daedra essence. I'll explain when I'm done with this parchment. He told me today that I look pretty good for someone who lives with an infant. I think it's his disguised way of telling me that he suspects I'm not sleeping at home. I don't like it when he does that. I don't like his eyes. They burn, and the flowers haven't helped anything between us. I'm going to spend several nights back in the attic, until I feel he's less concerned by my absences.

Back this evening. They made progress on my work but didn't feel the potential of the verses I extracted from all the paragraphs. It's only me who feels the call, obviously. I'm tired, and the quality of my writing is suffering. My lines are indecipherable and I have to keep correcting myself. However, they seem satisfied. Before I leave, I should have extracted a new equation. It's like alternating between removing a splinter or pulling a tooth: I operate between the meticulous and the brutal, each time using my pen and fingers as pliers. Sometimes you just have to know how to get respect, even from a piece of paper. “Zymel Hziz.” This is the last nymic I've managed to isolate - a lightning atronach. Decidedly, Oblivion today is convenient in the way it lexicalizes the entities that reside there… It's even suspiciously tidy. Note: don't lock yourself into a general rule. Being taken by surprise isn't always a pleasant experience.

My results have been transmitted and will soon be re-evaluated. I'm waiting for them to come back, stamping my feet slightly but not too much. They don't like it when I'm impatient; I hear it's too decisive a flaw in many cases. To keep myself busy, I pick up these rotten-meat-smelling characters again. I wonder if they're not a formula. I don't recognize any grammatical arrangement that might remind me of an entity, even squinting. I don't think it's a sentence. I'm sure it doesn't say anything and I'm not sure it matters either. Indeed, it says nothing. I've been thinking about it for several nights now, and I think I've finally figured it out. I'll wait a few more hours to flesh out my observations. It may not say anything, but it talks. And when I say “it talks”, I mean it's loquacious. Reading these incomprehensible phonemes is inaudible. I repeat and repeat in front of my colleagues, and they get nothing but annoyance out of it. But as I struggle to pronounce this unspeakable jumble, I'm gripped by a new certainty. I'm convinced that this language finds a way to be universal and selective at the same time. I'm certain that I can understand it because it wants me to. In the meantime, I have to say that it sounds awful. I must pronounce it with a deplorable accent, rather like I pronounce my Altmeri. I must confess that I haven't particularly tried to articulate my Altmeri correctly. Altmeri is good for vomiting. Altmeri is best disgorged from the heart.

Today's demonstration was impressive. I've learned a lot and I'd like to share with them my questions about the nature of this language. I'd like to call it “Skrmblz”. It adds a bit of cuteness to the sordidness, a bit like me. Skrmblz is a bit devious and has poor hygiene. She won't let anyone talk to her, and doesn't let anyone listen to her. Skrmblz has a nasty temper. We've taken turns trying to spit her out, and it's only when I have her in my mouth that I can taste more than bile. In the end, Skrmblz opens up to me with the force of my tongue, like someone stirring in a big mashed potato. It reminds me of good evenings.

Tonight, it's been a week since I've been down to the brothel. I'm in a cold sweat. Maybe I'll spend the next few nights relaxing a bit. I don't care if he's disappointed in me, all he had to do was appreciating my flowers!

I should bake him a cake…

Look, I'm sorry. I think I really am. I wish you'd appreciate them and put them in a vase next to our bed. I guess she didn't let you keep them in our house. I know you're worried and I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't have started it, we shouldn't have talked about it and I should have stayed pure and virtuous like you. Sometimes I envy you. I miss you, only caring about that screaming infant and that woman who shrieks like a sow. You know something? You deserve better. When I get rid of all this, we'll be fine. I think with your clarity, you'll have no trouble seeing how happy we can be. You can even keep the baby, for all I care... I understand why you don't want to trust me with it, since I'm about to ransack every one of my synapses.

I promise, I'll try not to stay there for more than 72 hours. I promise this time I'll go home and get some sleep.

[kid-of-chaos]

Another day another Sky: Balance in Chaos protagonist! Based on Sigma from Overwatch (the game still sucks)

The Unstable Recorder.

Things to note: She can wear the Light-Catcher’s mask in this outfit. She’s also supposed to have a bag of scrolls indicated by duets posters (whichever one) but had to use moments camera :( It’s not shown, but she has 12 Wing Charges.

Name: Kimako* (Formerly the Dauntless Astrophysicist)

* Name means “the Secretive” in Tenebrin

Gender: Female

Nickname/Alias: The Quiet Archivist, The Propagandist

Race: Luxinis Novalis (Torian, or more commonly known, Sky-kids)

Type: Revived Ancestor

Age: 57 (Past Life), 15 (Current Life)

D.o.B: Sept 22 (Sanctuary-Prophecy time gap)

Appearance: Kimako is a teenage Torian girl who’s commonly known for always being seen with a bag of scrolls, books and other written media and watching things from afar. She often keeps her eyes closed to, and I quote, “not overwhelm her senses”. When doing her Archivist duties, she often wears a more discreet outfit (As seen below).

Tools/Weapons: Although overshadowed by the book she always carries, she has several daggers and a Fan Blade. How she got her hands on these weapons is unclear, though I assume she haggled for them.

Powers/Abilities: Has possession of Moon-based abilities due to an experiment gone wrong in her previous life. She can harness the Blue Moon’s Harmony, the Blood Moon’s Hostility, and the Eclipse’s Duality.

Weaknesses: Said powers are highly unstable and violate, forcing her to use them in small amounts unless the situation is dire. This is probably why she has her eyes closed, as the energy she took in might have heavily affected her senses.

Notes (Made by Arcivo): [Ah yes, Kimako. Some say she’s the way she is from pride, but that’s not the case. She was once an astrophysicist interested on how the moon affected life for Torians and Braki decades after the fall of the kingdom. So one night, on a Super Moon, she tried to harness the moon’s power with a Darkness Shard, Photolite, and a Blue Moon Shard (how did she obtained these, I have no idea). She quickly realized why dangerous phenomena are deemed as such.

The three energies reacted violently with each other and the Supermoon phenomenon, causing direct exposure and mutation. The unstable energies drove her mad, and ultimately, killed her.

I have no idea how she still has these powers in her current life, but it’s safe to assume that it affected her light so much, it’s now a part of it.]

[cheerstotheelites-if]

Happy Birthday.

Two words that Fleur never thought she would receive.

14th of Blossom.

She always wondered why the gods decided to be cruel to her; to have her be born on the day of love when her own family can't even give her a single ounce of it. Well, her brothers are there, but even whatever attention that's given to her feels… fake.

A presence appears beside her desk, their shadow shielding away the light from landing on the book she was reading. Letting out an internal grumble, she looks up at the person who dares interrupt her reading. Fleur meets the eyes of an 11th grader, holding a red box decorated with small white hearts and a golden ribbon on its lid in trembling hands. Taking a glance to the other two people beside this girl and egging her on to say something, Fleur can only assume that they are this girl's friends.

It's a feat for a lower level to visit their superiors, let alone enter the classroom.

Classmates that are in the room halted everything they were doing to watch this phenomena with intrigue. Some had their phones out and recording everything in a poor attempt to be discreet, or probably free blackmail.

"Yes?" Fleur inquires, raising a brow at the girl with the box. The girl simply flinches, cheeks flushing almost immediately.

A minute passes and Fleur is only met with silence. Sighing in mild irritation, she picks up her book again. "If it's nothing, then I suggest you go back to your classroom, lest I report you three to the Headmaster for—."

"This is for you!" The girl interrupts, words tumbling out in panic and fluster, as she offers the box to Fleur. "It's… um… I made it. I hope you like it…"

The book is lowered again, much to Fleur's chagrin as she takes the box from the 11th grader, careful not to make their hands brush. Raising a brow, Fleur opens the box and inside are macarons… covered in gold.

… Can someone atleast give her any decent looking things?

Fleur looks up at the 11th grader, then back at the macarons, then back at the 11th grader.

"You made this?" Fleur asks, tone flat, clearly unconvinced that this girl slapped how many sheets of gold leaves on four macarons in a spacious box and expect that to be accepted as a gift.

"I had some help…" The girl admits sheepishly, hands wringing nervously.

Fleur lets out a noncommital hum, and closing the box again. She might as well feed these to her brothers later.

"Is it alright if I ask you something before we, um, leave?" The girl asks, her voice going soft now, flush growing deeper.

Here we go again.

A sigh is held back from escaping, and Fleur gives a curt nod. "Alright."

"Will you be my girlfriend…?"

~•~•~

Fleur lets out a tired exhale as she sits in the back of the limo. One arm is loosely on her abdomen, other is raised and its hand is busy holding her lowered head as she leans back.

Gifts she's received throughout the day idly sit beside her, some tumbling down the pile and landing on the floor. She didn't bother picking them up.

Her brothers sit infront of her on two different seats across each other. They have their own pile of Amore day gifts, not as much as hers but still plentiful. Murphy's busy eating at one of the many sweets he received, while Ziyad reads through confession letters then throwing them into a pile once he's finished with a look of disinterest.

"I heard you made a girl cry today, Fleur." Murphy says through crumbs of cookies.

"I wouldn't be too concerned about that." Fleur flatly remarks. "An 11th grader wanted me to be her girlfriend."

"And did you say no?"

A scoff. "Of course I did. What did you expect from me?

"Not much." Murphy shrugs and takes a bite of a different cookie, only to cringe at the taste and put it back in its container then reach for a different box. "Though I'm glad you said no. Good riddance to that girl. I would've—"

"Threatened her to break up with me." Fleur rolls her eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "I can handle myself, for the love of the gods, Murphy. We've talked about this already. You don't have to hold my hand all the time."

Murphy is quick to frown. "Well, yeah, but I just don't want you getting hurt, that's all."

"I can handle myself. I don't need you to be there twenty-four, seven just to coddle me and spoonfeed me everything."

"But—"

"Enough."

The rest of the ride back home was silent, only broken by the occassional tear of and crumple of confession letters.

~•~•~

Home wasn't any better.

If school has given her too much attention, home is barren of it.

Her parents, strangers as they are to each other, are quick to swarm their adopted sons in the bright entrance hall, asking how was their day and teasing them about the amount of admirers they've gotten.

Fleur has already gone ahead, barely a glance towards her as she's off to the dimly lit staircase nearby.

"Fleur." She stops, recognizing the curt tone of the man who raised her. She turns from a few steps high up, looking down at the family butler, who stands by the landing below.

"Chiffon." She returns the same curt tone.

The butler remains unfazed. It's a song and dance he and Fleur goes day-to-day. "How have you been?"

A mild shrug. "Good, I suppose. I didn't have a coughing fit today, and you?"

An imitated shrug. "Same as you. Nothing eventful has occured today."

Silence for a bit, quickly broken by Chiffon clearing his throat.

"Right, well, I nearly forgot to inform you that you have a guest in your room. You better go and see him. He's been waiting for a few hours now."

Fleur already knew who Chiffon is referring to, and she gives a nod, turning to go up the stairs—

"Happy Birthday."

She stops. Her hand gripping the wooden railing tightly.

"Another year of you still being here, being alive and well, you. I'm… thankful that you're still here with us. With the people who still care for you, even if you think that there is no one else."

Stillness fills the air for a while, with neither person willing to move.

…

…

Fleur continues up the stairs, not daring to look back.

•••

The door to her room opens, a faint figure visibly sitting at the edge of her canopy bed in the dim darkness.

"You know you could have turned on the lights while you waited." Fleur frowns and flicks on the lights, aquamarine, black, and white immediately greeting her as she looks at the figure.

The figure merely smiles, flopping back and turning to lay on his stomach on the bed. "Well, I wanted to surprise you. Is that bad?"

Fleur faintly rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind her as she enters the room. "No, but you weren't really hiding to make it a surprise." Her bookbag lands on her desk with a small thud, and she takes off her blazer and hanging it on a hanger. "What brings you here today, Cooper? Evelyn pestering you again?"

Cooper pouts, his legs swinging up and down behind him. His cheek rests on his palm as he watches Fleur take off her shoes and put on some slippers from a nearby shoerack. "You ask me that as if I don't know it's your birthday today."

A dry chuckle escapes Fleur's lips as she places her school shoes in the shoerack. "Is that the only reason?"

That made Cooper grumble. "Well, yeah, obviously. It's your special day, so I just have to come see you."

At that Fleur sighs, as she hangs her ID on a wall hanger. "Cooper, you know I hate celebrating my birthday."

"I know, I know, but—" Cooper pushes himself up to his elbows. "—we don't have to celebrate it. We can just say that I came here because I have a gift for you, you know, like we always do."

A hum. "Alright." She turns to face him, a small smile on her lips. "What gift did you bring me then?"

Immediately, Cooper lights up, scrambling to stand up and rush over to the balcony, then come back inside a few minutes later with a small, velvety, black box in hand.

"I had Evelyn and Darius help me pick." Cooper says, gingerly handing over the box to Fleur with an excited smile. "I hope you like it."

Curiosity getting the better of her, Fleur is quick to open the box and inside is a simple teardrop pendant. It's colored a deep lapis blue, and held by a thin, gold chain.

There's nothing grand to it.

Her father would scoff at seeing such a thing.

It's simple.

And Fleur likes simple.

"It's beautiful." The words come out immediately in a breathy manner of awe as she examines it in her hand.

"Oh thank gods." Cooper sighs in relief, shoulders slumping. "I was worried that you didn't like the color, because we couldn't find a black gemstone, and, you know, you're all about dark colors and—oomf!"

Arms are wrapped around Cooper as Fleur hugs him tight. "Thank you." Were the words muffled by his chest. He knows his friend was never one for words, so receiving that is…

Cooper smiles as he looks down at his best friend, bending down to engulf her in his love and hug.

"Happy Birthday, Fleur. Thank you for being in my life."

[maffickingcowplants]

TOP SECRET

RESPONDING AGENT: APEX

TO: AGENT SILHOUETTE

RESPONSE TO REPORT NUMBER: SV-011

Your report, SV-011, has been reviewed with keen interest and appreciation for the significant strides made in combating the extraterrestrial flora threat in StrangerVille. The development and successful deployment of the vaccine, spearheaded by Agent Catalyst, marks a pivotal victory in our ongoing efforts to safeguard national security and public well-being.

The decision to disclose the existence of Acumen Consulting's headquarters and a summary of our agency's mission to Sergeant Alijah Crain, Corporal Jess Sigworth, and Rebekah MacDonald, while unconventional, appears to have been judiciously made under the circumstances. Your confidence in their commitment to discretion is noted and shared.

However, it is imperative to underscore the paramount importance of operational security and personal safety. The unique nature of this threat and the unprecedented measures undertaken to counter it have undoubtedly placed you in situations of considerable risk. While the exigencies of our mission often demand such risks, it is crucial to approach each phase of this operation with an unwavering commitment to caution and strategic foresight.

As you prepare for the impending confrontation with the Mother Plant, I urge you to prioritize your safety and the safety of your team above all. Our efforts, no matter how noble or necessary, cannot afford the cost of irreplaceable lives. Exercise meticulous planning, ensure all contingencies are accounted for, and do not hesitate to withdraw should the risk escalate beyond manageable parameters.

Your courage and dedication to the mission are commendable, but they must not lead to unnecessary peril. Remember, the strength of our agency lies not only in our operational capabilities but in the collective well-being and resilience of our agents.

Regarding your suggestion about Sergeant Alijah Crain, Corporal Jess Sigworth, and Rebekah MacDonald, I concur with your assessment. Their firsthand experience with the phenomena, combined with their demonstrated commitment to resolving the crisis, makes them valuable potential assets to our organization. I recommend initiating a discreet evaluation process to assess their suitability for acquisition into the agency. Their insights and skills could prove invaluable in our ongoing and future operations.

I wish you and your team the best of luck in the coming confrontation. May your efforts bring about the swift and safe neutralization of the threat, safeguarding StrangerVille and its inhabitants from further harm.

In Darkness, We Prevail.

END OF RESPONSE

Posts about Bella: « PREVIOUS / BEGINNING / NEXT »

Posts about Operation Mother's Influence: « PREVIOUS / BEGINNING / NEXT »

[astrologyspiritualenlightenment]

Exploring the Mystical World of Psychics in Dallas, TX: A Journey into the Unknown

psychic dallas tx

Dallas, TX, a bustling metropolis known for its rich history, vibrant culture, and thriving economy, also harbors a deep and mysterious connection to the world of psychics. For many, the allure of understanding the unknown and seeking guidance beyond the physical realm leads them to explore the services of psychics. This article delves into the fascinating world of psychics in Dallas, TX, exploring their practices, the history of psychic phenomena in the city, and the unique experiences of those who seek their insights.

The History of Psychics in Dallas

The presence of psychics in Dallas can be traced back to the early 20th century when spiritualism and the occult gained popularity across America. During this time, Dallas saw a rise in the number of individuals claiming to have psychic abilities, offering services such as tarot readings, palmistry, and mediumship. These practices often took place in discreet parlors and private homes, catering to a clientele eager to connect with the spiritual realm.

Over the decades, the perception of psychics has evolved. While once considered fringe or taboo, today, psychics are more mainstream, with many people openly seeking their guidance for various aspects of life, including love, career, and personal growth. Dallas, with its diverse and open-minded population, has become a hub for psychic practitioners who offer a wide range of services.

Types of Psychic Practices

Psychics in Dallas employ various methods to connect with the spiritual world and provide insights to their clients. Some of the most common practices include:

Tarot Readings: Tarot cards are one of the most popular tools used by psychics. Each card holds a specific meaning, and psychics interpret these cards to provide guidance on different aspects of life. In Dallas, many psychics specialize in tarot readings, offering sessions both in-person and online.

Palmistry: Also known as chiromancy, palmistry involves reading the lines and shapes of a person’s hands to gain insights into their character and future. This ancient practice is still prevalent in Dallas, with experienced palmists offering detailed analyses.

Mediumship: Mediums claim to communicate with spirits of the deceased, providing messages and closure to those seeking to connect with lost loved ones. Dallas has a number of reputable mediums who conduct séances and private readings.

Astrology: Astrologers analyze the positions of celestial bodies to offer predictions and guidance based on an individual’s birth chart. This practice is popular in Dallas, with several well-known astrologers providing consultations.

Aura Readings: Aura readers claim to see the energy fields surrounding individuals and interpret their colors and patterns to provide insights into their emotional and physical states. This practice is gaining popularity in Dallas, particularly among those interested in holistic and alternative healing.

Psychometry: Psychics who practice psychometry claim to obtain information about a person or object through physical touch. This technique is often used to uncover past events or locate lost items.

Notable Psychics in Dallas

Dallas is home to many talented and reputable psychics who have built strong reputations for their abilities. Some of the most notable psychics in the city include:

Michelle Welch: A renowned psychic medium and author, Michelle Welch is known for her accurate readings and compassionate approach. She owns SoulTopia, a metaphysical shop in Dallas, where she offers readings and workshops.

Lizzy B Love: Specializing in tarot and intuitive readings, Lizzy B Love has garnered a loyal following in Dallas. Her down-to-earth style and deep insights make her a popular choice for those seeking guidance.

Cynthia Killen: A well-respected astrologer, Cynthia Killen provides detailed birth chart analyses and astrological consultations. Her expertise in astrology has made her a go-to source for many in Dallas.

Dr. Christina H. Blum: Known for her mediumship and psychic abilities, Dr. Christina H. Blum offers readings that connect clients with their loved ones in the spirit world. Her compassionate and healing approach has touched the lives of many in Dallas.

The Client Experience

The experience of visiting a psychic in Dallas can vary widely depending on the practitioner and the type of reading sought. However, many clients report similar feelings of clarity, reassurance, and emotional healing after their sessions. Here are a few personal stories from individuals who have sought psychic guidance in Dallas:

Emily's Story: "I was going through a difficult time in my life and felt lost and unsure about my future. A friend recommended I visit Michelle Welch at SoulTopia. During my tarot reading, Michelle provided insights that resonated deeply with me and gave me a sense of direction. Her compassion and understanding made a huge difference in my life, and I left the session feeling hopeful and empowered."

James's Story: "After losing my father, I struggled with grief and unanswered questions. I decided to see Dr. Christina H. Blum for a mediumship session. Christina connected with my father's spirit and conveyed messages that only he could have known. It brought me immense comfort and helped me find closure. I am incredibly grateful for her gift."

Sarah's Story: "I’ve always been curious about astrology, so I booked a consultation with Cynthia Killen. Her analysis of my birth chart was incredibly detailed and accurate. She provided insights into my personality, strengths, and challenges that were spot-on. It gave me a new perspective on my life and helped me make important decisions with confidence."

Skepticism and Ethical Considerations

Despite the popularity of psychics in Dallas, there remains a level of skepticism and controversy surrounding the practice. Critics argue that psychic abilities lack scientific evidence and that some practitioners may exploit vulnerable individuals. It is important for clients to approach psychic services with an open mind but also with caution.

To ensure a positive experience, it is advisable to:

Research the Psychic: Look for reviews and testimonials from previous clients. Reputable psychics often have a strong online presence and positive feedback.

Ask for Recommendations: Personal referrals from friends or family can help identify trustworthy psychics.

Trust Your Instincts: If something feels off or uncomfortable during a reading, it is okay to end the session.

Understand the Limitations: Psychics provide guidance and insights, but they are not a substitute for professional medical, legal, or financial advice.

The Future of Psychic Practices in Dallas

As interest in spiritual and alternative practices continues to grow, the future of psychics in Dallas looks promising. The city’s diverse and open-minded community provides a fertile ground for psychics to thrive and expand their services. Additionally, the rise of online platforms and virtual readings has made psychic services more accessible to a broader audience.

Psychics in Dallas are also increasingly collaborating with holistic and wellness practitioners, offering integrated services that address the mind, body, and spirit. This trend reflects a growing recognition of the interconnectedness of different aspects of well-being.

Conclusion

The world of psychics in Dallas, TX, is a rich tapestry of ancient practices, modern interpretations, and deeply personal experiences. Whether seeking guidance, closure, or simply curious about the unknown, many individuals find solace and insight in the services provided by psychics. As the practice continues to evolve and adapt to changing societal attitudes, psychics in Dallas will undoubtedly remain a fascinating and integral part of the city’s cultural landscape

[whitepolaris]

Hungry Ghosts of Starvation Heights

The community of Olalla is just across the Puget Sound from Seattle. Olalla means "berry" in the local tribal language, and the area is well known for its strawberries, which are celebrated in festivals during which people overindulge in berry-laden cuisine. Strangely, this same community was also once the place where people came to starve their way to health-and sometimes to death. All with the help of a self-proclaimed doctor named Linda Burfield Hazzard, whose starvation cure may have been most effective in producing a ghost or two.

Hazzard turned her Olalla cottage into the Wilderness Heights Sanitarium, and from the 1890s until 1912 she rented the attic to patients who had come to experience her cure. She was not a medical doctor, but practiced a form of homeopathy. She wrote a book, titled Fasting for The Cure of Disease, in which she declared that her treatment could cure everything from cancer to constipation. The treatment? Patients ate one small bowl of tomato or asparagus soup daily, for over forty days. Long walks, enemas, and vigorous message were also required one or more times a day.

Following this regimen, patients inevitably grew thinner and weaker. They were free to leave Wilderness Heights if they wanted to, but Hazzard and her fasting cure exerted a strange power over them. Local farmers watched the patients took daily from the cottage to the store and back. These walks soon became daily "crawls" as the patients' energy dissipated and they slowly faded away.

There were patients who survived and left Olalla, but many died. How many is not known: Estimates range from two dozen to over forty, possibly higher. Hazzard seldom filed death certificates with authorities, and had a special arrangement with a discreet funeral home in Seattle for burials. Conveniently for Hazzard, most of the patients who died left all their property to her. Few knew that her husband Sam had been kicked out of the U.S. Army for forgery and embezzlement.

In 1911, British heiress Claire and Dora Williamson came to Wilderness Heights to take the cure. Both lost more than fifty percent of their body weight and while Dora survived, just barely, Claire died. Someone had also embezzled money from the sisters' bank accounts. The British Consulate went after Hazzard, filing criminal charges against her, and she was found guilty of manslaughter. She spent less than two years in prison, lived briefly in New Zealand, then returned to Olalla in 1920, where she built a larger sanitarium and nursing home. This time, however, local authorities made sure that none of her patients experienced the same fate as the Williamsons.

It's hard to tell whether Linda Hazzard set out to murder her patients. When rich people (with no relatives) began to sicken from the treatment, Sam and Linda may have decided it was best for business to take over their dying patients' estates. She may not have understood the consequences of her actions. She firmly believed in her fasting cure, and that people died only because they were only beyond help. The proof? Hazzard became ill in the 1940s and died while taking her own "cure."

The cottage, also known as "Starvation Heights," where Hazzard established her sanitarium changed very little over the years, and the family living there before it was torn down experienced some ghostly phenomena. On one occasion, the woman of the house was in the kitchen cooking dinner. She was facing the stove, which was against one wall, and the bathroom door was behind her. She moved back and forth between a counter on her left and the stove for several minutes. When she turned around, she saw that every chair in the kitchen, and a few from the room next door, had been piled up against the bathroom door.

The woman had been alone in the house at the time, and it's doubtful that someone else would have taken the time to sneak in and silently pile all the chairs up against the door while she was making dinner.

In the attic of the cottage, where most of her patients were treated, were several low "ledges" where the family stored small items. A psychic once said that she saw the spirits of many of Hazzard's victims sitting on the ledges, too afraid to move, even in death. The psychic burst into tears several times over the anguish she felt saturating the walls of the little house.

Three times during 2005-2006, Washington State Paranormal Investigations and Research (WSPIR) visited Starvation Heights and Weird Washington spoke to its president, Darren Thompson, about some of the group's experiences there.

The first time they broke into three teams, each of which included a psychic. To keep the destination a secret, they blindfolded the psychics and put them into separate cars. During the drive, technicians sat next to the psychics and recorded with a video camera every action and statement made along the way. En route, two psychics felt as if they would be going to a large institution having something to do with medicine. When they arrived at the cottage, the teams removed the blindfolds from the psychics and kept them from communicating with each other. Each psychic was to go through the house alone.

One team recorded a video that starts inside their car, then pans outside, where the microphone recorded a muffled statement made by a team member. The video then pans back inside the car, where the microphone picked up a strange, breathy voice, saying, "Help me!" The voice could only have come from inside the car and was not made by team members either inside or outside the car.

Another WSPIR team recorded pictures an audio outside the house while walking toward a ravine where Hazzard may have hidden the victims' bodies. Their audio recorder picked up a voice that said, "Are you talking about me now?" The team members did not hear the voice at the time and continued their conversation. Another voice seemed to be saying, "Take us up" or "Dig us up."

During the second investigation, WSPIR learned that the cottage would be torn down once the owners put a new house up on a different part of the property. They quickly organized a third investigation, during which several members spent the night there.

One man tried relaxing in Hazzards' former bedroom the room in which Linda had died. The man never had any psychic experiences before, but he felt as if something spiritual were in touch with him. He went into a trance and answered simple questions with rambles of "yes" or "no" from deep within his chest. It seemed as if he were communicating with Linda Hazzard, who was still in the house. She refused to leave and was refusing to let anyone demolish the dwelling. Her spirit was wrong, however. The family living in the cottage did indeed move, and the cottage was leveled. Was this last communication the result of investigators' prodigious imaginations or a final attempt by the former owner to interact with the world of the living?

The cottage that was once Starvation Heights is now gone, but it isn't known if the spirits detected there-whether they were those Hazzard or her unlucky patients-left with its demolition. It seems that we'll just have to remain hungry for an answer.

[jordaneprestrot]

Jordane Prestrot

Website . Instagram . Flickr

[simonh]

_K014490 by Jordane Prestrot Via Flickr: ♓︎ 2017 / Málaga, Espagne ______________ www.prestrot.com Musique : Spotify . Deezer . Bandcamp Littérature : Livres Vidéos : YouTube . Vimeo Réseaux sociaux : Instagram . Facebook . Tumblr

[thecicadasong]

*krei-

Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to sieve," thus "discriminate, distinguish."

It forms all or part of: ascertain; certain; concern; concert; crime; criminal; crisis; critic; criterion; decree; diacritic; discern; disconcert; discreet; discriminate; endocrine; excrement; excrete; garble; hypocrisy; incertitude; recrement; recriminate; riddle (n.2) "coarse sieve;" secret; secretary.

It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Greek krinein "to separate, decide, judge," krinesthai "to explain;" Latin cribrum "sieve," crimen "judgment, crime," cernere "to sift, distinguish, separate;" Old Irish criathar, Old Welsh cruitr "sieve;" Middle Irish crich "border, boundary;" Old English hriddel "sieve."

*magh-

Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to be able, have power." It forms all or part of: dismay; deus ex machina; may (v.1) "am able;" might (n.) "bodily strength, power;" main; machine; mechanic; mechanism; mechano-; mage; magi; magic.

It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit mahan "great;" Greek mēkhanē "device, means," mekhos, makhos "means, instrument;" Old Church Slavonic mošti, Russian moč' "can, be able;" Old English mæg "I can," Gothic mag "can, is able," Old High German magan, Old Norse magn "power, might."

If we take these two words together then; we can see that there is a choice as to separate or keep whole that which is, can, and is able.

Separation, suffering, and tyranny are the division of the I am, I can, and I am able into portions of elite and non-elite who enslave and are enslaved in the process.

In our mind we suffer when there is a divide between the I am, I can, and or I am able.

The mental act of suffering is the seeing of separation in power or identity in any way.

This is thought. The lack of such distinction is the state of thoughtlessness. Thought itself is judgement. Judgement is separation in that which is, which can, or which is able.

Judgement and separation lead to the death of all of us eventually, whether we are merely complacent or actively taking part in the systems of tyranny and separation that exist as to exploit others as if they are not self.

In the dharmadharmatavibhaga it is said phenomena is that which makes distinctions and appears as duality, but the nature of phenomena is beyond distinction and duality and is indeed the essence of all that would appear dual or make distinctions. This distinction is the act of freewill in our minds; it’s the choice as to suffer or not suffer; to know of wholeness or of suffering. It is the choice to identity either with the nonconceptual mind or as pain itself, which is the conceptual mind which makes distinctions.

[almanci]

footnote from Die Homosexualität des Mannes und des Weibes by Magnus Hirschfeld (1914), concerning asexuality (translation under the cut)

Next to these three [categories of heterosexuals, homosexuals and bisexuals] two other groups could be considered, which are occasionally mentioned in the literature: the asexuals and the monosexuals. The asexuals, of which in my assessment it has not yet been determined whether they indeed exist outside of deep-seated mental disorders, are said to exist in a state of complete sexual indifference towards any sexual imagination and be free of temptation for their whole life. This specialist experience shows that often persons which competently manage to be discreet about the deviation of their sexual orientation, and these exist in big numbers, are often assumed by their environment, including doctors, to be asexual. Namely, on the occasion of judicial assessments I heard, in consultation with close acquaintances of the accused again and again: "we thought until now, he was unpredisposed towards sensuality; we assumed he was frigid, asexual." Certainly, among these supposed asexuals there may as well be those belonging to the mentioned group of monosexuals. In this group, whose numbers and kind have also not been fully cleared-up as a category of the sexually abnormal, one's own person is not only their own object os sexual activity but the content of the sexual imagination. Kertbeny, who first used the word "monosexual" in 1869 in contrast to the term "homosexual" which he coined, in passing mentions that these are people "whose self-pollution became a chronic desire." Gustav Jaeger in his 1878 "Discovery of the Soul" speaks similarly of "monosexual idiosyncrasy" as a state in which masturbation needs no imagination of another individual. Later in 1900, in the 2nd Yearbook for Intermediate Sexual Types Prof. Jaeger published a previously unprinted chapter on homosexuality from "Discovery of the Soul," in which the anonymous informant Dr. M. describes monosexuals as "those that make do with themselves" and gives the example of "the unfortunately genius Lenau, this born onanist." I myself wrote in 1903 for the 5th Yearbook under the title "Causes and Being of Uranism" the following:

"The origins of language is often preserved through obscure terms. The word Sexus - "sex" comes from sequi - "to follow," the sexual drive originally is merely the drive to follow, to join others and therefore has an admittedly only quietly transparent psychological background of social stirring. The monosexual only follows himself; the few monosexuals I personally saw were three lonesome, self-absorbed onanists with a distinct antipathy towards both sexes, and distinguished themselves by an immense indifference not only towards all humans, but all things as well."

Rohleder cites this passage, remarking that it tracks with what he describes as multiple cases of automonosexualism, also called sexual egoism, as "a form of sex life, in which the individual alone is his start and endpoint of the sexual drive." Of other authors dealing with similar phenomena, we will briefly mention two: Havelock Ellis, who defined spontaneous sexual stirrings without (in-)direct cause by another person as auto-erotism, and Näcke, who describes examples of being in love with oneself as narcissism. Being in love with oneself can also be coloured as homo- or heterosexual; homosexual if the concerned men and women consider themselves as such; heterosexual if they are transvestites. Nonetheless, we have to admit Rohleder is correct that the reflection of the sexual drive on itself can be ascribed to neither homo- or heterosexualism, but that monosexualism is its own discrete group. In one case which I recently had the opportunity to observe, the fantasies concerned the own mirror image as incubus, wich the patient as succubus masturbated to ad ejaculationem. It is quite astonishing, how the incidental view of ones nude body during medical consultation could arouse such high sexual ecstasy.

[elisaenglish]

The Rigour of Angels: Human Nature and the Nature of Reality

“This is a participatory universe… Observer-participancy gives rise to information,” the visionary physicist John Archibald Wheeler wrote a generation before philosopher Iain McGilchrist asserted that the way we pay attention—the supreme participancy of consciousness in the universe—“renders the world what it is.”

It may be that consciousness evolved not so much to let the universe comprehend itself, as poetically inclined astrophysicists are fond of saying, but to keep us from being overwhelmed by the totality of a universe which we, as living functions of it, can never fully comprehend; to keep us from being crushed by the weight of a reality as vast as space and as deep as time, a whole so absolute and simultaneous that a mind can only hold it in disjointed parts across discreet moments. 

These are the immense and intimate questions William Egginton takes up in The Rigour of Angels: Borges, Heisenberg, Kant, and the Ultimate Nature of Reality (public library)—an ambitious effort to trace “the capillaries of coherence flowing from the particular to the universal,” part ode to those who have caught glimpses of that elemental coherence we call truth and part elegy for our destiny as creatures doomed to glimpses only, for we are particles of the totality we yearn to see whole as we go on seeing through our instruments and our theories not the universe but ourselves.

Egginton traces the invisible threads of revelation between Zeno’s thought experiments and Kant’s cathedrals of logic, between Dante’s cosmogony and the discovery of cosmic microwave background radiation, between Plotinus and Heisenberg, in order to illuminate and celebrate how that collaborative tapestry of thought has shaped “our conceptions of beauty, science, and what we owe to each other in the brief time given to us in this universe.” At the centre of the book is the recognition that what we know about how the universe works is not a reflection of absolute truth but of our sensemaking—something William Blake intimated in his koan of a lyric that “the Eye altering alters all.” Egginton pulls back the curtain of perception:

“Is the saturated red of a Vermeer part of that ultimate reality? The soft fuzz of a peach’s skin? The exalted crescendo of a Beethoven symphony? If we can grasp that such powerful experiences require the active engagement of observers and listeners, is it not possible, likely even, that the other phenomena we encounter have a similar origin? When we do the opposite, we forget the role we have in creating our own reality.”

With an eye to Borges—a guiding spirit of the book, who understood that time is the substance we are made of, understood that we have dreamt up the world with our cult of reason but must live in it with the “tenuous and eternal crevices of unreason which tell us it is false”—Egginton considers the limits of observation, our sole lens on reality:

“A being who was truly, exclusively saturated in a present moment wouldn’t be able to observe anything at all. Observation, any observation, installs a minimal distance from what it observes, for the simple reason that for any observation to take place, one here and now must be related to another here and now, and that relation needs to be registered by some trace or connector between the two.”

Two centuries after Kierkegaard asserted that “the moment is not properly an atom of time but an atom of eternity,” he adds:

“The blur of the instant of change that is a logical prerequisite for stitching together any two moments in space-time inextricably inheres in the very reality being observed. […] In a deep sense, then, the laws of physics, the laws that describe how things behave, are really the laws of our observations of how things behave.”

Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle—that pillar of quantum physics, which holds that you can know a particle’s position or its momentum, but never both at the same time—cast the challenge of coherence in spacetime into sharp relief, but it was the Platonic philosopher Plotinus who first took the paradox of simultaneity and made of it a model of eternity. Egginton writes:

“Plotinus didn’t conceive of eternity as an endless, boring extension of the present. Instead, he imagined eternity as everything, all existence, all space, and all time, captured at once, in the blink of an eye. Eternity wasn’t the endless expansion of time; it was the absolute negation of time. We humans experience things in time because we are limited and cannot fully grasp the absolute unity of all things. The time we inhabit, he taught, is nothing but the moving image of eternity, an insignificant second hand sweeping over the face of a vast, immobile clock, never grasping more than a fraction of its surface. However, we could be certain that this eternity existed. For, as Kant would also see a millennium and a half later, our very ability to experience any given moment in time logically necessitates the existence of a reality that transcends those moments, a greater unity that “upholds things, that they not fall asunder.”

Plotinus went on to inspire Saint Augustine’s “vision that would unite physics and ethics in a strange, new architecture of the cosmos and an ultimate vindication of human freedom.” Naturally, inevitably, the paradox of free will pulsates beneath Egginton’s inquiry—for, if Octavio Paz was right that “without freedom, what we call a person does not exist,” then without freedom there can also be no observer and without an observer there is no world to render real. A generation after Simone de Beauvoir examined how chance and choice converge to make us who we are, Egginton reflects:

“It is because I cannot take both roads and still be the same traveller that I imagine them and, in imagining them, and in choosing, am condemned to that very freedom that the godlike knowledge of a mechanistic universe seeks to absolve me of. We seek to render that godlike knowledge real; we contort our imagination and make myths out of math; we brew bubbling Kandinsky multiverses and grow gardens of infinitely forking paths. But the intimate rifts, the interstices of unreason that those models seek to obliterate, are indelible. They inhabit us. They make us what we are.”

Echoing Lewis Thomas’s lovely insistence that “we need a better word than chance” to account for how we went “all the way from a clone of archaebacteria, in just 3.7 billion years, to the B-Minor Mass and the Late Quartets,” he adds:

“As we steer a course through the river of our lives, we are affected by innumerable forces, the vast majority unknown to us. By some accounts this makes of our freedom an illusion, for how can we purport to freely choose when we can’t even see a fraction of the legion of influences acting on us, limiting our movements, sparking our appetites? The threat this picture poses to traditional notions of agency suggests a counternarrative. There must be some part of us that floats above the river, untouched by its waters and therefore utterly free and totally responsible for our every turn. But both these pictures are misleading, and for the same reason. Our freedom, and hence our responsibility for the choices we make, is neither a thing to look for in our material existence nor some ghostlike essence unmoored from that existence. Rather, it is a necessary postulate for a being who can imagine having chosen differently, the condition of the possibility of conceiving of that life as one possible path among many.”

Inseparable from the question of freedom is the nature of the imagination—that ultimate frontier of our freedom of thought. In a passage evocative of the poetic physicist Alan Lightman’s insight into the shared psychology of creativity in science and art, Egginton considers the fruits of that freedom:

“In a satisfying work of art, the ensemble of its elements conforms to its internal principle, the idea that guides it. Thus, when we come to the end of a mystery novel, the solution appears inevitable, although we couldn’t see it coming. Likewise, when we find a theoretical explanation for the seemingly random events of the natural world, we feel the same aesthetic satisfaction as with a well-wrought plot or a masterfully composed symphony: we thrill to the diversity of nature expressing the idea of its order, its inherent rigour. That guiding principle that we read in nature or in art appears to us its purpose. But just as the work of art ignites our aesthetic judgement only when its creator has erased the signs of artifice, so our understanding of the natural world is led by a silent conviction that the universe that unveils itself before our eyes works toward an end and purpose, one it expresses from the greatest cataclysms of galaxies down to the most intimate crevices of possible perception, and yet one that was never meant, never intended, never planned by angel, god, or human mind, other than our own.”

That purpose and meaning are not inherent to the universe but our own creation, that all of our reckonings with the nature of reality are a mirror we hold up to ourselves, is at the heart of The Rigour of Angels. Egginton reflects:

“No matter where we train our gaze on the starry skies above, we look inward toward the very origin of space and time. Thus freeing our minds from our senses, we find that the universe is, indeed, turned inside out. […] We ultimately realise what we are striving for lies inside us; we find ourselves in the world and the world in ourselves.”

Complement with quantum pioneer Erwin Schrödinger, writing nearly a century ago, on the universe and the mystery of what we are and physicist Brian Greene on our cosmic search for meaning, then revisit Marie How’s poem ��Singularity”—that magnificent quickening of thought and feeling, giving shape to the deepest human yearnings in a cosmos indifferent to our fate, insentient to our freedom.

Source: Maria Popova, themarginalian.org (15th October 2023)