#formes du relief

[aigle-suisse]

ISGM 09/2011 Symposium BAUGES - Les Tours St-Jacques, Allèves, Savoie par Christian Giusti Via Flickr : Sur la géologie de la cluse du Chéran entre la Montagne de Bande au sud et la Montagne du Semnoz au nord, voir : www.geol-alp.com/bauges/_lieux/bange_cluse.html

[nina-ya]

Sweet Like Honey

A/N: Hi!! Two sanji posts in a row?? Im just a fake Law lover someone needs to revoke my card Pairing: Sanji x reader CW: Oral sex (reader receiving), AFAB reader, vaginal fingering, noseblood mention poorly translated french WC: 1.2k • masterlist • ko-fi •discord server •

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sanji’s devotion to you was evident in every languid motion as he was nestled between your thighs, his newest happy place. His lips, the ones that usually curled into charming smiles or crafted complements to throw your way, were now occupied with giving you unrelenting pleasure. His tongue caressed and danced over your folds with a desperate urgency, determined to show you just how much he loves you.

His eyes were half-lidded, the cerulean orbs glazed over with a hunger and desire that made him nearly unrecognizable. Soft, needy noises escaped his throat alongside gentle slurps, breathless sighs, and the occasional groan. He was fully consumed by the task before him, finding complete pleasure in giving you yours.

The mess he was making didn’t phase him. If anything, the whole ordeal just spurred him on. Your own essence, mixed with the maroon of his nosebleed, painted his face and dripped onto the surface below you, but he seemed unaware of the world beyond the taste of you, not that either of you minded. 

"Mon trésor," Sanji murmured between breaths, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive spots. "Tu as le goût du paradis." you taste like heaven.

His hands moved to adjust your position as he draped your legs over his shoulders and pulled you flush against his face, the new angle allowing him to delve deeper into you. Each flick of his tongue was a masterstroke, each and every cell in your body alight with euphoria. He sucked on your clit gently, each pass over the sensitive bundle of nerves drawing choked gasps and mewls of pleasure from your lips. 

Sanji’s mouth worked tirelessly to draw out moans, sighs, shaky breaths, and twitches from you. Each beautiful sound that spilled from your lips filled the air, mixing with his own hums and groans of satisfaction Every drop of your essence was like liquid gold, thick and sweet like honey, driving him mad. 

His hips moved with an almost animalistic rhythm as he rutted into the mattress beneath you. His neediness was palpable, his body aching for any kind of friction, any form of relief from the intense tightness building in his pants. Each thrust against the fabric felt like he was pleading in any way to get some sort of reprieve. His cock straining painfully against the confines, the precum that seeped through the fabric of his pants only adding to the mounting frustration. 

Sanji’s devotion wasn’t just in his touch– it was in the reverence with which he worshipped every part of you. His movements were purposeful and unhurried, he was savoring his perfect dish and indulging in every taste of you. His tongue was a brush that painted you in sensations that were far too profound to name, his lips being the softest silk as they molded to the curves of your body. 

Your legs trembled where they rested on his shoulders, his grip on your thighs tightening as if he feared you may slip away. He buried his face deeper into you and with each slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, your body arched instinctively toward him, desperate for more.

“Mon amour,” he murmured against you. “Je ne pourrais jamais en avoir assez de ton miel.” I could never get enough of your honey.

The words dripped with a longing, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating through you like a current. His hands slid up your waist, warm and firm, before one crept higher, cupping your breast as his thumb circled your hardened nipple. He couldn’t get enough of you. He couldn’t stop at just tasting you, he needed to feel you– needed to feel you come udone under his touch. 

“S’il te plaît… i want to hear you,” he groaned against you, almost pleading. 

The plea sent a crackle of electricity down your spine at his plea, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to hold on and steady yourself against the sensations that had your mind whipped into a frenzy. His lips latched onto your clit once more, sucking gently before his tongue lashed against it, every suck and flick driving you mad until you were teetering, breathless, at the point of no return.

Sanji’s gaze was molten, his lust-darkened eyes glued to the sight of you unraveling beneath him. Each movement you made was committed to memory– the arch of your back, the trembling rise of your chest, the way your lips parted with each desperate gasp. His hands, warm and steady, slid down your stomach before joining the slick mess between your thighs. 

The first touch of his fingers were teasing, as if testing the waters. The wetness that greeted him made his cock twitch in his pants as he spread your slick across his fingertips. The scent of you was intoxicating. Earthy, sweet, and unmistakably you. It filled his senses and made him dizzy with need. 

When he finally slid a finger inside, the warmth of you wrapped around him, tight and inviting, and he couldn’t stop the groan that slipped past his lips. He slowly pumped his finger, letting you adjust to the sensation, and then he added another. His fingers curled just so, pressing into that spot that had you seeing stars. The thrust of his fingers soon quickened, matching the movements of his tongue and soon the obscene sound of his fingers plunging into you filled the air, mixing with the desperate moans spilling from your lips. 

That unbearable tightness coiled in your lower belly, like a spring ready to snap. Your breath hitched in sharp shallow gasps and your legs trembled against him, toes curling as the tension in your core grew tighter, tighter still, until you thought you might break from it. 

Then, the first tremor hit, and it was like you were struck by lightning, a shock violently sending a jolt down your body that made your entire body arch off the bed. Your eyes clamped shut, brows furrowing as your mouth fell open in a silent scream, the intensity of it all stealing your breath. Every muscle in your body was taut, straining with the force of your orgasm as it tore through you wave after wave. 

Sanji groaned against your clit, feeling you clench around his fingers and he couldn’t help but continue his pace, coaxing every last shudder, every spasm of pleasure from your trembling form. The muscles in your thighs quivered uncontrollably as your body surrendered to the overwhelming sensation, your chest heaving as you gasped for air and your heart thumped against your ribcage.

Your hands grasped helplessly at the sheets, knuckles turning white as you rode out the aftershocks. You could feel every throb, every pulse in your core as you tensed up again and again, pulling in Sanji’s fingers with each contraction. 

Your legs, once tense, began to fall limp, muscles weak and trembling from the exertion. That furrow in your brow softened, and your lips formed a soft, contented smile. 

Sanji’s fingers withdrew gently, his lips placing soft kisses on your skin, murmuring sweet praises that you barely heard through the fog of your pleasure still clouding your mind. He savored the taste of your honey, pulling back just enough to watch the effects of his efforts. If you weren’t in such a daze, you would have noticed that look in his eyes telling you that he is far from done.

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius x fem!reader

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (see full series list here)

1995

The house is all commotion the next day. Most of the kids wake up late and this sends Mrs Weasley into a tizzy as she hurries from place to place gathering trunks and belongings and throwing them downstairs in front of the door. You place your own trunk in front of the door, scratching Dubh’s ears as she leaps into your arms and digs her claws into your jumper to hold herself against your chest.

Moody stands at the doorway, both hands on his staff as his magical eye swivels from room to room upstairs. He glances at his watch. “Where is Podmore? We can't leave without him, we’ll be one short.” He taps his foot impatiently.

Mrs Weasley looks up the stairway and clears her throat before bellowing, “WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!”

At once, Walburga Black’s portrait starts screaming and shouting, but no one bothers to close the curtains on her. The noise in the hall will only continue to wake her.

Sirius appears beside you and slips his hand into the back pocket of your jeans, kissing your cheek. “All set?”

You hum, turning to face him. “Hope so. I’m going to miss you so much, you know that?”

He smiles lovingly at you. “I’ll miss you too — I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Talk to Kreacher a lot more, I guess?” You smile cheekily at him.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t even joke about that, it would be hell.”

Ron, Harry, and Hermione come hurrying down the stairs, their footsteps drowned out by Walburga Black’s screeches.

“Harry, you're to come with me and Molly,” you yell at Harry over your mother-in-law's portrait.

“Leave your trunk and your owl, Alastor’s going to deal with the luggage,” Mrs Weasley explains. “...Oh, for heaven's sake, Sirius, Dumbledore said no!”

Sirius’ hand leaves your pocket and he turns into his dog form, following you as you clamber over the trunks.

“Oh, honestly…” Mrs Weasley says despairingly, “well, on your own head be it!”

She wrenches open the front door and you step out into the morning sunlight, followed by Harry and Sirius. You descend the front steps of number 12 and they vanish the moment you reach the pavement.

You glance at your watch. “We’d better hurry up, Molly.”

“I know, I know,” she groans, lengthening her stride, “but Mad-Eye wanted us to wait for Sturgis…if only Arthur could have got us cars from the Ministry again…but Fudge wouldn’t let him borrow so much as an empty ink bottle these days…How Muggles can stand travelling without magic…”

Sirius, on the other hand, seems delighted. He gives a joyful bark and runs around you, snapping at pigeons and chasing his own tail. Harry laughs and you can’t help but smile. He’s been trapped inside for far too long.

Mrs Weasley purses her lips disapprovingly.

Dubh keeps her gaze laser-focused on the dog, watching him closely and swishing her tail agitatedly when he comes too close, digging her claws tighter into the fabric of your jumper.

On platform nine and three quarters, students and families bustle from place to place carrying their heavy trunks, owls hooting from their cages.

“I hope the others make it in time,” Mrs Weasley says anxiously, staring behind her at the arch through which new arrivals come.

“Nice dog, Harry!” calls Lee Jordan, waving at Harry.

“Thanks, Lee,” says Harry, grinning, as Sirius wags his tail frantically.

“Oh, good,” Mrs Weasley says with a sigh of relief, “here’s Alastor with the luggage, look…”

With a cap pulled low over his eyes, Moody limps through the archway pushing a cart full of trunks.

“All okay,” he mutters to you. “Don’t think we were followed…”

Seconds later, Mr Weasley emerges onto the platform with Ron and Hermione. You start to help unloading the trunks from the cart and nearly have them all off when Remus turns up with Ginny and the twins.

“No trouble?” growls Moody.

“Nothing,” Remus replies, dusting off the front of his jacket.

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” Moody says lowly. “That’s the second time he’s not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.”

“Well, look after yourselves,” Remus says, shaking hands all round.

You beam at him when he reaches you and pull him in for a tight hug, laughing. “See ya, Moony.”

“Keep your head down and your eyes peeled,” Moody says to Harry, shaking Harry’s hand too. “And don’t forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.”

“If you need to pass anything on, tell me,” you say as the warning whistle for the train sounds and the students still on the platform start to hurry onto the train. Sirius nudges your hand with his head and you gently scratch the top of his head, smiling. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Quick, quick,” says Mrs Weasley distractedly, hugging everyone at random. “Write…be good…if you’ve forgotten anything we’ll send it on…onto the train now, hurry…”

Bewitching your trunk to fly in the air behind you, you hurry onto the train and make your way past the throes of students greeting you in the corridor, down to your usual compartment in the prefects’ carriage. You set Dubh down on the seat beside you and as you sit down, you feel something in your back pocket and curious, you pull out a slip of parchment and unfold it.

I love you

Tell Snape he looks like a gargoyle

You chuckle appreciatively, putting the paper back in your pocket and feeling your heart warm.

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

February, 1977

“Transfiguring something of a larger stature, however, can prove to be more difficult,” Professor McGonagall says, the chalk in her fingers scratching against the blackboard as she writes instructions. “It takes a lot more concentration and practice, so I suggest you use your free time wisely and —”

Sirius sighs in boredom, eyes skimming around the room until he finds the person he's looking for. Across the room, sitting as far away from James as possible, is Lily, and right beside her, you.

You lean over to whisper something to Lily, who chuckles, and Sirius finds himself following your every movement, tracing the line of your jaw with his eyes, the curve of your neck, the way you're swinging your legs under the chair absent-mindedly…

“And then, you put the charm on the ties and I'll keep look-out — hey!”

James slaps Sirius across the back of his head angrily.

“Ow! What was that for?!”

“You're not even listening!”

Sirius snaps out of his daze and looks back at his best friend’s angry face, scrunched up beneath his circular glasses.

“Sorry, Prongs, what were you saying?”

James scoffs, folding his arms dramatically. “You were staring at her again, weren't you?” He makes a noise with his mouth like the cracking of a whip, rolling his eyes. “Pathetic.”

“In my defense, she is very pretty — “

“I don't want to hear it!” James snaps. “Y’know, I liked you better before you got a girlfriend. You were more fun.”

“Oh, shut up, James — you're just jealous ‘cause Lily would rather go out with a toad than with you — “

“That's not true — !”

Someone clears their throat loudly and the boys look up to find McGonagall glaring at them from behind her spectacles, clearly unimpressed.

“Yes, Potter, Black — we’ll all just wait for you to finish your very important conversation and then I can get back to teaching.”

Quiet sniggers ripple through the room. Lily rolls her eyes as her best friend giggles.

“Sirius was distracting me, miss —”

“James won't stop talking —”

“Enough.” Professor McGonagall pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Pay attention or it's detention for the both of you.”

“Yes, miss.”

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” says Dumbledore after he gets to feet for his start-of-year speech. “First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students — and a few of our older students ought to know by now too.”

You glance down the Great Hall, skimming your eyes around at all your students.

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door. We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There is a round of polite applause. You crane your neck to look at the new hire of Professor Umbridge: a small woman wearing a fluffy pink cardigan with mousy brown hair and a pair of small, beady eyes. She has her lips pursed and her hands folded in on the table as she looks out at the student body.

“Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —”

“Ahem.”

Dumbledore breaks off and looks surprisingly at Professor Umbridge, who has gotten to her feet (though it is hard to tell the difference between her height while standing and while sitting), and clearly wants to make a speech.

Minerva glances at you for half a second, her mouth a thin, disapproving line as she turns back to focus her attention on Umbridge.

Her interruption irks you — no one has ever interrupted Dumbledore in the middle of his speech before. It feels quite disrespectful, though Dumbledore doesn't seem to mind as he sits down and gives Umbridge his utmost attention.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” she starts, her voice sickeningly squeaky, “for those kind words of welcome.”

She clears her throat again, that same little ‘ahem’. “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces smiling back at me!”

You raise your eyebrows, noticing how the faces looking back at Umbridge seem quite far from happy — they actually look highly affronted at the childish tone that she has taken on.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I'm sure we’ll be very good friends!”

Nobody seems too keen on that idea.

She clears her throat again, but this time her tone becomes more business-like and official. “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

She clears her throat again and Minerva’s face tightens as she exchanges a glance with you, her distaste clear on her face.

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. Then again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation…because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

Finally, she sits down, looking expectantly at her audience. Dumbledore claps. You and the rest of the staff start to join in, though you bring your hands together once, maybe twice, before stopping completely.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” Dumbledore says as he stands, bowing to her. “Now, as I was saying — Quidditch tryouts will be held…”

“I suspect we’ll be having an interesting year with her here,” you say to Minerva in a low voice, moving your lips as subtly as possible while keeping your eyes on Dumbledore.

A breath of air whistles out of her nose. “Interesting indeed. The Ministry loves to poke their nose into things.”

You hum in agreement. “You can say that again.”

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

“Now as you all know, next June you will be sitting your O.W.L. examinations,” you say, leaning against your desk and flicking your gaze from student to student in your classroom. “They are, of course, important — failing certain classes may mean you are unable to continue those classes at N.E.W.T. level next year — but they are nothing to get stressed about. Study well and do your best and you will be absolutely fine, there is no need to panic. Exams are not the be-all and end-all.”

Hermione’s brow furrows as though this notion is completely inconceivable to her. You notice the way she has her parchment neatly laid out on her desk at the ready, her book perched at the top, and her quills perfectly aligned with each other beside it.

Beside her, however, Ron and Harry have absolutely nothing on their desks.

“Those who are interested in taking N.E.W.T. level Astronomy in sixth year, I accept anyone with at least a passing grade in my class. I must warn you, though, that the work and curriculum is increasingly hard and quite a jump from O.W.L. level.”

The students look quite bored.

“I'm guessing you've heard all that before?”

There is scattered murmurs of agreements and nodding.

You sigh. “I’ll be honest with you all — you will be sick and tired of hearing about those exams in no time. Have your classes been hard so far?”

They glance at each other, and you hear Dean Thomas snort and mutter to Seamus Finnegan, “Not Defense Against the Dark Arts, anyway.”

Your ears prick up at this and you raise your eyebrows. “Not in Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“Professor Umbridge refuses to let us use defensive spells in class,” Hermione says, frowning.

“What?”

“She's only teaching us theory,” Harry confirms, scowling. “We don't even get to practice the ones we need for the exam.”

“And she called Professor Lupin an ‘extremely dangerous half-breed!” Dean pops up angrily.

This seems to set off the rest of the class, and all at once they start voicing their complaints with vigour.

“What's the point of having a Defense Against the Dark Arts class if we’re not even learning how to defend ourselves in it?”

“You can't learn spells just by reading about them!”

“She's not even a real teacher —”

You wait patiently until everyone has let out their anger before you take a deep breath.

“That’s…ridiculous.”

You pick up your textbook, thumbing through it absent-mindedly as you think of what to say next. “But…if this is what your teacher wants you to do, I should tell you to listen to her.”

Uproar, again — and you hold up an authoritative hand to quiet your agitated students.

“I will tell you to listen to her, but that's not to say you're definitely going to listen to me,” you say with a shrug of your shoulders. “You should listen to me, but not everyone likes to follow the rules…I will tell you not to practice these defensive spells in the privacy of your own dorms because Professor Umbridge does not want you to be performing these spells at all. I will also tell you not to be so open in complaining of your new teacher — you will get into trouble.”

You sigh dramatically, flipping the pages of your book to the first chapter as the students pass mischievous glanced around at each other. “Now, let's get started, shall we?”

⁠After a long day of classes, back-to-school paperwork, and meetings, you relax into your comfy armchair in your office, listening as Minerva talks about how her week went. Your mug of hot tea warms your hands as the typical Scottish rain patters against the castle windows, and Dubh sleeps contentedly on a stack of papers lying haphazardly on your desk.

“I don’t trust that Dolores Umbridge,” Minerva says with a tight-lipped frown. “She sent Potter to my office on Tuesday, for running his mouth.”

You hum. “About her theory-only classes? Yes, I heard several complaints already.”

“Not just about that,” she says. “He told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, which did not go down well, of course.”

“Like talking to a brick wall, I’d say.”

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “He’d do well to keep his head down and out of sight after her speech at the start-of-term feast…” She casts a glance at you from behind her spectacles. “As would you.”

You laugh humourlessly. “Believe me, I am. I’ve been avoiding that woman like the plague — thankfully she’s easy to spot from a mile away with those horrible cardigans.”

As though she doesn’t mean to, Minerva lets out a cat-like giggle, before clearing her throat and regaining her composure.

You smile knowingly at her over the rim of your cup, resisting the urge to laugh.

She yawns, adjusting herself in her seat. “I suppose I best be off, I have a few essays to grade for tomorrow…”

She sets her cup down on the table, standing up. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” you answer honestly, smiling at her. “Night, Minnie.”

She opens the door to leave. “Goodnight.”

You've never liked that Dolores Umbridge, not since she drafted some anti-werewolf legislation a few years ago that made it impossible for Remus to find a job. You remember the stress it gave Remus, he had very little money and was reluctant to accept any help from you — despite the large sum of gold sitting in your bank, practically untouched.

When you settle down to sleep that night, your mind turns to Sirius: alone in Grimmauld Place, listening to the screams and screeches of his mother’s portrait. The moment you got on the Hogwarts Express you regretted letting him persuade you to come back to school and leaving him, right after you had just found him.

As if she senses your worry, Dubh pads along your covers before settling into the bed beside your chest, purring contentedly and bringing you significant comfort just by being there.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

The next morning you wake for breakfast, sitting as far away from Dolores Umbridge as possible, making absolutely sure to avoid all eye contact with the woman. The last thing you need is a Ministry mole rooting around your business when you are technically harbouring a fugitive in your house.

While you poke and prod at your breakfast, thinking about nothing in particular, owls begin to filter in through the windows bearing the morning’s post. A barn owl makes it way over to you and drops off your usual delivery of the Daily Prophet.

“You’re still reading that?” Minerva asks in surprise as you tuck a few coins into the small sack tied to the owl’s leg as payment.

You hum, undoing the twine wrapped around the paper. “Good to know what the enemy is putting out there, right?” As you unfold the newspaper, your heart drops and you let out a small gasp.

“What is it?” Minerva asks, and you wordlessly hold the paper between you so you can both read the headline article.

BLACK SPOTTED IN LONDON

The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer who killed thirteen people, is currently hiding in London. The Ministry warns the wizarding community that Black is very dangerous and to be vigilant. Anyone with information of his whereabouts must come forward and alert the Ministry immediately.

You look up at Minerva, feeling dread sink down through your body.

“I knew he shouldn’t have came with us,” you whisper, swallowing thickly.

Minerva looks at the article again, her mouth thin. “He will just have to stay in the house from now on.”

You frown. “It’ll kill him.” You glance down the table at Dumbledore, currently talking to Professor Flitwick animatedly. “Maybe I can ask Dumbledore if I can go home, just for the weekend — I can’t bear the thought of him alone —”

Minerva looks at you sharply, her expression serious.

“And how do you think that will look to Umbridge? Sirius Black’s wife leaving without any explanation the weekend after he is spotted in London?”

“I’ll just say I’m going to my parents’ or something, I don’t know —”

“They will not believe you,” she hisses. “They have never believed you before, they will not believe you now. Do you wish to end up in Azkaban?”

You look back at her, biting your lip before breathing a long, defeated sigh. 

Minerva gently pulls the newspaper from your grip, flicking through the pages with mild interest. You push your plate away from you, feeling nauseous and without any appetite. Why didn’t you push more for him to stay at the house that day? You were selfish, letting him come with you because you wanted to drag out your time with him as much as possible and putting him in danger. Where is Kingsley, he’s supposed to be staying on top of this, feeding the Ministry fake information and keeping Sirius out of the headlines. 

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

->-> read chapter twenty-nine here!

-> all kinds of interaction appreciated ♡

hi everyone, im really sorry for the huge wait!! I know how annoying it can be sometimes to have to wait long periods of time for a writer to post the next chapter, so I really am sorry for that :( I honestly don't really have an excuse, other than writer's block and a busy schedule. You all are the absolute best for your constant patience and support, i love everyone sm <3 Kisses!

a really huge thank you to my taglist loves ♡ :

@mothraantics @wholelottalove05 @izuoyarmin @devoid-swanky @carpe000diem @mooonyxoxo @hyperspeedo @idkman5335 @elanna-elrondiel @murielisacertifieddilf @penelopied @imgondeletedis @wooyoungsrightsock @jennifer0305 @wolfdragon0424 @lovemesomevesey

[chic-a-gigot]

Les Modes : revue mensuelle illustrée des arts décoratifs appliqués à la femme, no. 4, avril 1901, Paris. Mlle Marcelle Lender. Cliché Reutlinger. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Page 18. — ROBE DE BAL (Mademoiselle Lender). — Robe en mousseline de soie mauve, brodée d’argent. — Sortie de théâtre en mousseline de soie bleu pâle incrustée de dentelle Cluny rebrodée de roses blanches en soie formant relief. Autour du col et tombant jusqu’au bas du manteau, jabot de tulle blanc liseré de satin blanc.

Page 18. — BALL GOWN (Mademoiselle Lender). — Dress in mauve silk muslin, embroidered with silver. — Theater cape in pale blue silk chiffon inlaid with Cluny lace embroidered with white silk roses forming relief. Around the collar and falling to the bottom of the coat, white tulle frill edged with white satin.

[girafeduvexin]

Je veux pas critiquer booktok pour critiquer booktok mais je crois que j'ai compris pourquoi certains livres très populaires déçoivent parfois quand on les lit enfin. Je regardais une booktokeuse qui parlait des livres qu'elle aimait et qu'elle n'aimait pas et elle en parlait de manière très émotionnelle : "ce livre va vous faire pleurer", "ça me faisait frissonner" et c'est pas forcément une mauvaise chose ! Je dis souvent à mes élèves de partir de ce qu'ils ressentent pour analyser un texte. Mais après il faut aller plus loin : quand elle parle du style d'un auteur qu'elle n'aime pas "vous verrez en lisant, c'est particulier" en quoi ? C'est froid ? Au contraire, c'est très riche, y a beaucoup d'adjectifs ? En quoi c'est triste, en quoi c'est beau ?

Le problème, c'est que je peux vous montrer trois livres radicalement différents en vous promettant qu'ils m'ont fait pleurer et ce sera sans doute vrai, mais ça ne suffit pas : c'est le détail, la forme, qui va porter le livre, le distinguer des autres. Si elle avait dit : "J'ai beaucoup aimé ce livre car sa structure narrative atypique fait qu'on est porté tout au long de l'histoire. Le style froid de l'auteur, assez neutre, permet de vraiment mettre en relief la dureté de ce monde" etc, on saurait à quoi s'attendre et en lisant ensuite le livre, même si on aime quand même pas, on n'aurait pas l'impression d'avoir été trompé sur la marchandise. Je pourrais me dire "en effet, la structure narrative est atypique mais personnellement, je la trouve confuse" et ainsi de suite. Alors que juste dire "ça m'a fait pleurer donc c'est bien", on ne peut pas cerner l'intérêt du bouquin.

Vous pouvez pleurer en lisant Twilight et en lisant Proust, et c'est légitime dans les deux cas, mais les techniques littéraires ne seront pas les mêmes.

[weclassybouquetfun]

Tonight is the penultimate episode of series two of AMC+'s INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE.

Well, this isn't ominous at all.

Impressed that months later content from the S2 premiere is still being rolled out.

ALL THE SPOILERS FOR Episode 14 / S2E07

It's fine. It's all fine.

If you've read the books (not me) or have seen the movie (me) or just possess the ability to read between the lines, then you knew this day was coming: The death of Claudia de Pointe du Lac de Lioncourt and her companion Madeleine.

Finally, someone chose Claudia.

They actually made a playbill. The nastiest of nasty work.

There is still a lot to be open to interpretation in regards to motivations and the truthiness of various accounts. Maybe we will get answers in the next episode (how much of a willing participant was Lestat in these deliberations? How accurate was Louis' new recollection of begging Lestat to turn Claudia despite Lestat's warnings?) and maybe we won't (at any time have we seen the real Lestat?)

What I do know is that this cast acts their collective bums off.

What I also know?

They will never make me hate you, maître. You've done nothing wrong, ever.

Even though you leveled your coven with one word, I am sure you could not stop them from putting your lover, his sister-daughter and her companion on trial and subsequent execution.

He was helpless to do anything, you just don't understand!!

Armand was able to control everyone's speech and compel them to say "banishment" and just heaves a sigh of relief for the trouble. Meanwhile, Lestat was wan and bleeding from one ear after mind controlling a room of soldiers.

I still stand by you, Armand. I'm just saying...

-I am inclined to believe Lestat's deviations. You can tell what are Sam's words and what aren't by how Santiago responds and also just how true to form they seem from a character standpoint. I could be very wrong, but I can believe Louis threatened to cut Lestat's head off.

This is Louis who threatened his brother with a knife (which turned Lestat's eye to him in the first place). This is a man who lobbed a veiled threat at Grace during their mother's funeral (and you know it's true because that was from Claudia's diary). Louis was furious in that moment so why would he be expected to hold his tongue and not scrap? As he told Lestat, "You start it, you finish it."

Louis castigated Lestat for choking their daughter. I'm not going to remind him what he did to her when she begged him to let her burn Lestat.

So many people last season were raging because their "Brat Prince" was depicted as a domestic abuser and were sure this season would absolve him. But while we get a fuller picture of the fight, Lestat still did what he did. To me it just adds more clarity on why he stayed away for so long.

The biggest question for me this episode was how long did they workshop Lestat's side? Did the coven plunder his mind or did Lestat readily give them information (they knew about the words "come to me", the killing of the priests, the church kiss, Louis' depression and the house being a shambles. We even see on the projection the raccoon that was roaming their house)?

No matter how they found out the Louis/Lestat details, Lestat is not fully a willing participant in my mind. This man was over it from the jump.

Also, he's stubbled and one thing Lestat de Lioncourt is going to do is be well groomed so those theatre nerds have had him locked away until showtime.

They summoned Lestat while he was drinking his chickory coffee and eating beignets. Classless.

Dreamstat in Dubai feels so wrong.

Spoiler filled interview with Delainey, Roxanne and Jacob after episode 14/7.

Interview with Sam.

[lunespaws]

Liste d'idées de gears car les masques et tails ne sont pas les seuls qui existent

[ PT : Liste d'idées de gears car les masques et tails ne sont pas les seuls qui existent ]

Salut ! Voici une liste de tous les types de gears que je connais et peux imaginer, je l'étendrai au fur et à mesure de mes idées ! Je connais surtout des gears pour les therians/otherkins donc je m'excuse auprès de ceux qui ne se reconnaissent pas dans la liste. La liste est longue, car tout le monde mérite de trouver le gant à sa patte ;3

Bonne lecture !

Gears qui peuvent être portés:

⚝Les masques

Un classique ; je parle bien de ces masques que l'on voit partout, surtout sur Youtube shorts et Tiktok. Du réaliste au cartoon, du naturel au fantastique, il y a de quoi trouver son bonheur! C'est aussi un superbe art, ça ne me surprend pas que beaucoup aiment en créer.

⚝Les museau / les becs

Ces masques sont beaucoup moins connus, mais je rêve d'en avoir un un jour ! Ça couvre la partie basse du visage, pour la remplacer par un museau ou un bec.

Il y a quelques tutoriels sur youtube, mais pas énormément, malheureusement.

⚝Les tails

Un autre grand classique, je payerai cher pour en avoir une ! C'est si ... parfait. Mais attention ! N'achète pas de tails n'importe où ! La plupart du temps elles viennent de ferme à fourrure cruelle... Même les tails dites fausses peuvent venir d'un animal et être non éthiques... Il est malheureusement facile de se tromper. Je te conseille fortement les vidéos de pink dolphin et de therian territory sur youtube pour ne pas risquer de soutenir ces terribles fermes (ces chaînes sont en anglais, mais les sous titres des vidéos de pink dolphin sont pas mal)

Pour ne prendre aucun risques, tu peux aussi te fabriquer une tail en laine, il y a beaucoup de tutoriels en ligne, et le résultat est souvent magnifique !

⚝Les colliers (de chien/chat)

Très efficace si ton type est domestique! Même si ce n'est pas le cas, ça peut symboliser une identité alter/nonhumaine domestiquée/coincée dans un monde humain. Il y a une alternative plus discrète, si tu préfères : les colliers ras du cou ! J'en avais un que j'avais fait moi même avec un ruban épais et fin noir et un fermoir pour bracelet. (Je l'ai malheureusement perdu TwT) J'y ajoutais parfois une petite médaille.

⚝Les muselières

Peux avoir la même symbolique qu'un collier de chien, ça peut être une alternative aux masques-musseaux qui sont souvent difficile à obtenir.

⚝Les fausses oreilles d'animaux

Si cool et souvent si réalistes...

⚝Les gants/mittennes

Ça aide beaucoup pour la dysphorie au niveau des pattes! Mais si tu veux en acheter avec des faux coussinets en dessous fait attention, certains ne sont pas de très bonne qualité, donc la colle peut se détacher avec le temps ;-;

⚝Les chaussettes pattes de chat

Très confortables et très euphoriques. Et j'aime ça.

⚝Les chaussures

J'ai déjà vu de magnifiques chaussures digigrades avant (pour te donner une idée de la forme que ça a, c'est comme une chaussure à talon sans talon), notamment en forme de sabots, mais j'en ai déjà vu en forme de pattes de chat !

Un autre moyen plus simple d'obtenir des chaussures-gear: tracer des lignes noires sur la partie blanche de ses converses ! C'est très cute

Certains ont aussi des chaussures avec un relief dessous pour faire des traces de pattes ressemblant à celles de leur type !

⚝De differentes formes de pantalon

Si ton type est imposant, tu peux opter pour un pantalon cargo ! Pour les types avec de longues et fines jambes se terminant par de gros sabots/pattes, je recommande les pantalons pattes d'éléphant !

Modifier ma silhouette grâce à mes vêtements m'a vraiment aidé contre ma dysphorie d'espèce

⚝Fausses cornes, fausse ramure

Ceux là sont vraiment trop beaux !!

⚝Des ailes

Attachées aux bras pour les oiseaux, sur le dos pour les dragons, insectes et fées ! C'est un des gears les plus impressionnants visuellement, et j'imagine que c'est très efficace.

⚝Des lentilles de contact

Pour changer la couleur de tes yeux, le forme de ta pupille, etc.

⚝Du maquillage

Je ne sais pas si on peut vraiment appeler ça un gear, mais un peu de far à paupières sous le nez et la lèvre supérieure et une ligne le long de l'arc de cupidon peut être très euphorique pour beaucoup de personnes ! Et bien sûr, il existe beaucoup de maquillages différents pour tout les types... Pas la peine d'être un pro du make-up, laisse juste ton imagination s'exprimer ! Et n'oublie pas, le maquillage c'est pas pour les filles, c'est pour la peau ✨

⚝Ongles (griffes)

J'aime beaucoup laisser pousser mes ongles et les couper en amande pour les faire ressembler à des griffes. Pas besoin de Trop les faire pousser ni de les rendre très piquant, fait ce qui te plaît ! Tu peux aussi utiliser de faux ongles

⚝Des griffes en papier

Il y a beaucoup de tutoriels différents un peu partout pour en fabriquer, en général elles sont en origami, j'espère que tu aimes plier du papier ^^'

⚝Legs/arms warmers

Pour avoir l'impression d'avoir de la fourrure sur ses bras/jambes, pour se protéger du froid.

⚝Kigurumi !

Un petit déguisement très confortable et mignon, j'aimerais bien en avoir un ! Pour ceux qui ne connaissent pas, c'est une sorte de pyjama avec une capuche. Sur cette capuche il y a des oreilles d'animaux, parfois des cornes, et derriere une queue, etc Il y en a de plein d'espèces différentes, incluant des espèces de fiction!

⚝Des bague-griffes

Des bagues ressemblant à des griffes. C'est vraiment magnifique, et ça semble très efficace.

⚝N'importe quel accesoire/vêtement avec un thêta delta dessus

Bien sûr !

⚝N'importe quel accessoire/vêtement avec ton type dessus

Évidemment

⚝Une queue de sirène

J'ai déjà vu des costumes comme ça avant, et je pense que ça pourrait plaire à ceux dont un type est cétacé, phoque ou sirène!

⚝Tatouage

Temporaire ou permanent, ça peut être un bon moyen de se rapprocher de son type. Avoir son identité ou son symbole representé sur son corps peux être très agréable ! Certaines personnes se tatouent même les motifs de fourrure de leur type sur une partie de leur corps. Je veux juste préciser qu'avant de se faire un tatouage permanent, je te conseille fortement de bien réfléchir à son emplacement, sa forme, etc. pour en être sûr

⚝Sweats/chapeaux avec des oreilles/cornes/bois dessus!

C'est plutôt discret, et ça peut être très rassurant de ressentir ça sur sa tête

Autres gears:

⚝Des objets qui te rappelle ton habitat en temps que ton type

Pour recréer l'atmosphère de ton habitat naturel chez toi !

⚝Une figurine de ton type

C'est sympa d'avoir un soi-même miniature

⚝Des couvertures

leur texture peux te rappeler la fourrure de ton type, c'est très rassurant

⚝Des plumes !

J'ai une collection de plumes, ça me donne comme un "plaisir prédateur" d'avoir un morceau de proie comme trophée chez moi !(sans avoir fait de mal à un animal, par la même occasion bien sûr ! Je ramasse ces plumes sur le sol)

⚝Des stickers

Avec le symbole de ton identité, ton type, etc. Si ceux du commerce ne te plaisent pas, tu peux en créer toi même ! Il existe plusieurs tutos sur Youtube

⚝Des dessin, peinture, ect de ton type

L'art est un super moyen d'exprimer son identité !

⚝Un minéral/cristal en rapport avec son type

Dans beaucoup de cultures, certaines pierres sont associées à un animal spécifique. Savais tu que l'ambre est de la résine d'un arbre préhistorique qui s'est durcit avec le temps ? Je suis sûr que cette anecdote va plaire aux paleotherian et paléoplantkins ;3

⚝Un livre sur son type ou son habitat

Lire des choses sur ta propre espèce peux t'apprendre plus de choses sur toi même

⚝Une proie de ton type en peluche !

Pour chasser ou mordiller quand on s'ennuie

⚝Un objet qui a l'odeur de l'habitat de ton type

Ça peut être un diffuseur d'huiles essentielles, un pot-pourri, ou juste n'importe quelle chose qui a l'odeur de ton habitat

⚝ Un Tamagotchi

C'est un petit animal/créature virtuel dont tu dois t'en occuper. Il y a énormément de personnages différents, tu vas sûrement trouver l'espèce de ton type ! Ce petit objet rétro peut vraiment aider les êtres se sentant seuls en temps qu'animal/créature dans un monde humain.

⚝Un steam toy à mâcher

Pour ceux qui ont des des shifts/instincts à propos de mordre/mâcher !

⚝Un sifflet qui reproduit les sons de ton type !

J'ai déjà vu de magnifiques sifflet de ce genre en bois par exemple, ça peut aussi servir d'objets décoratifs !

Et voilà

Cette liste va bien sûr évoluer avec le temps, mais j'espère que tu as déjà trouvé ton bonheur ici :3

Bye! ~~

[mxstfxll]

(   justice smith  .  agender  .  they/them  )       —       blasting  space oddity by  david bowie  down  main  street  we’ve  spotted   MAJOR T. BRADBURY   sporting  their mothman keychain.  the  thirty  year  old  REAPER  who’s  been  in  town  for  two months  often  can  be  seen  trying to figure out a 5x5 speed cube, talking to people about what could go catastrophically wrong and drinking cup after cup of coffee,  or  working  as  a EDUCATOR  at  THE OBSERVATORY.  people  say  they  display  friendliness  and  dichotomous thinking��traits,  but  we  rather  trust  their  vibes:  the soft hum of a forgotten record; the careless smile that lingers after a bad joke; the lingering thought that maybe there’s something more to this “being human” thing; the simple joy of a good movie, and the relief that comes with realizing maybe it’s okay not to have it all figured out..  also,  we’ve  heard  they  love  movie theaters !   aren’t  they  fascinating ?   

Full Name: Major T. Bradbury (the T. doesn't stand for anything. They didn't feel like a "Tom" as much as they felt like a "Major" and apparently "Major" is either a military title or a dog's name...)

Nicknames: None (yet?)

Sexuality: Demisexual

Occupation: Educator at the Observatory

Hobbies: sandwich making, eating, reading, watching movies, growing plants, taking care of their puppy, baking

Reaper Abilities: dreamwalking, invisibility, heightened strength, possession, chronokinesis, soul tracking

Reaper Weaknesses: angelic weapons, demons, spellwork.

Random Reaper Story: It was in the first year that they were working, wandering through a family's home. There were decorations, and a cupcake with a little 2 candle. Major watched over the child, curious about this little life. The child watched them somberly, and Major realized -- they would be taking the child with them. They reached out and touched the child's forehead, and as they pulled their hand back, the child's soul tethered to their finger. They set the soul down carefully, and the soul matured. They walked with the soul, learning from them, listening to their hopes and dreams for their next life. Major said goodbye to them, and so their first reaping ended.

Character Inspirations: "The Martian Chronicles" (short stories by Ray Bradbury), "The Metamorphosis" (by Kafka), DEATH (Terry Pratchett's Discworld series), Newton (The Man Who Fell to Earth), Michael (The Good Place), Ned (Pushing Daisies), Ginko (Mushishi), "To the Lighthouse" (by Virginia Woolf), The Second Mrs. de Winter (Daphne du Maurier), Nausicaä (Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind), The Will (SAGA), The Prince (The Little Prince)

backstory:

The first memory they could claim was of an eternal, boundless sky ... dark and stretching endlessly above. The stars, flickering like fragments of untold stories seemed to hold them in place, pulling them toward an unspoken truth. They felt it in their chest, a hum that made them aware of both life and death. Beneath their fingers, the earth was alive with her own secret rhythms. A blade of grass swayed, brushing against their fingertips, and the air hummed with the scent of decay; they learned the way life and death were tangled, inseparable.

The feeling was new and disorienting, a rawness that pulsed with the weight of existence. They stumbled, unsure of what they were supposed to do with this awareness. The concept of being visible was foreign. What did it mean to be seen or unseen? They were only just made, not yet understanding their shape, their form in the world. But there was something distinct about the world, something grand and suffocating all at once, and they couldn’t help but feel like an intruder in it.

That’s when they heard a voice, curious and kind, asking what they were doing. The words were warm but puzzled. The voice seemed to know the world in ways they didn’t, had already grown into it in ways they hadn’t. It was a woman, and she spoke of things, of trips, of memories, all things that were foreign to them.

Her words fell like soft rain, but they didn’t grasp them, didn’t need to understand them. All they understood was that there was life happening around them, and they felt called to see it. He walked with her through her memories, learning and feeling honored to have been at her side through her final journey.

Curiously, they wandered, tracing the edges of things, of people, of animals, of time.

Humans were strange, they decided. More perplexing than they could have imagined, fleeting things that seemed to fill their time with tasks, conversations, and emotions that made little sense. Their attachment to one another was tenuous, built on foundations of temporary connections. It was bewildering to watch.

But animals… animals were different. They felt like a language they could speak, even if they didn’t know the words. There was something deeper, something ancient in the way creatures roamed the earth, and it made more sense to them than the capriciousness of humans.

But even more captivating than animals were the mushrooms. The mushrooms understood. Their growth was steady, their purpose clear. It was like watching life in its truest form. They felt themselves drawn to it, over and over.

And the ants... oh, the ants... they understood the art of toil, the quiet hustle of survival. Humans were more like mosquitos: fleeting, irritating, buzzing through life without any real meaning to their actions.

Those thoughts shifted when one night, they found themselves drawn to a woman who was standing at the entrance of a theater, practically bouncing on her feet with excitement.

She was so alive with anticipation. They didn't understand. She was waiting for the movie to begin, her mind tangled with thoughts of whatever she’d read about the story. It was a human ritual, one Major couldn't understand, but they could feel the intensity of it. They moved closer, sat down beside her, a strange comfort spreading through them as they watched her watch the screen.

The popcorn was strange, like little puffs of buttered air, but they ate it nonetheless, savoring the salt, the crunch. And then, the movie began.

The Mask.

The absurdity, the color, the wildness: it was a world unto itself, and in the midst of it, they saw the woman’s joy. She laughed. They didn't understand the plot or the comedy, but they could feel her joy in their own chest, a reflection of her excitement. In that moment, the world became a little clearer.

As they roamed, called to here and there, they didn’t pay attention to where they were or where they were going, always lost in the pages of a book (sometimes Terry Pratchett, sometimes Ray Bradbury.) They seemed to carry the weight of the world in their arms but never really noticed the world around them. Their relationships, too, continue to be fleeting and temporary. It was as if they were a ghost moving through their own existence, disconnected from the ebb and flow of living, dying or dead things.

But in themself, they recognized something: there was a need to fill the void, to find meaning in world. They couldn’t help but watch, fascinated by how human existence could unfold in so many different ways.

They have settled in Portum because it felt comfortable. Really, they wanted to experience when a house became a home. They read about houses and homes and wanted to learn the distance. To further experience, they got a job at the Observatory, talking about the very things they first saw when they came to being.

What Characters in Portum Can Know About Major Without Asking:

General Public Knowledge:

Full Name: Major T. Bradbury. Major T. is for Major Tom from David Bowie's Space Oddity (which is the first song they heard.) Bradbury is stolen from Ray Bradbury - the first author they read.

Occupation: Educator at the Observatory; they share quiet lectures about the stars and the space between life and death. They speak of time, the nature of existence, and the universe.

Residence: Major lives close to the observatory. They're currently trying to figure out what human life is like ... and why it's so important to living (and why are humans the dominant lifeform over mushrooms).

Family Reputation: Major has no family. They are a reaper, and their ties to the human world have been minimal, which makes their existence feel both out of place and strangely quiet... now becoming a little more curious.

What Locals Say About Them:

Regulars at the Observatory: "Major's the one who talks about the stars like they're old friends. It's calming, like a lullaby. It's like they know the stars personally, like they're telling you stories you always wanted to hear."

Coffee Shop Workers: "They come in almost every evening, order the same thing, sip it slowly, and spend three hours and twenty-two minutes hours with a book in their hands. We've had to tell them to turn the page more than once."

Movie Buffs: "Every now and then, they pop into the theater alone, their eyes lighting up like they’re watching the most profound thing on earth. They don't laugh at jokes or get caught up in the drama, but you can see it... the joy in the way they experience being there."

Street Folk: "You won’t find them in a rush, never chasing anything. They walk with their hands in their pockets, a soft smile on their lips like they're in on some secret, but too polite to share it. It’s as if they’re always waiting for something... though you get the sense they’re not sure what."

Weird Things People Can Notice:

Their Quiet Aura: Major is known for being calm and serene, never loud or demanding attention, but there’s a strange feeling when you’re near them... a sense that they’re just out of sync with the world. They’re not invisible, but they seem to exist in a way that doesn’t quite fit into the rhythm of things, like an extra note in a song.

Their Relationship with Time: Major doesn’t rush through life the way others do. They take their time with everything. It’s as though they are at peace with the slow, inevitable march of time, savoring moments, yet never clinging to them.

Their Interest in Solitude: Major seems to be drawn to quiet, solitary places. While some may go to the park to meet friends, Major can be found alone by the water or beneath an old tree, staring into space for hours.

The Light They Bring: Unlike others who might dim a room or blend into the shadows, Major’s presence brings a soft, inexplicable light. It’s not flashy or obvious, but there’s a warmth, as if their being there makes everything else around them feel more real.

If They’re a Reaper or another Long-Lived Kind:

A Quiet History: Major speaks little of their past, but the older ones have started to notice that they don’t seem quite right. They talk about life and death with a quiet understanding, but get confused as to why celery exists.

A Lonely "Childhood:" They spent much of their early existence in isolation, watching the world quietly, gathering knowledge but never participating.

A Gentle, Unseen Hand: There’s a certain peace about Major. They don’t chase people, but when they speak, it’s always soft and thoughtful.

What Others Might Wonder:

What Drives Them? Major never seems hurried, but there's an unspoken yearning to understand the world. They seem at peace with their solitude, but there are times when they look up at the sky, as if trying to place something.

A Question of Belonging: There's a softness to Major, but also an air of quiet disconnection. It’s as if they were never meant to find a home, but they’ve allowed themselves to stay longer than expected, drawn to the people and places they quietly observe, hoping to understand what it means to belong somewhere.

[codumofr]

Un Rhyton en argent datant de L'Empire Achéménide (-559 à -330 avant Jésus-Christ.). Vase en terre cuite ou en métal mesurant environ 25 centimètres de hauteur qui se présente sous la forme d'une corne à une anse et dont l'extrémité se termine par une tête animale ou humaine. Trois civilisations l'utiliserons dans l'optique d'un contenant pour boire un liquide. Les civilisations sont les Thraces, les Romains et les Perses au cours du 6e siècle jusqu'au 5e siècle avant Jésus-Christ. Il se répandra par la suite dans l'espace hellénistique (grec) qui lui donnera le sens, sa renommée, ainsi qu'une culture autour de lui et une symbolique. La poterie athénienne classique à typiquement des thèmes de la mythologie peint sur eux, telles les vases à figures rouges. Un des thèmes standards est une satyre qui symbolise la débauche avec notamment des Rhyton et du vins à foison. Il est généralement en forme de corne, tandis que les thèmes sexuels et humoristiques, pouvant représenter des organes génitaux masculins semblent être un développement tardif des thèmes apportés. Les Rhytons sont généralement richement ornées et précieusement gravées pour se moquer et apporter ainsi une dimension satyrique de grandes civilisations. Un lien est établi entre les Satyres, le vin et le Rhyton dans l’épopée de Dionysiaca de Nonnus (ou aussi Les Dionysiaques) ayant été écrit entre 450 et 470 après Jésus-Christ. Il y est décrit le processus de fabrication du vin par les Satyres qui piétine le vin et récolte le liquide avec des cornes de bœufs, lorsque cela fut inventé par le Dieu Grec, Dionysos. Les Rhytons étaient utilisés dans la plupart des cas pour contenir des liquides tels que le vin, la bière ou bien l’huile, tandis que certains pouvaient être utilisés dans les rituels de sacrifices d’animaux. Dans le cas d’une utilisation dans un rituel de sacrifice, le sang peut être dilué avec du vin. Ils étaient généralement modelés d’après l’animal qui sera destiné au sacrifice, bien que ce ne soit pas systématiquement le cas. Les Rhytons semblent être apparues d'abord en Anatolie au début du 2e millénaire, à l'époque des comptoirs assyriens et avec les premiers vases zoomorphes (ayant une forme d'animaux) ayant été fabriqués dans cette région. Ce n'est toutefois, qu'à partir du 5e siècle avant notre ère que ce type connaît un succès assez grand et commence à se répandre en Assyrie avec des preuves de sa popularité telle que les reliefs du Dur'Sharrukin, palais de Sargon à Khorsabad. Il est aussi possible d'en trouver dans différents lieux de cultes en Crète, datant de la période Propalatiales (-2000 à -1700) et Minoenne (-6 000 à vers -2600), jusqu'en Corée à l'époque des Trois Royaumes (5e et 6e siècles) en passant par le Moyen-Orient et les Steppes Anciennes.

[claudehenrion]

Notre Dame de Paris

Nous venons de palpiter un week-end comme on en vit peu, dans une vie ! Notre merveilleuse cathédrale, que nous avions eu l'impression de voir disparaître par un triste soir d'avril 2019, est née une troisième fois, des mains de 2000 artistes, talentueux et modestes, au sommet de leur art (chacun le sien, mais tous ensemble) et de la volonté de 345000 donateurs et mécènes. Le monde entier (les dons en sont la preuve) a vibré devant cette catastrophe... Mais l'espoir renaît... Au moment de la réouverture des portes, j'étais au bord des larmes...

Ne nous plaignons pas, et ne boudons pas notre plaisir : le résultat est magnifique, d'autant plus que nous avons frôlé la catastrophe irrémédiable, avec les cauchemars des fantaisies dont rêvait l'actuel président-de-notre-république-en-sursis . Mis à part quelques fautes (que les modernistes ont branché sur la perfection d'origine, tels le maître-autel-bis et le Baptistère en forme de cuvettes, formes arrondies qui insultent l'harmonie, parfaite sans eux !), il ne reste plus que l'affreuse idée des vitraux ''à la mode macron'' qui doit être tuée, avant dégâts irréversibles. Ou encore les choix musicaux du ''réveil de l'orgue'' ! (NB : me souvenant des improvisations ''sortie de messe'' de Pierre Cochereau, sur le Bourdon 32 pouces, j'en aurais pleuré : tirer ces platitudes sans relief d'un tel instrument... il faut presque le vouloir ! Il a fallu attendre, là aussi, l'improvisation finale et la messe du lendemain pour comprendre le joyau inutilisé que les 4 organistes qui se sont succédé pendant le cérémonie de ré-ouverture avaient entre les mains).

Paris, la France et le monde entier --et la catholicité, au premier chef, bien sûr,-- ont récupéré un trésor irremplaçable : un lien personnel et même intime entre chacun d'entre nous et l'Absolu. Tous ne s'en rendent pas compte et un tout petit nombre prétend avoir des arguments pour lutter contre... ce que la Loi de Gauss, dite ''Courbe normale'', prévoit, avec la possibilité de l'existence, parmi tout échantillon d'humains, de 10% d'idiots, de fadas et de cons ! Depuis une dizaine d'années, on a assez perdu de temps avec eux. Laissons-les suivre leur triste chemin, et restons avec notre glorieuse émotion : Notre Dame est de retour... la période noire va t-elle se terminer ?

Une chance unique nous est donnée : la convergence de la déconfiture (attendue, sans être espérée : ne pêchons pas par où ils fautent !) des vilaines gens qui croient que le progressisme peut les (et nous) mener ailleurs que de catastrophe en cassage de gueule, d'une part... et un retour possible, à travers cette renaissance de notre Cathédrale blessée mais sauvée, du catholicisme sous une forme dérivée : sa richesse culturelle, unique entre toutes, complémentaire à sa transcendance consubstantielle : le catholicisme, longtemps seul, puis du christianisme, a en effet été le créateur d'un raz de marée culturel qui a illuminé tous les âges et --pratiquement-- tous les pays, comme le rappelait récemment le cher Bouallem Sansal .

Notre si belle religion, offerte à qui la veut, pas seulement à ses pratiquants, ce qu'elle est seule à proposer --nous en reparlerons) a donné de jolies couleurs à la Vie, à toute vie, à travers la peinture, la sculpture, l'architecture, la littérature, puis la philosophie, toutes richesses dont elle s'est nourrie en retour, imprégnant, le plus souvent sans la moindre contrainte, nos conduites, nos manières d'être, nos visions du monde... et même les mots dont se servent ses ennemis pour chercher à lui nuire : très vite, le christianisme est sorti du cadre rigide et limitant de la seule pratique religieuse pour exploser dans une culture qui est vite devenue une ''civilisation''. Pourquoi ? Comment ?

C'est là que se trouvent les grandes questions qui ont certainement contribué à ce que ce succès indiscutable se transforme, au fil des siècles, en échec (qu'il faut souhaiter temporaire, car si ce n'est pas le cas... tout est foutu : un arbre coupé de ses racines ne peut que mourir). Où commencent (et où s'arrêtent) l'intelligence et la foi ? Où commence le religieux et où s'arrêtent la laïcité et sa fausse jumelle la tolérance devenue intolérante ? La réponse est sans doute que foi et raison, ou que intelligence et religion ne doivent --ne peuvent-- exister l'une sans l'autre et qu'il est bon et sain qu'elles s'entremêlent, se marient, se mélangent, se séparent ... et se disputent, comme le transcendant et la culture qui en naît...

Si le vrai sens --unique et non négociable-- de Noël ou du Dimanche a été perdu en chemin au profit de laideurs insultantes pour notre honneur d'Humains, et n'ont pratiquement plus de signification religieuse, ils en ont malgré tout conservé une : malgré les efforts ridicules des tenants de la mort de tout ce qu'ils trouvent irrationnel chez nous (au profit de ce que nous démontrons facilement être dix fois plus irrationnel, chez eux !), les fêtes --et les vacances qui les escortent-- ont conservé leur vrai nom originel : Noël, Pâques ou la Toussaint pour les premiers, et ''le jour du Seigneur'' (dimanche vient, de loin, de Dominicus Dies) pour le second.

Notre société est certes largement déchristianisée (et même polythéiste, à en croire Laurence Devillers, la grande spécialiste des interactions ''homme/machine), et la responsabilité de ce ''laisser filer'' aux conséquences dramatiques est à chercher dans l’appauvrissement de ce que nous avons gardé pour le transmettre. La trahison impardonnable des clercs et notre passivité à tous (profiter du moment... sans se prendre la tête, ''Carpe diem'' devenu Carpe horam) ont bradé puis détruit l'héritage commun. Sous le prétexte mensonger de l'actualiser, nous l'avons dilué jusqu'à n'en conserver que ... ce qui ne vaut même pas la peine d'être transmis. Le message était trop beau, trop ambitieux, trop à contre-courant des slogans mensongers (creux mais ''fastoches'' : il n'y a qu'à se laisser glisser !) : la mode ne serait pas, disent les propagateurs de ces absurdités mortelles, à l'élévation de l'homme, à la quête d'une dimension prophétique, et à l’exaltation du sacré''... Foutaises !

La renaissance de Notre Dame et la résonance de cette prouesse dans le monde entier démontre (s'il le fallait !) que la Foi n'est pas une simple abstraction ni un joli patrimoine à conserver dans un musée : c'est une réalité où se mêlent le sens et la croyance, le matériel et le divin, le court et le long termes, ''l'avoir été'' et ''le devoir être''. Cette idée ''sur le retour'' est une idée nouvelle infiniment plus moderne que leur faux modernisme dépassé et leur progressisme mortifère.

Cette année, les USA ont décidé de tourner la page de la médiocrité agressive et de l'erreur promue ''Institution'' et de ''revenir dans la course '' : Trump est à Notre Dame et, Elon Musk aidant, le pays repart conquérir la Lune, et puis Mars... se ressaisir, chasser les idées noires (non, je ne suis pas raciste !), reprendre les bonnes vieilles pratiques qui avaient fait des américains... ce qu'ils étaient : les meilleurs en tout ou presque. Mais personne n'a rapporté que, en parallèle, les illuminations de Time Square sont, pour la première fois depuis longtemps, exclusivement destinées à l'Histoire Sainte et à un vrai Noël, autour d'un enfant nouveau né, le tout surmonté (dominé ?) par une grand croix lumineuse, avec les vrais chants de Noël dont la France (la pauvre !) a égaré jusqu'aux partitions. On se met à espérer que, folie pour folie, le soleil va se mette à se lever à l'ouest ! Notre Dame, priez pour nous...

H-Cl.

[c-comme-chat]

Je suis la, assise devant l'eau qui coule. Au bord du fleuve. J'aimerais que tu voies ce que je vois, que tu ressentes ce que je ressens. J'imagine le calme, la sérénité, de savoir que tu contemples mon visage pour t'en souvenir comme d'un instant de ta vie. Ce paysage c'est tout ce que j'ai la tout de suite, et il a tes formes, il porte ton rire, ton expression, dans toutes ses perspectives. L'eau glissante dans le lit de la Seine, c'est comme le temps qui s'arrête quand on se touche. Il y a l'éternité dedans. Le pendant, l'avant, l'après. Ce paysage il a ton mystère, il est la devant mes yeux a portée de regard, mais il garde toutes ces profondeurs, ces reliefs qui paraissent si lointains que je ne peux les atteindre que par le rêve. Alors j'imagine, des histoires, toi et moi, dans ce bois, mes bras t'enlaçant, tes bras. Mon flanc que tu effleures, et qui s'éveille. Ton regard dans mon regard, je sais. Et même si on pouvait, revenir en arrière. Est ce qu'on y arriverait?

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 28, 12 juillet 1896, Paris. Collet et chapeau pour dame d'un certain âge. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Ce collet très élégant est fait en lacet de soie noire, imitant les points de dentelle. Le contour extérieur du lacet est bordé d'une fine ganse de soie; on remplit les intervalles intérieurs des feuilles et des fleurs avec des points de fantaisie en soie cordonnet, des brins tendus, des anneaux festonnés, etc. Le dessin ajouré se détache en relief sur la doublure en soie noire. Le col droit se compose d'un ruban de faille disposé derrière en plis creux, fermé devant par un nœud.

La passe du chapeau faite en paille de fantaisie jaune clair, est entourée d'une guirlande de pensées en velours, entre laquelle on dispose des feuilles de violettes. Sur la calotte plate, faite en tulle, est posé un morceau de dentelle crème, en forme d'étoile. On place sur le côté droit une aigrette élégante dont la base est entourée de pensées sans feuillage. Brides étroites en velours violet.

—

This very elegant collar is made of black silk lace, imitating lace stitches. The outer contour of the lace is bordered with a fine silk braid; the interior spaces of the leaves and flowers are filled with fancy stitches in corded silk, stretched strands, scalloped rings, etc. The openwork design stands out in relief on the black silk lining. The straight collar is made up of a fault ribbon arranged behind in hollow pleats, closed in front with a knot.

The hat strap, made of light yellow fancy straw, is surrounded by a garland of velvet pansies, between which are placed violet leaves. On the flat cap, made of tulle, is placed a piece of cream lace, in the shape of a star. We place on the right side an elegant egret whose base is surrounded by pansies without foliage. Narrow purple velvet straps.

[liviavanrouge]

Mates

Ruko: *Walks down the halls of Pomefiore, looking curious*

Vil: Ruko!

Rook: Roi du Beauty!!

Ruko: Hm?

Epel: You need to talk to Ekeko!!! COME ON!

Ruko: *Flinches as Vil and Rook hurried him down the hallway* Huh?!

---

Rook: *Pushes Ruko into Ekeko's room and shuts the door* Good luck!

Ruko: HUH!! WHAT?!

???: Who's there...GET OOOOOOOUUTT!!

Ekeko: *Huffs, gripping his hair* They went and got you..I said DON'T!

Ruko: *Flinches, his eyes widening, shocked that Ekeko was speaking full sentences*

Ekeko: *Grips his hair, half his body in its snake form* Get out...GET OUT!!!!

Ruko: *Shrieks a vase smashing against the wall beside him*

Ekeko: GET OUT! NOW!! I DON'T WANT YOU HERE!!!

Ruko: *Stares, shuffling forward* Ekeko...

Ekeko: Get away...please get away from me..I can't...I can't hurt you, please...

Ruko: *Places a hand on Ekeko's cheek* Ekeko...

Ekeko: *Grabs Ruko, pulling him down*

Ruko: *Gasps, struggling to free himself* EKEKO?!

Ekeko: When you touched the scales on my next, you became my lifelong partner...only you can calm me down when I rampage...

Ruko: *Turns over, facing him*Oh...

Ekeko: Please don't leave me...I'm sorry yelling..

Ruko: I won't...I promise...

Ekeko: *Sighs, closing his eyes, his lower body turning human* Thank you...

---

Vil: *Cautiously opens the door and sighs in relief when he found them asleep* Thank the seven...

Rook: I felt guilty leaving Ruko to face him alone..

Rozzie: Thank the seven above that they're both alright

Amber and Sean: Yeah!

Pin: Pin here was worried..

Epel: I was as well

@anxious-twisted-vampire @yukii0nna @writing-heiress @marrondrawsalot @abyssthing198 @zexal-club

[martial-maurette]

 « BONNARD ET LE JAPON » Hôtel de Caumont, Aix-en-Provence 

« BONNARD ET LE JAPON », visite du 30 Juillet 2024 à l’Hôtel de Caumont (Aix-en-Provence) Bien nous en a pris d’attendre, cette fois-ci, calme et tranquillité loin, très loin, du « surtourisme » en début d’expositions précédentes. Donc de quoi prendre le temps de bien lire les cartels (pas toujours bien alignés) et le dossier de presse ; Hypothèse de la commissaire d’exposition Isabelle Cahn : « …l’influence de l’art du Japon sur Bonnard (Japonisme), jusqu’à la fin de sa vie en 1946 ! P.B. dessine, peint ou *photographie et collectionnera des estampes japonaises … » Excellente idée scénographique : la sélection d’estampes japonaises provenant de la prestigieuse collection Leskowicz. Pierre Bonnard : « J’avais compris au contact de ces frustes images populaires que la couleur pouvait comme ici exprimer toutes choses sans besoin de relief ou de modelé. Il m’apparut qu’il était possible de traduire lumière, formes et caractère rien qu’avec la couleur ». Je note sur la tendance dite « Japonisme » : « …l’impact du Japon sur les arts occidentaux. Le mode de penser des artistes de l’ukiyo-e. Le terme japonais ukiyo désigne un monde flottant en accord avec le principe bouddhiste de l’impermanence, ukiyo-e signifiant images du monde flottant. Sa peinture exprime le caractère éphémère des phénomènes, la beauté mystérieuse de la nature et des êtres, le charme subtil des choses. » Aparté photographique : *Marthe Bonnard sous l’objectif de Pierre Bonnard (1867-1947) https://dantebea.com/2013/11/07/marthe-bonnard-sous-lobjectif-de-pierre-bonnard-1867-1947/

Pierre Bonnard, La Promenade des nourrices, frise des fiacres 1897, Paravent constitué d’une suite de quatre feuilles lithographiées en cinq couleurs 45,3 x 114,3 (chaque panneau) Le Cannet, musée Bonnard © Musée Bonnard/Yves Inchierman

"…Dans les années 1860, suite à l’ouverture commerciale du Japon avec la France, les gravures ukiyo-e, méprisées par les Japonais pour la légèreté de leurs sujets, servent à caler les produits manufacturés dans les caisses d’expédition…" Extraits DP

Pierre Bonnard, Femmes au jardin : Femme à la robe à pois blancs ; Femme assise au chat ; Femme à la pèlerine ; Femme à la robe quadrillée, 1890-1891, Détrempe à la colle sur toile, panneaux décoratifs, 160,5 x 48 cm (chaque panneau), Paris, musée d’Orsay

Pierre Bonnard, Projet d’éventail Femmes et fleurs, 1895, gouache, aquarelle et encre de Chine. Van Gogh Museum, don de la Triton Collection Foundation

Katsushika Hokusai, Sous la vague au large de Kanagawa, série « Les Trente-six vues du Mont Fuji » Signé: Hokusai aratame Iitsu hitsu Editeur: Nishimuraya Yohachi (Eijudô) vers 1830, oban yoko-e, 25,5 x 37,7 cm Collection Georges Leskowicz

PIERRE BONNARD (1867-1947) La Revue blanche. Affiche. 1894. Lithographie. [582 x 778].

"…Les portraits de femmes d’Utamaro, les paysages d’Hokusai et d’Hiroshige ou encore les acteurs de Sharaku atteindront le statut de chef d’œuvre en Occident et de nombreux artistes du tournant du siècle seront fascinés à leur contact. Les estampes avec leurs couleurs posées en aplats, leurs voisinages chromatiques audacieux, leur stylisation décorative ou leurs vues à vol d’oiseau, vont bouleverser les certitudes académiques des artistes occidentaux…"

"Groupe de chien dansant" Projet de meuble, 1891 Aquarelle, plume et encre Coll. particulière

"…1872, Philippe Burty forge le terme de japonisme pour définir l’impact du Japon sur les arts occidentaux, dans un article publié dans Renaissance Littéraire et Artistique…"

…un arrêt du temps, l'instant présent… Très photographique tout ça. "Pierre Bonnard, photographe" (Relié) https://www.amazon.fr/Pierre-Bonnard-photographe-Fran%C3%A7oise-Heilbrun/dp/2904057242

"…Bonnard ne peint pas seulement pour le plaisir sensuel que le nu lui procure. Il considère ce sujet comme l’un des plus exigeants en raison de la fascination qu’il provoque et de l’interaction du modèle vivant avec l’environnement. Ses modèles évoluent dans des espaces complexes, traités de manière décorative, qui permettent de transformer le réel…"

Paul Verlaine "Parallèlement", poème Seguidille, 1900. Livre illustré de lithographies en couleur, Pierre Bonnard, Coll. Particulière

"…Dans l'intimité de leur vie quotidienne, par obsession ou par plaisir, Marthe aime à passer du temps à sa toilette. Ce rituel devient l'occasion pour l'artiste de scruter le jeu des reflets, des lumières, des couleurs. Il fige le bonheur de l'instant en peinture, mais aussi en photographie…" https://panoramadelart.com/sites/default/files/filesPanorama/FA224-02-bonnard-marthe-tub.jpg

"…Nabi : Mot d’origine hébraïque signifiant « prophète ». Il désigne un groupe d’artistes postimpressionnistes, à la recherche d’une peinture nouvelle. Rassemblés à partir de 1888 autour de Paul Sérusier, les nabis partagent une esthétique faite de formes épurées, d’aplats de couleur, de contours, et parfois un certain sens du symbolisme et de la religiosité. Par ses écrits, le peintre Maurice Denis ne tarde pas à en devenir le théoricien. Sa formule, « un tableau […] est essentiellement une surface plane recouverte de couleurs en un certain ordre assemblées », traduit bien l’esprit de synthèse qui anime les nabis…"

à lire aussi : Un Nabi très japonard https://www.musee-orsay.fr/fr/agenda/expositions/presentation/pierre-bonnard-peindre-larcadie

Le "spectacle" virtuel, partout, pour tout, pour tous. Terriblement XXIème s.

"… l’exposition présente de nombreuses œuvres exceptionnelles de Bonnard, jamais ou rarement vues en France comme Les deux caniches, Le Bar, L’Omnibus, La Place Clichy, Le Jardin de Paris, Conversation provençale, La Nappe blanche, Le Dessert, Le Nu gris de profil…"

Hôtel de Caumont 3, rue Joseph Cabassol (Portail à carrosses) Quartier Mazarin, Aix-en-Provence

[whencyclopedfr]

Art Viking

L'art réalisé par les Scandinaves à l'âge des Vikings (c. 790-1100) consistait principalement à décorer des objets fonctionnels en bois, en métal, en pierre, en textile et autres matériaux avec des sculptures en relief, des gravures de formes animales et des motifs abstraits. Le motif de l'animal stylisé (art zoomorphe) - le motif le plus populaire de l'art de l'âge des Vikings - est issu d'une tradition qui existait dans le nord-ouest de l'Europe dès le 4e siècle de notre ère, mais qui se développa en Scandinavie pour devenir un style autochtone affirmé à la fin du 7e siècle. Souvent, ces animaux se contorsionnent sur toute la surface - imaginez des charrettes décorées, des bijoux et des armes gravés, des tapisseries murales et des pierres commémoratives - entrelacés avec d'autres animaux et des ornements végétaux.

Lire la suite...

[softpiranha]

Être sans pays veut nécessairement dire être palestinien Être palestinien ne signifie qu'une chose : que le monde entier est ton pays Mais le monde n'arrive pas à assimiler ce fait comme tant d'autres te concernant : T'habituer à la mort Ravaler aisément ta douleur Tout perdre T'abstenir de pleurer Devenir extensible, transparent et obscur faisant écran à la lumière Ne pouvant être vu à l'œil nu ni au microscope ni au télescope Sentir que tu es rejeté par le monde entier que la revendication de tes droits humains est un grand luxe qui ne saurait t'être garanti Parler toutes les langues du monde et les idiomes les plus difficiles de certains peuples Revêtir toutes les couleurs et adopter toutes les coutumes T'entraîner à toutes les formes de mort et pratiquer toutes les formes de vie T'attacher au ciel alors que le ciel te rejette à la terre alors qu'elle fait de même (seul l'oxygène t'accepte à des des conditions draconiennes t'obligeant à supporter gaz asphyxiants et remugles divers) Te laisser tanner par le soleil, geler par la glace fondre dans l'eau t'évaporer et te reconstituer de nouveau Porter les particularités biologiques que tu as en commun avec les humains Tomber dans les égouts, puis être recyclé Rester inébranlable malgré cela alors que les fragments de ton corps sont près de fusionner Plonger jusqu'au fond puis émerger sur le toit de la couche atmosphérique Te laisser attirer par les arbres et les pierres avaler par le sable Te désagréger et te reconstituer sous une forme qui te fait perdre ta troublante singularité Balancer entre toutes les possibilités Devenir un symbole, puis un prophète, un dieu un adorateur et un adoré un saint, un impur, un irréfléchi un vertébré, un mammifère Ramper sur le ventre et le dos Recouvrer l'usage de tes membres puis les perdre Sombrer dans l'oubli Revenir pour montrer la force aveuglante de ta présence Retrouver ton équilibre et le perdre derechef T'agiter, t'ensauvager et te civiliser Devenir président d'un pays qui n'est pas le tien et pourquoi pas roi sur son trône étoile resplendissante, étoile chue galaxie, astre sans reliefs météore destructeur, arme nucléaire et vulgaire déchet Être emprisonné, pourchassé et marginalisé Devenir un axe, un centre pour la rotation de la Terre une mer, un océan Te noyer te noyer te noyer te noyer te noyer et te perdre puis revenir et assurer ta présence Te transporter d'une condition à une autre Devenir orateur et auditeur Être frappé de cécité, surdité, sénilité de handicap mental T'en remettre puis régresser de nouveau Imposer ton intelligence au reste des créatures Jouir de ton pouvoir, trébucher et bafouiller Dégueuler une histoire éparpillée Ruminer une mémoire absurde Te répandre telle une dangereuse épidémie Proclamer ta sortie du texte et ton retour à la table du dialogue... sur ton identité perdue (on te demandera de combattre en faveur de personnes auxquelles rien ne t'attache sinon ton appartenance à la section des mammifères la branche des vertébrés, le règne des animaux l'usage de l'oxygène comme moyen de rester vivant) Ne pas mourir Rejeter la vie qui te rattrape en une nuit comme un fantôme comme l'air Hoqueter, rugir, gémir, crier et hurler braire, japper et miauler Parler les langues des vivants et des morts de ceux qui restent suspendus entre la vie et la mort T'entendre à la perfection avec les rochers, les poissons, le vent l'espace extérieur, le noyau terrestre le centre inconnu de l'univers et revenir, inconnu, lointain, extrémiste modéré, excessif en tout Te retrouver en fin de compte impossible comme le néant occulte comme Satan vivant... comme Dieu !

Être palestinien - Ashraf Fayad traduction Abdellatif Laâbi