#hervor meaning

[atrumvox]

Hervor: The Warrior Heiress of a Cursed Sword

Who was Hervor? A shepherdess turned warrior, ready to challenge the dead for a cursed sword. Discover her incredible story!

Hervor, the daughter of a legendary berserkr, learned that her destiny was tied to Tyrfing, a sword forged by dwarves and steeped in a terrible curse. In this video, we explore her extraordinary transformation from shepherdess to warrior, her journey to the island of Samsø, and her bravery in reclaiming what was rightfully hers. We uncover the ancient legends surrounding the sword Tyrfing, its dark power, and how Hervor faced epic challenges to prove herself worthy of her inheritance. Join us on this journey through Norse mythology, where honor, courage, and mystery intertwine. By the end of the video, you'll understand why Hervor's story is one of the most fascinating in Nordic tradition.

[breadedsinner]

Would it have worked out long-term with any of the other characters:

Raphael: Absolutely had chemistry with Kaidan, Thane, and Jacob. Garrus and James are too reckless and more of a pupil feeling. Liara and Tali he met when they were naive, and he just doesn't respond to that. It's not so much that he sees them as girls, but he's just mentally already an old man at 29 and they just kinda clash. Jack was too deep in her own problems, he would not have thought a relationship appropriate. Samara is too uptight, even for him; probably finds her attractive but would never pursue. Him and Miranda I imagine people would assume they're a couple and they'd both be like "god, never", they're just good friends.

Hervor: She's already poly, so it's not really applicable. As an honor-bound, straightforward noble she didn't approve of bards and assassins, and she responded to Alistair's earnestly the most. Plus in my mind Leliana and Zevran are skinny and she's not physically attracted to them. Morrigan is a maybe? Like if they reconnected a few years after. Sometimes I think about an AU where she "advisor" to King Alistair and Queen Anora, she would have happily bridged that gap herself. I still think about changing that to my canon sometimes but the game itself wouldn't frame it that way.

Judith: Is it corny to say no? She wants someone she can build a future with, and it would be a big challenge with the 4 base game LIs, I think. Even looking past her not being attracted to Anders AND the abomination thing, one day with him and it's clear he'd never prioritize her, so why bother? Even if she thought Merrill was cute, she's too petite and there's a big cultural gap. Isabela maybe they could have had something short term, but I don't see Judy pushing someone who doesn't want a romantic relationship. If Isabela came to that herself, maybe, but they also have a lot of clashing goals and ideals. Fenris is also a maybe, in an AU where she's a mage / doesn't lose Carver, because otherwise he reminds her too much of him. If Carver is there, he grows more into his own person, but with him gone the memory is a bit conflated. Varric has feelings for her, but she does not reciprocate.

Rota: Cassandra is way too uptight. Josephine is too fancy, too high up socially and too young for her. Sera is also too young and she sees her more and more like a daughter. Solas WISHES. Iron Bull maybe? It would be purely physical and short term. They might have slept together if she hadn't already caught Feelings for Blackwall. Rota also is not a fan of the Qun. She definitely though about Vivienne. Again if she hadn't caught Feelings she might have tried to win her over.

[nimblermortal]

Yesssss caught up on my translation corrections, now it's time for the continuing adventures of Hervor :)

For those invested, the last stanza is better with corrections:

May you all stay; I am eager to get away. Whole in your (burial) mound - I want to go from here swiftly. I seemed now to be totally between worlds, Fires burned all around me.

or, standing between fires she seems to be between worlds.

[moviemunchies]

GOSH it’s been a week, am I right? We had an election, the results of which were… uh, yeah, we elected a megalomaniacal senior citizen who tries flushing classified documents down his toilet. I’m going to let off some steam.

I’m here to tell you that Twilight of the Gods, despite getting a better reception than a lot of Zack Snyder projects, is hot garbage.

Sigrid is a half-giant, and on her wedding day, Thor comes and kills her family. Blah, blah, revenge quest, gather a group of outcast badasses to fight the Big Bad threat–

Wait, wasn’t the gist of it–the gathering a group of warriors to fight a bigger, institutional tyrannical threat–the same Plot as Rebel Moon? This even has a campfire sequence before the big battle where the heroes talk about the motivations and backstories. Goshdarnit, Zack. I know you’re not the only person working on this, but really?

That aside, the problem with Twilight of the Gods isn’t that the Plot is bad; yeah, it’s thin, but that’s not necessarily bad. You can have a great story with a thin Plot. Look at John Wick. No, the biggest problem I had is that so many of the characters’ actions and development make absolutely no sense. Characters will choose a path that doesn’t add up other than to move the Plot forward. Big things will happen, and revelations will drop, and the people involved do not care.

-There’s an episode where Loki tells Leif that he’s the Scapegoat God–his entire role in the pantheon is to be the douchebag everyone hates and takes the blame when things go wrong, or when people make bad decisions. And he hates it. Loki’s stuck with a role he despises. You would think this would have some reaction from Leif, and affect the interactions between the two in some meaningful way down the line. Nope!

-The dragon Fafnir used to be Andvari’s friend, another dwarf. When they defeat him, Fafnir turns back into a dwarf, and Andvari insists that they spare him. Leif kills Fafnir anyway, because he’s angsting about his lover Sigrid becoming more vicious. Andvari, nor any of the other characters, have any reaction to him killing someone who he wasn’t supposed to on a whim, much less the friend of a friend.

-Speaking of that: Andvari’s backstory with Fafnir and Loki isn’t explained by Andvari, one of the main members of the group, I remind you, but by Egil, summarizing to Leif and Sigrid the next morning being like, “Yeah, so last night he was telling us all about it!” Why didn’t you just show us Andvari telling his own story?!

-Also, Loki kills Andvari when Andvari tries to kill him. Everyone is shocked, and Leif is clearly sad when we see him burying Andvari. And then no one really cares that their ally killed one of their friends

-Hervor at one point wonders aloud if killing Thor will screw up the afterlife or the weather cycle. Hey, geez, maybe that would have been a good thing to ask before you agreed to go kill Thor? Especially as her life goal is apparently to meet up with her already-deceased sons in Valhalla. Hervor’s got no apparent motivation to be on this quest, either, other than friendship with Sigrid–I mean, hey, go kill gods with your friends amirite?

-Thyra, who was raised by the Vanir, is apparently perfectly happy to side with new friends against them when they’re framed for poisoning them. Why? I don’t know, she has a crush on Sigrid, I guess.

-Oh gosh, the Campfire Episode. Shrooms are passed away For Reasons, Thyra has a threesome with Sigrid and Leif which is apparently Oh-So-Magical for her (she swears eternal devotion to them afterwards, basically), and then Odin reveals himself there and the episode ends–and no one gives a damn about Odin appearing to Sigrid and talking to her, given they’re about to go to war with him.

The creators of this series did not care about a coherent story or cast of characters. It’s made up of moments that someone in a writing room said, “Wouldn’t this be awesome?!” (for the reveals, action scenes, and dialogue) or, “Wouldn’t this be hot?!” (for the at-least-once-an-episode sex scenes). That this has gotten a somewhat good reception is astounding to me. Castlevania, for all its flaws, had spectacular fight scenes and animation. This has even less redeeming qualities. I mean, the writers really said, “Hey, what if Jormungandr were actually a hot chick that has sex with Thor?!” and people… went along with that? And think this is good writing?

I suppose that at the very least, it’s clear that they did a lot of research on Norse mythology for this series, and people appreciate that. Then again, it makes the deviations stand out all the more. Why on Earth is Freya’s brother, king of the Vanir, Tiwaz? The 2018 God of War also made a lot of changes to the mythology, while still clearly having done tons of research as well, so those changes were done in service to the story and characters. Changes here are only there because… I don’t know why. To make it more gruesome?

And I spent the entire series saying, “Hey, I don’t know how any of this works!” We see they take quite a journey to get to Jotunheim, though apparently anywhere else in the Nine Realms is pretty easy to find, if not necessarily to get to. The crew gets god-killing weapons, and kills Vanir and Aesir mooks by the bucketload (how did they all get that good at fighting that they can wipe out gods with ease??), and yet when it comes to Thor himself, sometimes they’re god-killing weapons go through him, like he’s a boss fight and they have to wear down his first health bar before they can kill him. And Thor kills Sigrid’s family by making them explode with lightning (pretty sure that’s not how lightning works), but when fighting the protagonists he doesn’t do anything nearly as effective, swinging his hammer around wildly. He should be able to kill them at any time, and doesn’t, because Plot.

This is terrible writing. This is terrible character development. The animation’s cool, I guess, and that’s kind of it. There’s so much better fiction about mythology out there, so check that out instead of this.

[unscharf-an-den-raendern]

Kann mir nicht vorstellen, dass die Kids, bei schloss Einstein, einfach zulassen würden, dass das Drehbuch Team die Story von Noah und Colin einfach an die Wand fährt.

I mean, klar musst du grade als Amateur-Schauspieler*in richtig dankbar sein, dass du die Rolle bekommen hast, aber irgendwohin verkörperst du doch auch nen Charakter, der dir was bedeutet. Und ich bin mir sicher, in dem Team wollen alle, dass besonders die Kids und Teens mit ihrer Rolle zufrieden sind. Natürlich gibts nicht immer nen Happy End, aber wir reden hier von Schloss Einstein und nicht von einem Horrorfilm im Kino.

Die Darsteller:innen haben aber auch nur einen begrenzten Einfluss auf die Story. Aus Interviews geht hervor, dass sie zumindest gefragt werden, was sie sich für ihre Rolle wünschen und, dass sie auch mal Dialoge abändern können. Aber die Hauptverantwortlichkeit bleibt beim Drehbuchteam.

[str4wanzerin]

I was tagged by @chrisoels to list 10 songs with names in the title

1. Don Giovanni, a cenar teco - W. A. Mozart (my favourite opera!)

2. Elsa's Song - The Amazing Devil (amazing british folk musicians!)

3. In Like Finn - Louden Swain (my favourite modern rock band)

4. Sandlerkönig Eberhard - EAV (sometimes a little mean but great music ;))

5. Paula - Haindling (THE bavarian musician)

6. Me & Paul - Dick jr. and the Volunteers (Yes, I like country, too)

7. Und der Prophet Elias brach hervor wie ein Feuer - Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy (I sang that with my choir and it's such powerful music!)

8. Tony's Roulette - Bonfire (80s german hardrock band who's drummer was my piano teacher)

9. Audi Victoria - Die Prinzen (the first album I ever owned was from those dudes and I still love them!)

10. Jeff Sums it Up - Tootsie (I work on the german version of that musical and still have to laugh during every performance)

Yes, my taste in music is quite diverse XD

No pressure tags: @carlomenzinger @mordsfesch @occhi-verdi-come-il-mare

[leagueofgardens]

i was meaning to ask you: what is your fave event from assault lily last bullet? if you have more than one, you can put them on a top something, if you like !!

– 🐰

Yeah, I'll be listing a lot here! That said, the events from the first 6 months of Last Bullet (conveniently, the ones that are translated and subtitled on GEHENA Labs for the most part) are still the best.

Ensemble is most definitely my #1 event of all time, it's just got everything. A great cast of characters, some hilarious scenes, some really cool reveals about the past, and a fun plot in its own right.

Blue Strike is also great. Shenlin is such a fascinating character to me, and all of Team Hitotsuyanagi is fun in it.

The Hervor events are good. I like Stigma a little better, because Madecs are cool and Miaki is a fun character, but Skjaldmaer is good too.

I have a soft spot for Boosted Friend, I love Tazusa and also TazuRiri, and Boosted Lilies are really neat. I don't think it's as well written as the others though, it's really hard to understand why Tazusa acts like she does in it.

Then after Ensemble the game story stopped being good /hj It took a sharp turn towards less serious events though, and I legit think the main story dropped in quality for quite a while. (Discussing untranslated content from this point onward, though with no spoilers.)

The more recent Hervor events are alright but not as good as the first two. Lamentation of Chrysaor is the best IMO, because Fuuka is fun and it was nice seeing Yoh get character development.

Life Long Friend, the event that introduces Sayu and Shizu, was cool. Particularly when it talks about Shenlin's history with the two of them. I like Shenlin, yeah, but it's also that there haven't been many serious story events lately with any member of Team Hitotsuyanagi.

The 2023 anniversary event with the onsen trivia game was a lot of fun.

The main story is finally becoming good again this year... maybe. The Gran Eple chapter was really good. Only half of the Hervor chapter is out, so that remains to be seen, but the first half was promising.

[julianchalabi]

"Krise? Welche Krise?" Leben als Tragik

Der dänische Philosoph Sören Kierkegaard beschreibt in seinem bekannten Werk "Entweder/Oder" eine Gruppe von Menschen, welche sich darum streiten, wer von ihnen den Status des unglücklichsten Menschen einnehmen darf. Die Gruppe nennt sich "Symparanekromenoi", die "Fellowship of the Dead", und sie brüsten sich damit, posthume Briefe zu verfassen, also Briefe, die Tote schreiben oder verfasst wurden von jemandem, der nun tot ist.

Kierkegaard verbringt eine lange Zeit, der Frage nachzugehen, wer denn nun der unglücklichste Mensch sein soll. Ist es Hiob? Ist es der "prodigal son", oder gar niemand aus der Bibel? Letztlich bleibt auch Kierkegaard die Antwort schuldig. Jedoch berichtet er:

"Wie bekannt, soll es irgendwo in England ein Grab geben, das sich weder durch ein großartiges Monument noch durch eine wehmütige Umgebung, sondern durch die kurze Inschrift – »Der Unglücklichste« auszeichnet. Man hat das Grab, so wird erzählt, geöffnet, aber in demselben keine Spur einer Leiche gefunden. Was ist nun wunderbarer: da�� man keine Leiche fand, oder dass man das Grab öffnete?"

Wie Kierkegaard anmerkt, will man eigentlich schon wissen, wer nun diese Person ist, die sich der "Unglücklichste" nennen kann (oder darf?). Man will Momente seines Lebens miterleben oder erfahren, wie Kierkegaard sagt, will man sich eventuell sogar zu ihm ins Grab legen.

Es ist bekannt, dass man eine grosse Zeit im Leben damit verbringt, herauszufinden, wie man überhaupt leben möchte. Und im Verlauf dieses Gedankenprozesses denkt man oft, man hätte so etwas wie eine "Persönlichkeit" entwickelt. Fortan entwickelt man diese weiter und weiter, man steht unter dem konstanten Eindruck, dass sich die eigenen Prinzipien verfestigen und man selbst hat sowieso ein Selbstbild, das völlig ohne Widersprüche ein ganzes Eigenleben entwickelt. In heutigen Zeiten der Selbstoptimierung und des scheinbar nimmer endenden Krisenmodus, kann es natürlich aber auch sein, dass man irgendwo kleine Brüche in diesem Selbstbild zu erkennen beginnt. Und wenn man dann noch beruflich oder privat zu scheitern beginnt, scheint es manchmal so, als ob das Leben völlig sinnlos wäre.

Viele Personen haben sich mit diesem Gedanken abgefunden - aber eben nicht ganz. Man will zum Beispiel anerkennen, dass es nichts über das Leben Hinausgehende gibt, man will sein Leben auch dementsprechend leben. Man kann aber das nimmer endende Leid, das man in der Welt vorfindet, nicht einfach ignorieren. Und so sind viele Personen in einem Zwiespalt gefangen, in dem sie einerseits das Leben geniessen, mit all seinen Fassaden und gleichzeitig für eine "ideale", d.h. vor allem schmerzfreie und leidbefreite Welt eintreten. Diese zwei Arten, das Leben zu betrachten und zu leben sind natürlich widersprüchlich. Und immer wieder treten diese Widersprüche auch hervor. Doch trotz allem scheint diese Art des Lebensentwurfs praktisch alternativlos zu sein - ausser, man ignoriert das tatsächlich existierende Leid wirklich, gibt aber nicht zu, dass man es zu ignorieren bereit ist.

Genuss und der Wunsch nach besseren Zeiten ist natürlich kein "Widerspruch in sich". Und doch fällt auf, dass sich die Wünsche von Personen bezüglich einer leidbefreiten Welt völlig unterscheiden. Zum Beispiel hat praktisch niemand das Gefühl, dass wir jetzt in einer idealen Welt leben, und das obschon im Verlauf der Zeiten Gewalt in all seinen Formen einen Rückgang erlebt hat, der Hunger auf ein noch nie zuvor so tiefes Niveau zurückgedrängt wurde und immer mehr Menschen dazu befähigt werden, ein einigermassen würdevolles Dasein führen zu können. So führt die World Bank dazu an:

"The goals of the World Bank Group are to end extreme poverty and promote shared prosperity. Promoting shared prosperity means that we will work to increase the incomes and welfare of the bottom 40 percent of society wherever they are, be it the poorest of nations or thriving middle- or high-income countries. This indicator departs from the traditional focus on growth of the average income of the population — an approach that assumes that economic growth automatically trickles down to the poor.

While living standards of the bottom 40 percent in countries all over the world have improved in the last decade, the latest data show the picture is mixed at best. In 70 of the 91 countries where shared prosperity could be studied, the bottom 40 percent of the income distribution experienced positive income growth between 2010 and 2015. In addition, in 51 of those 91 countries, the incomes of the bottom 40 grew faster than the average. Progress in East and South Asia has been more impressive with the bottom 40 percent growing annually by 4.7 percent and 2.6 percent respectively from 2010 to 2015. Latin America and the Caribbean saw less growth in shared prosperity than in the recent past. High-income countries and several low-income and fragile, conflict, and violence-affected (FCV) economies saw the incomes of the bottom 40 percent stagnating or even declining." (Hevorhebung von mir) (https://www.worldbank.org/en/topic/isp/overview)

Die United Nations schreiben zur Entwicklung des Hungers seit 1990:

"Globally, the number of people living in extreme poverty declined from 36 per cent in 1990 to 10 per cent in 2015. But the pace of change is decelerating and the COVID-19 crisis risks reversing decades of progress in the fight against poverty." (https://www.un.org/sustainabledevelopment/poverty/) 

Der Hunger sah jahrzehnte Lang einen Rückgang, steigt aber wieder leicht seit 2015:

" After decades of steady decline, the number of people who suffer from hunger – as measured by the prevalence of undernourishment – began to slowly increase again in 2015." (https://www.un.org/sustainabledevelopment/hunger/)

Hier konkrete Zahlen, auch von der FAO (Food and Agricultural Organization) vom Jahr 2015:

"About 795 million people are undernourished globally, down 167 million over the last decade, and 216 million less than in 1990–92. The decline is more pronounced in developing regions, despite significant population growth. In recent years, progress has been hindered by slower and less inclusive economic growth as well as political instability in some developing regions, such as Central Africa and western Asia. 

 The year 2015 marks the end of the monitoring period for the Millennium Development Goal targets. For the developing regions as a whole, the share of undernourished people in the total population has decreased from 23.3 percent in 1990–92 to 12.9 per cent. Some regions, such as Latin America, the east and southeastern regions of Asia, the Caucasus and Central Asia, and the northern and western regions of Africa have made fast progress. Progress was also recorded in southern Asia, Oceania, the Caribbean and southern and eastern Africa, but at too slow a pace to reach the MDG 1c target of halving the proportion of the chronically undernourished. J A total of 72 developing countries out of 129, or more than half the countries monitored, have reached the MDG 1c hunger target. Most enjoyed stable political conditions and economic growth, often accompanied by social protection policies targeted at vulnerable population groups."  (http://www.fao.org/3/a-i4646e.pdf)

Wenn man dem Human Development Index Glauben schenkt, der 2018 publiziert wurde, sieht man, dass in den letzten Jahrzehnten praktisch bei allen wichtigen Faktoren Fortschritt erzielt wurde:

"Looking back over almost three decades, all regions and human development groups have made substantial progress. The global HDI value in 2017 was 0.728, up about 21.7 percent from 0.598 in 1990. Across the world, people are living longer, are more educated and have greater livelihood opportunities. The average lifespan is seven years longer than it was in 1990, and more than 130 countries have universal enrolment in primary education. Although HDI values have been rising across all regions and human development groups, the rates vary significantly (see statistical table 2). South Asia was the fastest growing region over 1990–2017, at 45.3 percent, followed by East Asia and the Pacific at 41.8 percent and SubSaharan Africa at 34.9 percent (figure 3). The Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) countries, by contrast, grew 14.0 percent. The trends hold promise for reducing gaps in human development across regions." (http://hdr.undp.org/sites/default/files/2018_human_development_statistical_update.pdf)

Warum also werden diese Fortschritte nicht anerkannt?

Dies hängt vor allem damit zusammen, dass Personen das Gefühl haben, wir leben in einem "falschen" Wirtschaftssystem - was folglich zu der paradoxen Konsequenz führt, dass Fortschritte "trotz" des Wirtschaftssystems, in dem wir leben, und Rückschritte "aufgrund" des Wirtschaftssystems, in dem wir leben, geschehen. Wie diese beiden Sachen kausal begründet werden ist aber oftmals unbekannt.

Viele Aspekte des Lebens sind aber nach wie vor tragisch, das mag wohl niemand bestreiten. Und letztlich ist jede hungernde Person zu viel, jede leidende Person ebenso. Doch man muss unterscheiden zwischen den Aspekten des Lebens, die man verbessern kann und denjenigen, bei denen nicht klar ist, ob sie überhaupt verbessert werden können. Vor allem scheint es oft verwirrend, wenn im Namen von angeblich "idealen" (auch im pragmatischen Sinne) Zukunftszenarien die tatsächlichen Ansichten und die tatsächlichen Umstände und Leben der jetzigen Personen völlig ausser Acht gelassen werden.

Wie wäre es zum Beispiel, den Hunger zu bekämpfen, dafür aber einen Rückschritt bezüglich demokratischen Verhältnissen zu machen? Oder die Emissionen zu senken, dafür aber eine Reduzierung des Wohlstands in Kauf zu nehmen? Manchmal scheinen diese Fragen einfach, aber es ist wichtig zu sehen, dass man sich immer auch Unvorhergesehenes einkauft, wenn man Ideale in der realen Welt umsetzen möchte. Und vor allem muss jede Bewegung, die versucht eine Aenderung zu bewirken, die tatsächlichen Herausforderungen von tatsächlichen Menschen und Individuen im Kopf behalten.

Es wird womöglich nie ein leidfreies Dasein geben. Es wird womöglich auch nie eine Welt geben, in der konfliktlos Politik betrieben werden kann. Ein gesunder Pragmatismus, sowohl bezüglich Lösungen als auch bezüglich den Ansichten und Wünschen von Personen, ist immer angebracht und kann oftmals zu den besten Ergebnissen führen. Wie die Klimakrise zum Beispiel die schlechtesten Eigenschaften der Menschen zum Vorschein gebracht hat, so hat sie auch eine Bewegung erschaffen, welche die besten Aspekte der Menschen repräsentiert. Des Lebens Tragik wird nie vollständig aus der Welt geschaffen werden können. Und dementsprechend sollte das auch nicht das Ziel sein. Das Ziel sollte sein, ein Umfeld zu schaffen, in dem ein Grossteil von Personen von ähnlichen Bedingungen profitieren können und in dem dieselben Personen vor Willkür und Naturgewalt geschützt leben können.

[fabiansteinhauer]

Bilder müssen bestritten werden

1.

Prior to thought we have first to imagine. As the art historian Didi-Huberman has lengthily expounded, this priority of the image is the starting point, the transition to thinking, the opening of the viewer to the opening of the viewed. Our tendency, particularly juristically, is to immobilize the image, to treat it ex post facto as a dead thing, a mere representation of a static or filmed scene. The depiction is viewed as a capture and incarceration of what is viewed, a closed and unchanging portrait of person, thing or event as external to, and without relation to the viewer.

To open the image, for Didi-Huberman, is to open to it and engage with it as a living, ambulatory, historical and changing form that exists transiently in relation to the active gaze that unlocks it and is opened up by it. What this means in terms of jurisliterature is that the opening of legal texts to the use of images, the increasing importance of imagery not only as evidence, but now also as part of adversarial argument and of the judicial reasoning of decisions increas-ingly invokes a more expansively humanistic and diversely aestheticapproach to law’s transmission.

2.

Das hat Goodrich richtiges und wichtig gesagt. Aber weil zur Wahrheit gehört, vollständig auszusagen und nichts hinzuzufügen und nichts Wesentliches wegzulassen will ich noch etwas ergänzen. Bevor wir denken müssen wir 'imaginieren', ja ja. Aber um imaginieren zu können, also zum Beispiel sich etwas vorstellen, seine Einbildungskraft und Sinne aktivieren zu können müssen wir etwas verzehren, zum Beispiel einen Kaffee und ein Stück Schokolade, ohne Stoffwechsel geht es nicht. Prior to imagination we have to devour.

Und bevor das geschieht muss man motiviert sein, überhaupt etwas oder weiter zu machen. Da empfiehlt eine alte Technik, morgens als aller erstes, noch bevor man einen Kaffee macht und die Schokolade auspackt, sein Bett zu machen. Dann hat man nämlich schon als erstes etwas erfolgreich erledigt, perfekt in Ordnung gebracht, das kleine und leicht zu habende Erfolgserlebnis hebt die Zuversicht. Noch vorher sollten wir wiederum schlafen, am besten ausschlafen, also (um genug Zeit zu haben) früh ins Bett gehen und früh aufstehen. Prior to thougt, imagine and devour, to keep out bed tidy and to sleep well we have to behave, like, you know, for example, mmmmh... Fabian behaves.

2.

Ernst beseite. Mir ist nicht ganz klar, was die Jungs immer mit ihren Prioritäten, Leitmedien, ihren Spitzen und Superlativen, ihrer Größe und Wichtigkeit, ihren gründlichsten Gründen haben. Didi-Huberman hebt in seinen Texten zur Öffnung mit einem Hinweis auf Argus hervor, dass das geöffnete Auge austrocknet, es muss geschlossen werden. Kann man das nicht auch den Studentinnen und Studenten, für die dieser Text, der eine Einleitung sein soll, nicht auch verraten? Mir ist also nicht klar, was die Jungs immer mit ihren Priors haben, ich habe aber einen Verdacht, was Goodrich damit hat: Er richtet eine große, monumentale Referenz ein, da hat er schon den Pierre Legendre im Blick und damit eine Psychoanalyse, deren römischer Rest es allmählich verdient hätte, auch in der Rechtswissenschaft warburgesker rezipiert zu werden (statt Warburg wiederum nur als ein 'psychoanalytisch-freudianischen' Patienten oder ein Subjekt mit den drei Instanzen der Psychoanalyse zu behandeln).

3.

Das Problem, das Goodrich anspricht, die Frage nach dem Verhältnis zwischen Bild und Recht, das gibt es doch auch ohne Priorität. Mietrecht ist doch auch dann ein Problem, wenn die Geburt des Menschen nicht aus dem Geist der Miete erfolgt ist, wenn Gott kein Vermieter und die Welt nicht gemietet ist.

Goodrich spitzt etwas zu, why not? Weil das falsch wäre, wenn man damit aus dem Problem aussteigt, sprich: aus dem, was vorgeht und was Ursprung und Ziel der Wiederholung ist: Die Differenz. Und darum: Bilder müssen bestritten werden. Die Hinweise auf Bildmacht, auf den 'Grund der Bilder', auf die Causa, die Bilder sein sollen, gerinnen immer wieder, werden aber auch immer wieder hohl.

Eventuell versucht Goodrich mit seinem Hinweis darauf, wie wichtig und mächtig Bilder seien, jene Leute von seinem Thema zu überzeugen, deren Thema nicht das Bild ist. Viel Erfolg, ich glaube nicht mehr daran, dass so etwas funktioniert. Wem sich keine Fragen stellen, dem lassen sich keine Fragen aufdrängen. Das funktioniert allenfalls wie Strohfeuer, aus den Augen, aus dem Sinn.

Die zitierte Passage beginnt mit Späßen und Geheisch für Leute, von denen man meint, sie müssten eingeführt werden. Aber dann dreht sich was. Didi-Huberman sprengt nämlich das Legendre'sche Korsett, in dem Goodrich seit Jahren argumentiert, und das ist gut so. Das Bild lebt, es lebt nach, es schrumpelt zur Mumie, bläht sich auf und wird verpupst. Das Bild ist ambulatorisch, ein kalter Flur mit kopfschmerzendem Licht und ohne Schatten, in dem man nur dann auftaucht, wenn man muss, sonst vergisst man ihn, und wem man dort eben doch dankbar begegnete, den erkennt man am nächsten Tag nicht mehr, wenn er im Bus neben einem sitzt.

Das Bild ist ein Changeling, ein Wechselbalg, Kuckuckskind und Killer des Star-Wars Universums, Killer der Träume, seine Form wechselt. Mehr noch: es ist bewegt und bewegt. Es ruft nach Engagement und nach Degagement (Flusser). Goodrich, streif den Didi-Huberman weiter, verschlinge ihn weiter und verschlinge endlich mal den Warburg dazu, du kannst doch ruhig bei den fantastischen Texten von Didi-Huberman über Warburg anfangen.

Statt dessen streift Goodrich weiter und kommt gleich wieder auf den hohlen Vermehrungsdiskurs, diesmal in Form der gesteigerten Bedeutung des Bildes für Beweisfragen. Das ist doch alles unbestreitbar und gerade darum hohl. Die Rechtswissenschaft ist nicht eine Bildwissenschaft, wenn sie erkennt, wie wichtig Bilder seien, sondern wenn sie Bilder normiert und formiert und die Normierung und Formierung von Bildern handhabt. Sie ist keine Bildwissenschaft, weil sie und wenn sie Bilder übernimmt. Sie ist Bildwissenschaft, weil und wenn sie Bilder mitmacht, also jede Aktivität, jede Passivität, jede Medialität ausreizt. Das heißt, das Bild zu sprengen und es von Objekt zu Objekt, von Material zu Material, von Träger zu Träger, von Grund zu Grund, von Fahrzeug zu Fahrzeug, von Sinnen zu Sinnen und kreuz und quer, diagonal springen zu lassen. Das heißt, die Unterscheidung zwischen Bild und Nichtbild, zwischen Sichtbarkeit und Unsichtbarkeit, zwischen Ästhetik und Anästhesie mitzumachen.

[marblesarelost]

....after three/four fails, may have something.

Started post-apoc hillbilly setting, found myself suddenly in a pity thing, said no Cut the pity part, Huginn showed up, there was discussion of Hervor that I was not fond of, said no Started a space prison thing -- I mean, if you were a government and found out that the greatest engineer of legend, the literal forger of Excalibur and Joyeuse was still alive, wouldn’t you imprison him like King Nidur did? -- said no

Went back to post-apoc hillbilly setting and am poking about a bit w/the Ross Pack

No guarantees, but I’m feeling better about this than I did the others.  So.  We’ll see.  It’s in handwriting because Volundr deserves handwriting.

Norse history type folks and Norse Pagans -- were there wolf berserkers or were they all bears?

[rosheendubh]

Three swords there were, forged from elemental divinity--

Mimung, the weapon of the Waelsungs, split Brynhilde's heart and sped her to the embrace of her One Eyed God, wielded after, by Vortimer, Vortigern's son, of Sinfjotli's line, now Uter's (Ohthere's) blade, grim Ohthere, of two fathers sired upon unwilling Ygerna, Vortimer (Embreis Wledig), or perhaps of Egil-Ongentheow's seed, he vies with Onela (Aelle Bretwalda) for the soul of a nation, and a woman's heart...

Tyrfing, the doom of Arngrim's brood, that brave Hervor dared the barrows of her dead father's host, scorning sulfur and brimstone to retrieve metal cast to the Host of the Dead, shaming the fallen, seeking vengeance for slain brothers, sword recovered to living light, forever cursed to take life at price of unsheathing, whose hilt Onela's (Aelle Bretwalda's) strong hands now grip upon the Plains of Eboracum (York)...

The Sword of Ares, Sarmatian iron, born of stars, a virgin priestess's flesh mated in sacrament to the Stallion, King of Heaven, both sacrificed upon the alter of flame and blood, hammer and anvil, brought to the shores of Albion in the days of Empire's might, but as centuries passed, the Eagle decayed, raising Wolf and Raven and Mare, Venaura (Gwenhwyfar), gazes upon mighty Tyr's gift of blood-gold justice, bride of death, Raven Queen and Horse Goddess, daughter of blessed Saranyu who settled her nation upon the Isle of Mists centuries gone, and centuries gone, where this child of Peteova, Lady of the Cawnur, and her Beltane lover, Palomydez (Pabo Pillar of Prydain), Alani war-lord, once commanded fire from heaven, ripping through her mother's flesh, melting sinew with lightening-struck oak, petrified water-fused stone, blade clutched in her mother's hand, symbol of defiance against Egil-Ongentheow's invading host, salvaging a tormented island, where now his sons war, Onela (Aelle Bretwalda) and Uter (Ohthere), for supremacy over Albion's clashing tribes, and in one desperate hour, does Uter send harrowing word for aid of the North, and Venaura at long-last, asks grieving Palomydez, her true-father unknown, enjoin the war and sway the battle-tide, but bitter Palomydez, stubborn yet, refuses in contempt of the southern lords he blames for Petoeva's death, sword cleaved to oak-fired stone, petrified flesh, cold memory of his bright queen's sacrifice, until this moment when her daughter, whose spirit blazes like a thousand suns from gray eyes, stands proud before his hall, voice strong above the storm lashing through the vaulted chamber, she summons Aesir and Don, bearing in her clenched fingers the ghost-banner of Old Brigantia, insignia of Iazyge, Roman, and Briton, calling the God's fire once more from heaven in a blast that blinds his court, and bades men take shelter beneath table or bench, freeing star-iron from stone, so that Venaura, Peteova's proud daughter, frees the Sword of Ares born aloft once more, into the world of men--

"In the name of the Women of Albion, and Valentia between the Walls, I summon your One-Eyed god out of Shadow, and your queen, Palomydez, summons your horse-lords to war..."

~~

Graphic, a result of me goofing around with PhotoLayers App, and ToonyTools online editing.

Verbosity, me droning in stream of conscience with highlights of how I see Uther's tale (and later, Arthur's) evolving with Gwenhwyfar's. Here, she’s based off a combo of Gwen, the daughter of Cunedda Wledig, and Gwenabwy (in my poor reverse linguistics, that’s actually Uindavia/Uendabhia), who’s the daughter of *Cawnur*, the sister of Gildas, Cywyllog, and Huail (from the delusional pedigrees of the Lives of the British Saints). Indeed, here Uther is actually adapted from the character of Ohthere (and in some bit, Amlwedd/Amlothi/Hamlet), who exists in some convoluted way, referenced as Vendel nobility, Ylfingas and Ynglingas (basically, Odin-Tyr progeny and Freyr progeny; Hamlet, and it’s predecessor Danish tale of Amothi/Ambhla-Odr, is basically another version, where Orwandil and Feng are representations of Odin/Tyr and Ingvi-Freyr. Somehow, Orwandil is also Egil-Ongentheow, which is also Angantyr. He shows up in various Anglo-Saxon genealogies as Angentheow/Angengeot). Amlothi marries both a northern British princess, and then a Scottish queen who was infamous for killing all her male suitors until she falls in love with Amlothi. Later, in Amlothi’s lay, the Scottish queen marries Wigleck, the adversary and new Danish king, and founds the line of East Anglians via Offa Anglian.  Anyone whose ever read Widsith, and Beowulf, and any of the Swedish/Danish/Norwegian/Geat dynastic sagas knows how very convoluted are the pseudo-histories and personages. At the end of the day, I love the take of Aelle Bretwalda, something of a misplaced Teutonic invader, without any lineage, and 3 sons whose names supply locations in Sussex (Cymen, Cissa, Wlencing—my Lancelot/Gwallawg ap Lleenog, of the next generation with Arthur...who’s Vortiporius in my take), as Ale (Norse version of Onela’s name), as the 1/2 brother of Uther. My whole justification here is that Uther’s name shares a parallel meaning as Ohthere—terrible/fearsome warrior. Archaeology over the last few decades suggests something of a Swedish/possibly Geatish influx into East Anglia, from an earlier era (tentatively) based on the dating of certain artifacts, than traditionally believed. And possibly, the migration west of Mercian lines as East Anglian/Geatish pressure increased, reflecting a parallel migration of dynastic rivalries which followed them across the NorthSea board. The Sutton Hoo burial, and grave sites of mid-late 6th century/7th century East Anglia/The Norfolk-Suffolk areas allegedly have more features in common with the Swedish Vendel graves in southern Sweden than Anglian/continental Germanic burial sites of the same era. SOMETHING happened in Sweden/Denmark as well as Jutland that I believe involved late-Roman/Post-Roman Britain as well. Which leads me to wonder if the situation of the entire northern Seaboard all the way to the Baltic coast, isn’t a whole lot more complex than what our established theories reflect. Also, per poetic license, this circumstantial evidence allows me a bridge into fictional invite, proposing it’s Uther/Ohthere who becomes something of a prototype King Cnut/Canute, in my vision of his ambition, not of a Post-Roman Britain joined back with a dying Western Roman Empire which Constantinople refuses to concede, but a Britain united with the Nordic houses of Sweden/Daneland/Jutland, and reaching out to Theoderic the Great/Sexy Amalung to form some sort of Successor State confederacy, acting as a bulwark against Constantinople’s grasping influence, as well as the rising Frankish power of Clovis and the Merovingians. There’s reports Theoderic’s court of Ravenna hosted a Swedish king who’d sworn off his countrymen (Radulph—some scholars think he  may actually be the personage upon whom Hrolfr Kraki was based), as well as Theoderic harboring, like his 18th century presidential doppelgänger, Thomas Jefferson (who was forever fascinated by the Western mystique of the American frontier and her indigenous peoples), something of an enlightened interest in collecting whatever history or knowledge related to northern tribal peoples, like the (mistaken, but heavily advertised) notion of Geats and Goths sharing a common root heritage. 

This, This warped version finds inspiration from not just from the classic Brithish manuscripts or epics of Arthur, but combines Nordic legend/saga sources with late Roman figures synthesized with British/Germanic/Nordic figures. Story of Ongentheow and his sons, for starters. I have 2 notebook pages full up in finest logic tree form, like a jungle of neurons, detailing my convoluted interpretations and parallels of historic personages, and legendary/literary. 

Lastly, Something about Vortigern's geneology always bothered me, especially in his kinship with The Jutes, Hengist and Horsa. A piece submerged or missing, that made me wonder if he wasn't only British, but as with so many high-ranking military officers in the early 5/mid-th century, perhaps also shared some Germanic/Teutonic lineage, which would explain his partiality to the Jutes, and their willingness to serve him in Britain at his invite.  It’s recorded (in not very reliable sources), Vortigern’s father is a Vitalinus or Vitalis. A solidly Latin name, which shares a wonderful synchrony with Fitelis, the modified version of Sinfjotli, the son of Sigmund and Signy Waelsung, which relates back to the whole Brynhilde/Sigfrid/death of the Burgundians/ doom of Attila thread.  I’m actually just partial to Wotan and his symbolism with changing eras of history—war/rebellion/evolution/revolution/enlightenment. I also seem inclined to a symbolism of male characters as something like representations of that iconography, while my female characters act as mediums of inspiration for social/political reform, and logic/temperance/challenging the notion change only comes through violent upheaval. In lieu here, is a young Gwen, educated in Rome, as physician (of course...she does tie to Caroline Eleanor Graham later in preRev Paris), as ruler-philosopher, and yes, as a warrior in the style of nomadic horsewomen (how I bring in the character, Alardin as her tutor in these studies through her formative years exiled from Alba/Caledonia after her mother’s death).  I hate the warrior queen motif. Not that my perspective alleviates gross anachronism, but I’d rather suggest she’s a queen, or at least, per the tradition of Caledonian tribes around the Walls, it’s through marriage she conveys the right of rulership to the man she eventually selects as her husband. Until then, she rules/advises her father and older brother when her father invites her back from Rome finally. And later, when Uther’s wars require the companies of the Votadini (her tribe), she’s left ruling in her father/brother’s stead, until Uther asks for her intervention, to summon the Pictish tribes of the far north, and Pabo Post Prydein’s Alani heavy cavalry, who occupy the area of Rheged, I place in NW Cumbria and SW Scotland/Galloway-Dumfries. Rerigonium looks an awful lot like an inspiration for Rheged, IMHO. Also, oddly, according to the Lives of the British saints, Pabo shares some sort of weird root with Palomides (?.). So, I’d rather suggest, Gwen is a woman who becomes a queen, from a family of Romanized-buffer state Caledonians, and as any woman in a position of influence, raised in a volatile era, and volatile province, essentially defined as *frontier zone*, I’d rather think she was raised to be competent, and strong-willed, and perhaps, more talented/unconventional/resourceful than what might be expected in a more pacific time. As I would expect of other women, and their men as well—British/Roman/or Germanic-Nordic...

Anyway, as the whole tragedy of Waelsungs, the Burgundians, and later Britain ties back, according to the Eddic poems, and Wagner, to that tale of Andarvi’s gold, Otter, and a neck-ring from that cursed were-gild which comes into Gudrun’s hands, I have Gudrun as a grieving Abbess residing in Rome, the patron to whom Gwen is sent to be educated as a girl. They don’t have a good relationship at first—Gwen, a rebellious girl who hardly knew her mother, and resents her father for sending to a college of widowed and bitter women, and Gudrun, who mourns her daughter, Swanhilde, slaughtered in an act of betrayal, and now, lives lay to see her son, ERP/Hyrp, take the throne of Caesar. Don’t ask how, but legends say, Gudrun does have a son named ERP/Hyrp. Somehow, Erp/Hyrp relates to Eadowacer, and that name is a version of the eponymous Odovaver/Adavacrius who deposed the last emperor in 476. He ties in with the story of Gwen, and Theoderic the Great as well. Anyhow, that cursed treasure with it’s cursed neck-ring sits in a convent in a quite, genteely decaying corner of the old Capital. No one wants to touch it b/c it’s cursed, and by this point of Gwen’s maturing to a young, precocious woman, she knows the legacy and taint it has upon the Abbess Gudrun she’s come to love as her mother. So, she decides to enlist the best street gangs of the convent’s local neighborhood, various carpenters/construction crews/artisans/as well as river merchants who want a cut of profit, and retain their own armed guards, to basically revive the convent’s local marketplace, founding their local agricultural coop/and vendor sites, as well as establishing a neighborhood hospital (based of St Galla’s, I think), and to add one more twist to Wotan’s cursed treasure, she takes the neck ring, and has it melted/redrafted into surgical implements which, to her delight, NEVER rust. And have amazing antibacterial properties...as some metal alloys are known to possess. Anyway, that’s the same woman who, rather than Uther or Arthur (her son, by Uther and Theoderic), who pulls the Sword from the Stone, the Sword which took her mother’s life, if that made any sense, up above, to mend a dynastic feud of Northern British houses, which has embroiled her biological father (Pabo) and her acknowledged father, Cunedda, since Gwen’s mother sacrificed her life to fend off an invasion of Swedes when Gwen was a child. It’s the moment Gwen realizes she has the aptitude and the attitude to sovereignty in interests of her people, and claims rule of Valentia, that troublesome province of Count Theodosius dating back to 370AD, which has confounded modern scholars as to where Valentia was located. I place it between the Wall of Antoninus and Hadrian, to include the regions north and south of each those boundaries as well. Thus, she is, rather like Amlothi’s Scottish queen (no Scotland in late 5th/early 6th c...), The Queen of the North (ah, GRRMartin and HBO, I’ll never forgive you for Season8), and rallies the discordant tribes of the Pretani/Picts, and the Caledonians (those Lowland and Scottish Border regions)  to Uther’s aid, outside of Eboracum. Which is my draw from GeoffreyofMonmouth, and the HistoriaBrittonum, of Battle 8/The Battle Guinnion/TheWhiteFortress (don’t ask, but root words of Eboracum aside, either as  *yew tree*, in the British, the Latin root of *eburos* is ivory. And if you’ve been to York, they have those lovely white-trunked trees everywhere, and its Walls, albeit dating from the MiddleAges, must have been at least as magnificent, indestructible, and...white, even by the later quarter of the 400s AD. One of my favorite cities, and hope to back when the world’s not so crazy...). How the dynasty of Eleutherius and York/Eboracum becomes occupied by Teutonic forces, you ask? Ties with Germanic/Teutonic royalty, of course, but resolving that takes up way too much precious Tumblr space already.  Rambles done, other than to add, the description of Cath Goddeu/The Battle of the Trees, from Welsh poetic sources, makes for wonderful mythic depiction of the Men of the North, and their Queen, advancing with a rising storm we all know is the Wild Hunt. And in the case of Gwen bearing the Sword of the Sarmatians/Iayzyges that had once belonged to the company of the long dead Artorius Castus, and his Brigantian Queen, who herself, once united a warring island in its desperate hour, Venaura’s actions have roused the old Guardians of Albion, the ghosts of Sarmati and their horse-lords, riding with their Alani scions of Rheged, in the name of the Women of Albion. My nod to William Blake, as Nemiane (my late 2nd c Romano-Brigantian military surgeon/Artorius’s lover), Gwen, and Caroline—the Scottish lady physician who becomes Jefferson’s lover in 18th c Paris, all find some reflection in the themes of Blake’s monumental mythicism. Thus, I believe we start this work with Blake, writing Vision of the Women of Albion...

[breadedsinner]

I have largely seen Carver paired with elf OCs, and that's very cool and valid. However --and I say this with love--early game Carver has problems I believe can only be truly solved by dwarf pussy.

[nimblermortal]

Every paragraph with this woman is a delight

So, I mentioned that she has Penric problems, by which I mean Orphans of Raspay, by which I mean while she was screaming WAKEY WAKEY COUGH UP THE GOODS at liches in their own tombs, her crew was trembling on the deck of a ship off the coast of the relevant island, and they got skeered and scarpered. So she had to live on the island until she could get passage, and wound up at the court of King Gudmund of Glasisvellir.

Now, sagas differ on just where Glasisvellir is, but in this saga it's between the northernmost regions of Norway and, uh, Jotunheim. It's on the border with fairyland. And Hervor obviously becomes the darling of the king's court, and he just haaaappens to have a fully-grown son who's a lawyer.

Now that's boyfriend material.

But! She does not date him! In fact, she just hangs out claiming to be Hervard again, until King Gudmund is losing at board games And How, until he asks the open court if anybody can advise him out of this dilemma, and Hervor wanders over. She's excelling at the task when some rando notices she left her sword (her magic sword! that she worked so hard for!) at the table (Tyrfing! that cannot be drawn without being the death of someone!) and has the bright idea to draw it and marvel at what a good blade it is.

So Hervor steps back, takes Tyrfing from him, whacks off his head, and leaves.

Now King Gudmund's court is trying to egg each other on to go kill this most excellent champion when Gudmund, with the prescience of kings, suggests that maybe killing him would be a bad idea.

An interesting aspect of Gudmund is that he speaks in poetry, by which I mean his syntax is all over the place and I think this is intentional to make him seem more ethereal/foreign, but it's dratted annoying. Here's my current best shot at a translation, because I think it's fascinatingly trans:

"It will seem to y'all a lesser revenge on this man than you intend, because I understand him to be a woman."

so they decide not to kill Hervor/Hervard again, and instead:

Hervor went to be a viking and was raiding a while, and when she tired of being so she went to Jarl Bjarmar (the granddad she grew up with) and sat down with her embroidery. There were then many questions about her peacefulness.

Yeah, I bet there were. The balls on this woman.

[techniktagebuch]

26. Februar 2005

Durch Ahnungslosigkeit geraten wir in Gefahr, durch Technik wieder heraus

“On any extended trip away from the Highway it is wise to tell someone back home your exact itinerary and expected return date. Your safety in Algonquin Park - as anywhere else - is ultimately your own responsibility.”

Der Algonquin-Park. Wir wissen nicht, warum wir hier sind und was das alles soll, aber mal sehen. So oder sehr ähnlich erklären wir es dem Parkwächter, der misstrauisch nach unseren Plänen fragt, wobei man sein Misstrauen verstehen kann, denn vor ihm stehen Menschen mit einer Landkarte, die ungefähr zehn mal zehn Zentimeter groß ist. Letzlich lässt er uns gehen, denn sollten wir erfrieren, würden Jahre vergehen, bis man uns findet, und bis dahin ist er in Pension. Dafür haben wir gesorgt, indem wir bei unserer Abreise in Toronto auf die Frage nach unseren Plänen die präzise Angabe "we don't know yet, but certainly not Niagara Falls" hinterlassen haben. Es gibt im Algonquin drei Sorten Trails, sagt unser Faltblatt: Für einige braucht man Wochen, für andere wenige Minuten, und ein einziger ist wirklich brauchbar. Er heißt “Mizzy Lake Trail”, sein Leitmotiv: “Wildlife”, seine Länge: 11 km. Übrigens: Im Algonquin-Park leben etwa 200 Wölfe. Außerdem 2.000 Bären, aber die liegen jetzt natürlich im Winterschlaf.

“For safety reasons, trail users should ensure they allow enough time to be off trails in daylight hours.”

Wir parken am Anfang des Mizzy Lake Trail und fotografieren noch schnell für alle Fälle die Karte:

Aus der Tatsache, dass auf diesem Foto die Reflektion eines Blitzlichts zu sehen ist, hätten umsichtigere Gemüter vielleicht irgendwelche Schlüsse gezogen. “Allow 6 hours to do it properly” heißt es neben der Karte. Wir lachen. Sicherlich sind damit Rentner mit Gehhilfen gemeint. Der Weg ist zwar nur knapp einen halben Meter breit, aber dafür schön festgetrampelt. Tritt man daneben, bricht man prompt bis zur Hüfte ein. Aber wir treten natürlich nicht daneben. Noch nicht.

“On day trips you should always keep careful track of the time and your progress. Especially on longer trips, you should always advise somebody where you are going and for how long. As sensible precautions you should carry a first aid kit, waterproof matches, spare socks and wool mittens, an extra sweater or vest, a spare ski tip, electrical tape, and a small piece of wire or nylon cord to repair poles or bindings. You can easily carry all of these items in a small day pack along with your lunch and thermos.”

Der Weg schlängelt sich durch Wälder und an zugefrorenen Seen entlang und ist dabei überall tadellos auffindbar und hervorragend markiert. Bis auf eine Stelle, an der er sich gabelt. Diese Stelle ist auf der Karte eingezeichnet und bezeichnet den Beginn einer Abschweifung, die hin und zurück etwa drei Kilometer lang ist und nirgendwohin führt, das aber bergauf. Natürlich erinnern wir uns nicht mehr an die Karte und halten es auch nicht für nötig, sie zu Rate zu ziehen, denn rechts ist schließlich die gut sichtbare blaue Markierung. Wir halten uns rechts und erkennen den Irrtum genau am Ende der Sackgasse. Zum ersten Mal kratzen wir uns am Kopf und machen "Hm!". Aber nur sehr kurz, denn wir sind schnell wieder zurück, fühlen uns hervorragend, höhnen über Robert F. Scott, und der Sonnenuntergang hier in der Wildnis sieht phantastisch aus. “Sonnenuntergang?” “Hm!”

“Algonquin in Winter: At night you have the possibility of hearing the wild howls of wolves beneath star-studded skies.”

Auf diesem Bild ist die Sonne gerade untergegangen. Das beunruhigt uns nicht weiter, denn links neben dem Bildausschnitt steht ein Pfahl mit der Aufschrift “9″. Wir befinden uns also bei Kilometer 9 von 11 und es sind noch zwanzig Minuten bis zum Auto. So glauben wir jedenfalls, denn wir werden erst im Laufe des nächsten Tages begreifen, dass es sich bei diesen Markierungen um Hinweise auf durchnummerierte Sehenswürdigkeiten entlang des Weges handelt. Davon können wir auch nichts wissen, denn die Handzettel mit Erklärungen, die normalerweise in Fächern unterhalb der Karte am Einstieg angeboten werden, gibt es nur im Sommer. Selbst wenn wir wüssten, dass wir zu diesem Zeitpunkt tatsächlich erst zwei Drittel der Strecke zurückgelegt haben, wären wir nicht sonderlich beunruhigt. Was soll uns schon passieren? Wir besitzen eine Taschenlampe, ein GPS-Gerät, wärmende Funktionsunterwäsche, Getränke, Lebensmittel und eine Rettungsdecke (jeweils im Auto, wo auch die Rucksäcke liegen, in denen man das alles hätte transportieren können) sowie Winterjacken (in Toronto respektive Berlin) und wärmende Fußbekleidung (in der Nähe von Fulda). Außerdem gibt es entlang der Strecke “Emergency Barrels”, deren Standort auf guten Karten des Gebiets eingezeichnet ist; natürlich nicht auf unserer. Macht auch nichts, denn wir haben einen Schokoriegel (”Kitkat Peanut Crunch”) sowie zwei bis drei Vitaminbonbons.

Es wird jetzt allmählich dunkler, aber der Weg ist noch ganz gut zu erkennen. Das Faltblatt behauptet, daß die Dämmerung und die ersten Nachtstunden die ideale Zeitspanne sind, um richtig wilden Tiere zu begegnen. Außerdem soll man sich vorzugsweise auf den speziell für Tierbegegnungen vorgesehen Wegen aufhalten, insbesondere also auf dem Mizzy Lake Trail. Das klingt plausibel, denn Spuren von sehr großen Tieren gibt es hier, oh ja, auch Haare. Wir haben also alles richtig gemacht: Die jetzt undurchdringlichen Sumpfwälder ringsum sind wahrscheinlich voller Leben. Aleks besitzt fünfzehn Bücher über Wölfe, aus denen er weiß, dass Wölfe in Wirklichkeit gar keine Menschen fressen. “Wieso eigentlich nicht?”, frage ich, “sie fressen doch auch sonst alles Mögliche, z.B. Bisons”. – “Hm.” Wir fürchten uns selbstverständlich trotzdem nicht, denn jetzt, wo wir langsamer vorankommen, ist uns kalt. Für diese Nacht sind minus neunzehn Grad vorhergesagt. Der Schleim in der Nase friert ein.

“Eigentlich kann uns im Dunkeln gar nichts passieren.” – “Hm.” – “Man merkt ja, wo kein Weg ist, weil man rechts und links davon gleich einbricht.” – “Hm.” – “Und die blauen Markierungen an den Bäumen müsste man wenigstens als runde Flecken erkennen können.” – “Hm.” – “Nur die Bäume werden zum Problem.” Die Gedanken kreisen um einen Raum, irgendeinen Raum, egal wo, wichtig ist nur der Drehschalter an der Wand, den man nur nach rechts drehen muß, um es warm zu haben. Natürlich haben wir zu diesem Zeitpunkt noch keine Ahnung, ob es so einen Raum für uns wirklich gibt. “Übernachtung machen wir hinterher.” Außerdem gibt es am Parkeingang “heated washrooms that remain open 24 hours throughout the winter”.

Man kann jetzt schon ziemlich viele Sterne sehen. Orion, erklärt Aleks, der Astronom, sei im Februar um diese Uhrzeit schon wieder im Sinken begriffen und stehe deshalb im Westen. Wir laufen also nach Westen statt nach Süden und hätten eigentlich schon vor einer halben Stunde am Auto sein sollen. Das ist, gelinde gesagt, verwirrend. Sind wir etwa versehentlich wieder auf den Anfang des Wegs geraten und laufen jetzt schon die zweite Runde? Diese Bäume da sehen irgendwie bekannt aus, aber so ist das nun mal mit Bäumen und zugefrorenen Seenlandschaften im Dunkeln. Später wird sich herausstellen, dass Orion natürlich die ganze Zeit im Süden gestanden hat, was mich zu harten Worten über Aleks' Berufsstand veranlasst.

Es ist jetzt, man muß es so deutlich sagen, dunkel. Wir überqueren einen See, ungefähr den zehnten oder zwölften, obwohl es angeblich nur sechs sein sollten. Wir sprechen nicht offen darüber, aber es ist offensichtlich: Wir haben keine Ahnung, wo wir gerade sind. Es mag sein, daß wir gerade wieder nach Norden laufen, weg von der Zivilisation, in Richtung Finsternis, Wildnis, Tiere. War nicht die Straße vor einer halben Stunde zu hören und ist es jetzt nicht mehr? Waren wir nicht schon einmal an diesem verdammten See? Wann war eigentlich die letzte Wegmarkierung? Könnte man, also nur theoretisch, eine Nacht hier draußen überleben? Nur so ein Gedanke. Dann verlassen wir den See und betreten den Wald, und jetzt ist es wirklich dunkel.

Ich gehe voran und breche alle drei Meter ein, also sehr selten, denn der Weg ist nur noch eine leichte Delle in einer an Dellen nicht armen Umgebung. Die blauen Markierungen an den Bäumen sind noch gut zu erkennen, wenn man direkt davor steht. Dann klopfen wir darauf, damit der andere auch weiß, dass wir uns noch auf dem richtigen Weg befinden. "Hm!" sagen wir hin und wieder. Dann erklimmen wir eine Anhöhe, und da sind die funkelnden Lichter des Highway. Der Parkplatz kann nicht weiter als fünfhundert Meter entfernt sein. “Geh du mal nach vorn”, sage ich, “das ist nämlich anstrengend.” Aleks wechselt in die Führungsposition, wir steigen die Anhöhe auf der anderen Seite wieder hinab und brechen ein. Wir kehren um und brechen wieder ein. Abwechselnd irren wir in verschiedene Richtungen und kehren schneebedeckt zurück. “Da ist der Weg auch nicht.” – “Eben war er aber noch da.” – “Hier ist er doch noch. Oder?” Diese Konversation wiederholt sich so lange, bis wir in diverse Richtungen festgetretene, plausibel wirkende Pfade erzeugt haben. Ich ziehe die Handschuhe aus, taste auf dem Boden herum und finde dabei zwar nicht den Weg, aber immerhin heraus, dass nasse Hände bei zweistelligen Minusgraden die Laune nicht heben. “Dunkler”, sage ich, “braucht es meinetwegen jetzt nicht mehr zu werden!” In Douglas Adams' Wörterbuch “The Meaning of Liff” heißt der Vorgang des Suchens an Stellen, an denen man vorher schon dreimal gesucht hat, “kelling”. Nach mehr als ausführlichem Kelling kündige ich einen hervorragenden Plan an und fotografiere den Wald mit Blitzlicht. Auf dem so entstandenen Bild wird sich der Weg ohne Probleme ausmachen lassen.

Na gut. Vielleicht müssen wir doch sterben.

Aus dem zweiten Foto geht immerhin schon hervor, dass sich der Weg auch dort nicht befindet, sondern lediglich diverse Spuren blind umhertappender Narren. Aber wo soll er sonst sein, der Weg?

Beim Nachdenken bemerke ich ein eigenartiges Phänomen: “Hey! Da kommt ja Licht hinten aus meiner Kamera!” Das zweite Bild ist so schön weiß, dass das Display der Kamera eine kleine, grünliche Lichtpfütze spendet, mit deren Hilfe der Weg binnen dreißig Sekunden aufgefunden wird. Hurra! Wir sind gerettet! “Wenn der Akku nicht gleich leer ist”, wendet Aleks hoffnungsvoll ein, der gar nicht so schnell gerettet, sondern lieber von Wölfen großgezogen werden wollte. Aber der Akku hält durch, was nicht weiter schwer ist, denn nach fünf Minuten stehen wir auf dem Parkplatz. Über uns sind 5.800 bis 8.000 Sterne zu sehen, das sind etwa 5.800 bis 8.000 Sterne mehr als z.B. in Berlin, und sie sind ganz nah, und niemand hat wirklich mit ihnen gerechnet. “Oh”, sagen wir, und dann "Hast du den Autoschlüssel?"

(Kathrin Passig / Aleks Scholz, zuerst veröffentlicht im “Wir höflichen Paparazzi”-Forum)

[penguinonmars]

Aquellos ojos verdes

I keep this picture on the wall of my room, it was gift from Gloria, my beloved friend from Viareggio. We are big fans of Mucha’s style and his mystical poster girls. The ethereal glamour of art nouveau captured. But aside from the beauty of the picture this red headed beast-taming babe speaks to me about my history with women who wield stares like they’re guns.

I often speak to Gloria about my grandmother Lupita. The one who told me that you should always test a car before you buy it (have sex before getting married), or to always keep candles lit, because you never know (have options). In part I shared these tales with Gloria because her grandma is also like that. Asking Gloria once about the penis size of a wealthy boyfriend she used to have. Rich and big dick? Keep him. We both come from a legacy of fiery women.

But I also tell her these stories because somehow Gloria reminds me of my mother. They’re both sea witches. Sharing the story of the strong vieja chingona who struggled to feel understood in her small coast town. She would kill for those dunes, but couldn’t stay there for long. Going against what her mother wanted, expected, smothered. She carries wounds of the rage that carried her out of it all. Or at least that’s the narrative I imagine.

And so, in a way, projecting my family’s history on my friend has made me inhabit a particular closeness to her. Seeing how some gestures or stories pull   invisible threads to Norma, my mother, and Lupe and Guaymas. And so, naturally, with this strings at play, I knew it was an act of magic when the girl from Viareggio gave me a beautiful post card of a woman with penetrating green eyes, round face and an inviting yet intense gesture. That’ my grandmother. Those fierce eyes would look at me when I was a child and sing to me songs about woodcutters being fed bones because they wanted cheese.

Lupita hated to be called abuela, she preferred something sweeter, abuelita. She was sharp, practical and a big romantic. Not your poster of a cookie baking sweet abuelita.

For several years we shared a room. I liked being servile and quiet around her, I remember enjoying so much when she said I was considerate and nice and handsome. I loved paying the small price of chores for the devotion. Of course I was greedy about it, and I secretly enjoyed when she compared me to my less tamed sister. But being put on a pedestal has always made me mean. To this day I remember with some shame that I once yelled at her. I was probably eight and my parents were giving me trouble for something and I told a lie, and my grandma, bullshit detector as she was, caught me on the lie and I was furious. I raged and cried and screamed that she didn’t know anything. I remember I was so mad and throwing a tantrum. I made her cry. Petty spoiled brat. I don’t remember the consequences of this story, but the scene comes back at me sometimes.

Desde que me acuerdo, la gente habla de lo bonitos que eran sus ojos. Verdes verdes. Nos contaba que para ir a los bailes, se echaba unas gotas de limón para que le brillaran toda la noche. Llevaba una libretita para anotar la larga lista de hombres en fila que le pedían una pieza para bailar. Le encantaba hablar de sus ligues. Algún marino muy guapo en Veracruz. Algún abogado catrín que le llevaba flores. Una vez nos contó de uno con el que la cosa iba seria, llevaban meses y en un evento público (el muy pendejo) le gritoneó. Mi abuela ya se había visto con él para largo pero eso no se lo toleró. Nunca más lo volvió a ver. Te tiras en la cama a llorar dos días y al tercero te poner guapa y a salir como si nada, nos dijo una vez. A lo que sigue.

Los ojazos de Lupita no solo eran verdes y bellos, también eran amenazantes. Aún en el tiempo que le costaba mucho trabajo pararse y necesitaba ayuda para comer, su mirada era altiva, orgullosa. Muchas veces no tenía necesidad de hablar, una inflexión de la ceja era suficiente para saber que alguna regla de etiqueta se había roto, que el piso necesitaba una tercera trapeada o solo para desarmar. Un sentado de pierna cruzada regio desde el que un dedo apuntaba a toda la familia qué hacer aquí, allá, qué tan fina la cebolla, qué tanto hervor al caldo.

Ella y las navidades me hicieron encontrar el sitio más íntimo del hogar al sentarse a picar ingredientes. Donde se vuelven a contar los mismos mitos fundacionales de la familia una y otra vez. El bis abuelo boticario que fue rico pero no supo actualizar el negocio a tiempo. Mamá Bertha que ponía a todas las muchachas a limpiar cuadro por cuadro del piso con una jerga. La vez que de niña, mi mamá iba tarde a la escuela y mi abuela la puso a lavarse los dientes con algo que no hacía espuma y que después de muchas quejas resultó ser pomada para las rozaduras. La manzana se tenía que picar finita para el puré pero no tanto que se hiciera nada.

Durante los años en los que compartíamos cuarto, Lupita me llevaba a la cerámica con ella por las tardes. Básicamente era un club de señoras que se conocían del colegio de sus hijos y se juntaban a pintar sobre figurines kitsch de cerámica mientras chismeaban. La especialidad de mi abuela fueron primero las bailarinas, luego migró a las fachadas de casas tipo california del siglo XIX y las mujeres morenas con cántaros en la cabeza. Alguna vez pinté yo también, hice una ranita y un osito. Me acuerdo que era un proceso largo de muchas capas. No entendía porque la rana no podía ser solo verde y ya. Quien daba las clases y en verdad sabía hacer las cosas era Arturo. Se referían a Arturo con pronombres masculinos. Arturo llevaba el pelo largo y pintado, blusas floreadas, pechos, uñas pintadas y casi siempre mucho maquillaje. Mi abuela se llevaba bien con Arturo y nunca me dijo nada malo. Recuerdo tener mucha curiosidad y hacer preguntas de por qué Arturo se veía así. Sus respuestas solían estar del lado de encogerse de hombros sin sobresalto y no darle importancia.

Solíamos ver la tele juntos. Ventaneando y alguna que otra telenovela. En una de las telenovelas había un personaje gay y recuerdo que una vez que dijo que a “esos” había que tenerles respeto porque se podían poner muy bravos si los molestaban. No sé si me notaba la manita caída pero recuerdo sentir una especie de tranquilidad a su no-rechazo.

Por mucho tiempo mucho tiempo mi abuelita nos dijo a mi hermana y a mí que ella quería vivir para ver a ella casarse y a mí graduándome con barba. No sé si decía eso por cánones de género o si porque ya se veía venir cómo me iba a ir en el amor. Pero igual el 13 de septiembre del 2019 me gradué de una maestría en ciencias e ingeniería con una barba a medio crecer. Aquí sigues, Pi. En las historias que soy y que cuento. En la postal en mi pared. En mis amigas incondicionales. En la mirada penetrante.

[skirwitte]

Hervararkviða - The Incantation of Hervor (1763)

Translated by Thomas Percy

Some quick notes: Tirfing the sword is one of those cursed objects that is fairly common in older “legendary” sagas; and by cursed I mean it literally has to kill someone every time it’s unsheathed. And it’s blades are poisonous. So it’s both a warrior’s best asset (which is why Hervor reallyyyy wants it) and worst enemy, depending on the situation. It was made by the dwarves Dvalinn and Durinn (*cough cough*) and was also kept merged into a rock for a while (*COUGH COUGH*). Basically all I wanna say is originality never existed. Let’s begin.

Hervor

Awake, Agantyr!; Hervor, the only daughter of thee and Suafu, doth awaken thee. Give me, out of the tomb, the hardened sword, which the dwarfs made for Suafurlama,

Hervardur, Hiovardur, Hrani and Agantyr; with helmet and coat of mail, and a sharp sword; with shield and accountrements and bloody spear, I wake you all under the roots of trees.

Are the sons of Andgrym, who deligthed in mischief, now become dust and ashes? Can none of Eyvor’s sons now speak with me out of the habitations of the dead? Hervardur, Hiovardur!

So may you all be, within your ribs, as a thing that is hanged up to putrefy among insects, unless you deliver me the sword, which the dvarves made, and the glorious belt.

[Here the tomb opens, the inside of which appears all on fire, and the following words are sung out of the tomb.]

Angantyr

Daughter Hervor, full of spells to raise the dead, why doest thou call so? Wilt thou run on thy own mischief? Thou art mad and out of thy senses, who are desperately resolved to waken dead men.

I was not buried either by father or other friends; two which lived after me got Tirfing (the sword); one of whom is now possessor thereof.

Hervor

Thou dost not tell the truth. So let Odin preserve thee fate in the tomb, as thou hast not Tirfing by thee. Art thou willing, Angantyr, to give an inheritance to thy only child?

Angantyr

I will tell thee, Hervor, what will come to pass: this Tirfing will, if thou dost believe me, destroy almost all thy offspring. Thou shalt have a son, who afterwards must posess Tirfing, and many think they will be called Heidrek by the people.

Hervor

I do by inchantments make that the dead shall never enjoy rest unless Angantyr deliver me Tirfing; that cleaveth shields and killed Hialmar.

Angantyr

Young maid, I fay, thou art of man-like courage, who dost rove about by night to tombs, with spear engraven with magic spells (runes), with helmet and coat of mail, before the door of our hall.

Hervor

I took thee for a brave men, before I found out your hall. Give me, out of the tomb, the workmanship of the dwarfs, which hateth all coats of mail. It is not good for thee to hide it.

Angantyr

The death of Hialmar lies under my shoulders: it is all wrapt up in fire: I know no maid, in any country, that dares to take this sword in hand.

Hervor

I shall keep and take in my hand the sharp sword, if I may obtain it. I do not think that fire will burn, which plays about the fight of deceased men. 

Angantyr

O conceited Hervor, thou art mad: rather than thou, in a moment, shouldest fall into the fire, I will give thee the sword out of the tomb, young maid; and not hide it from thee.

[Here the sword was delivered out of the tomb, who proceeds thus.]

Hervor

Thou didst well, thou offspring of heroes, that thou didst fend me the sword out of the tomb; I am now better pleased, O prince, to have it, than if I had gotten all Norway.

Angantyr

False woman, thou dost not understand that thou speaketh foolishly of that in which thou doest rejoice; for Tirfing shall, if thou doest believe me, maid, destroy all thy offspring.

Hervor

I must go to my seamen. Here I have no mind to stay longer. Little do I care, O royal ancestor, about what my sons will hereafter quarrel.

Angantyr

Take and keep Hialmar’s bane, which thou shalt long have and enjoy; touch but the edges of it, there is poison in them both: it is a most cruel devourer of men.

Hervor

I shall keep, and take in hand, the sharp sword, which thou hast let me have: I do not fear, O slain father, about what my sons may hereafter quarrel. 

Angantyr

Farewell, daughter: I do quickly give thee twelve men’s death: if thou canst believe with might and courage: even all the goods, which Andgrym’s sons left behind them.

Hervor

Dwell all of you safe in the tomb. I must be gone, and hasten hence; for I seem to be in a place where fire burneth round about me.

THE END.

Wow, what an ending! Of course, Angantyr’s prophesy came true: when Heiðrek son of Hervor who inherited the sword unsheathed it to show it to his brother, the sword made Heiðrek kill him. He himself lived a long life however, even having a riddle contest with Odin! Legend!! Read the saga, it’s really good and there’s even a translation by Christopher Tolkien (he doesn’t aknowledge the dwarves’ names unfortunately)