#i love the perfume paragraph in context

[unfocused-overwriter]

Find the word tag

Thank you for tagging me @scribble-dee-vee!

Words: narrow, perfume, disappear, and slowly

Narrow

She ran to her bookshelves, looking for that book, a narrow booklet bound in dark green leather, a present from the ambassador of Selenia for her eighth or ninth birthday, something she might have enjoyed more at five.

Perfume

He had beautiful hair, the same as his sister, thick and silky, catching every reflection of light. If only he took better care of it. She had bought him a bottle of cedar oil from her perfumer, a sharp woodsy scent that he swore he liked, but never bothered to wear unless she was the one combing it in. People would notice the braids and the perfume, he said, but he never tried to stop her.

Disappear

Dalghera was a great beast, built uneven atop a hill that was not too smooth either; in some places, it was hard to say where the white quarry stone stopped and where the wild rock of the ground began. It was possible to walk down a flight of stairs halfway to Ter Noeág in the heart of the castle, and somehow come out at the edge of the Citadel. Few risked it. The cubs told stories of people who had disappeared in the serpentine hallways, of wailing heard behind the walls in sealed chambers, even members of the Other Folk living in the bowels of the castle, where the doors opened on caves filled to the brim with crystals sharper than blades.

Slowly

The city had slowly been recovering from the hurricane of the Congress of Kings. Innkeepers counted their highest profits in years, girls mourned the soldiers who had seduced them with their exotic charms, passersby looked down on the damage caused by the crowds in the streets. Some had not hesitated about leaving a trace of their passage. As she was rode through the gates of the Citadel, Elysa saw the words NEVRA WAS HERE written at mid-height in a dark ash color. She had no idea how the lout had gotten up there, especially with the city guard on patrol, but it made her chuckle.

Tagging @dreamywritingdragon, @siarven, @neirawrites and anyone else who wants to do this, tag me! Your words are monster, release, transparent and family.

[trashmouth-richie]

i have so many things that i’m currently writing rn but none of them are finished, however i am so very excited for all of them, and i just wanted to share that. soooo im going to share a paragraph or two with zero context for each thing im working on.

-ziggy

[#1]

She could hear her name being whispered on the breeze, like the low rapid buzz of a hummingbird's wings as it drank nectar from a bloomed flower. It was drawn out, punctuated slowly as if every syllable was thought out and drug along teeth on a rolled tongue between licked pink lips.

All night the voice found her. Floating along the indigo painted sky and landing softly on her cheek like a sweet kiss, sprinkling sleep to her eyes and stroking stray locks of caramel dipped strands from her face.

[#2]

He wished he had never taken you to that concert. He loathed himself for the way Eddie slithered between the two of you, how Eddie could have had any girl at that after party but he chose you simply because you were with him.

Steve tried to deny him of it, tried to steer him toward another girl, a girl who wasn’t you. One he hadn’t been in love with, one who didn’t appear in his dreams despite the nightmares clouding in. But one low growl and a flash of those sharp fangs and Steve knew he didn’t stand a chance.

[#3]

Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he imagined the perils of danger you were now in— because of him.

[#4]

“A deals, a deal sweetheart,” Eddie had teased two nights before, his lips curved into the hollow of your neck, your sweet perfume lingering notes of vanilla and cinnamon behind your ear.

Panties wringing wet down your thighs, you had already came once. His tanned and veiny arms holding you tight as he coaxed you down from the toe curling orgasm you were riding out against his thigh. A small wet patch on the striped pants.

[f3mcelbambi]

story time: I WENT TO ANAMS HOUSE :3

all the stuff in tiny writing is context and background before things got juicy so if you wanna skip straight to the juice, go to the normal sized paragraphs

so on monday i was ready to be on my grind and you know be productive, i was at the gym and i get a call from anam. and she yapping about eliza (😒) walking her home and hugging her and i’m like BITCH THIS IS NOT AN EMERGENCY WHY ARE YOU CAWLING ME??? then she starts saying how eliza was talking about me and stuff saying that i’m in love with anam (THE WAY SHE CLOCKED ME.) and anam was like hahah that’s not true and i was like ahahahahahaha yeah hahahahahahahahahah. then anam kept going on about how jealous eliza is of me and so anam was like

do you wanna make her more jealous?

and obviously i said fuck yeah. eliza was coming to anams house later that day so anam was like, do you wanna come as well AND OBVIOUSLY I WAS LIKE FUCK YEAHHHH. so i speedran my gym routine and unfortunately (fortunately) got to anams house later than eliza did *it was fortunate because i got to make eliza jealous. i got to her house and you should’ve SEEN eliza’s face when she saw me walk in. her first words were

yeah i think i’m gonna go home now

LMFAOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. she didn’t go home for about an hour but i could tell she really wanted to. i played fortnite for the first time and got a victory royale (with anam and eliza’s help). i rode an electric scooter for the first time and almost died. we played darts. me and anam showed each other our feet. and overall it was so awkward. i mean i could tell eliza didn’t wanna be there but she hid it well. we locked anam outside in the cold. and i think eliza tried to make me jealous by play fighting with anam? anyways eventually she got a phone call from her parents saying it was late and that she had to come home. that was around 7pm

SO me and anam are now alone. and now she becomes extremely shy. for the first few minutes i couldn’t tell whether anam was nervous or wanted me to go home. i know now that she was incredibly nervous, and something else too 🤭 she kept looking very stressed out with her hands on her face and trying to avoid eye contact. every time i tried to talk to her she would smile and just not look at me and be on her phone and i was like oh okay then.

after a while of me being like anam why aren’t you talking to me and her being coy, her little sister heard that i was in her house AND HER SISTER LOVES ME anam called her to come meet us. you should’ve seen the way she was talking to her in her cute lil baby voice. so she comes over and we play roblox and play some youtube games together. then this is where anam started being less shy again

her little sister was doing her own thing and i saw that anam had a big ass teddy bear and went to go grab it and snuggle. anam then decided to rip him out of my hands and we start play fighting over the teddy and i didn’t realise how strong this girl is because why is she yanking me towards her..? anyways i gave up and gave her the teddy and we decided to share in 5 minute intervals.

when i got the teddy back it smelt like her perfume and best believe that I SNIFFED THE FUCK OUTTA THAT TEDDY. then anam made the suggestion that i can go through her phone. so i took it and opened tik toks to look through her drafts. she immediately launched towards me and grabbed my left arm whilst i held the phone in the right. she was yanking the fuck out of me that it was causing my jacket to choke me. i was holding her phone up in the air not thinking she would get up. but then she did

i was sat down whilst she was stood up and she was so close to me. i strategically put her phone behind me to see what she would do. she decided to get practically ontop of me! she was so close to me that i thought she was gonna kiss me. there was a point where she was about to fall on top of me so she would have been straddled in my lap, but sigh her sister was there so she held herself back 😔

i don’t think i did give her phone back for a while

there was a point where anam was like, i bet i’m taller than you (knowing she really is not) so to her surprise i asked her to stand up. then a bitch got all shy and couldn’t even look me in the eye when we were comparing our heights she was all red and stuff

it was getting late and we were kinda running out of things to do so we decided to revise maths. we didn’t have a table so anam used my lap to write on 😏 then she put her head on my lap 😏😏 and i was literally trembling because i got all nervous now. at some point anam got a bit.. distracted? like she couldn’t focus so she suggested that we stop and we.. turn the lights off? so we did. it was about 9pm and it was dark and rainy (aesthetic😩) we decided to watch a movie. and anams demeanour changed. if you know what i mean 😉 and i noticed this. so i put my hand on her chair arm which i intended to move to her leg.

BUT RIGHT WHEN THAT HAPPENED.. MY MOM CALLED ME AND TOLD ME TO GO HOME

WE WERE BOTH HORNY AND THINGS WERE GONNA HAPPEN AND MY MOM COCK BLOCKED ME WHYYYYYYYYY

i told anam that i had to go and in the saddest voice i’ve ever heard she says “do you have to go 🙁” AND I FELT SO BAD but my mama was pissed. so we turn on the lights again and anam tries not to make eye contact again. earlier she gave us drinks and so she asked me “hey is this your cup” and before i could even finish the word yes, she drank from it. all of it. and i was like 🙂 oh so you wanna fuuuuuuck? didnt even check to see which side i drank from. so basically we kissed them is what happened. lips to lips

i must mention me and anam haven’t had like physical touch really before this day because we too shy 😖 so we went from 0-70 real quick

i went to go catch the bus but then i get a call from anam saying to come back and her dad was gonna drop me off. we sat in the car together all squished next to each other and i so desperately wanted to lay my head on her shoulder but her dad………

i got home and she told me how horny she was that entire time she was together. the reason she couldn’t focus on maghs anymore? horny. the reason she turned off the lights? she didn’t want me to see how red her face was. she’s so cute

eliza was hella jealous and she started psychoanalysing me being like “jordan’s so smart i see the way she observes people” like bitch SHUT UPPPPP. she was also like “why is it every time that you hang out you call jordan” like sorry boo 😘

[scribble-dee-vee]

Find the Word Tag Game

Tagged by @somethingclevermahogony – thank you!!

Words: hair, drop, wrath, shudder

Hair

I spend SO much time writing hair descriptions! Here's one from the chapter I just wrote:

She wore silvery-blue, which caught the light reflecting from the dance floor. Her hair glistened, too, as she turned her head to track a pair of dancers down below. Her inky black tresses formed a precious and elaborate pile of braids, secured with sapphire pins. Such adornments seemed trivial, compared to the gemstones that hung about her neck. Violet-blue beauties, a necklace of jewels like a vine of ripe grapes.

Cecelia is prettyyyy

Also would u believe me if I told you that this paragraph has some sneaky plot-vital information hidden in it 👀

Drop

The bar had grown more crowded since she’d come; that meant more eavesdroppers, but also more noise. Rumors spread between Rosenreel’s flowers like weeds.

Is this cheating?? Maybe lol

Wrath

Charles pressed my face into his chest. He’d grown half a foot since the winter. I wriggled and swore, but he didn’t relent. I settled in his grip, wrathful and relieved, supported by familiar, gentle arms.

Annoying sibling hug!! This is unfortunately the BEST that Charles and Cecelia ever get along in this book, RIP

Shudder

I'm including the whole exchange for context bc lol

“You’ll wear blue, of course.” Dale had removed every piece of clothing from his wardrobe. He appraised them all in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, picking over each item like a persnickety art collector. “It’s traditional. And a light blue, I mean, not your usual mournful stuff.” “Yes, mother.” I glanced up at him from my bed, where I’d been attempting to read a novel for the past hour. “What are you doing, anyway? If you have to wear blue-“ “It can’t be a summer blue.” A waistcoat sailed over my head, hit the wall, and crumpled to the floor. “It can’t be outdated. It can’t be anything I’ve worn for the past two years, at least.” “Why not?” “You clearly don’t understand the gravity of a ball. It’s not just a party, Starkley. People will come in from Rosenreel for this.” “Ah.” I leaned back on my headboard. “We must shudder at the prospect of judgement.”

Boys be NICE to each other you're in LOVE 😭

I'm going to tag @jmhwritesstuff, @dreamingofstarslight, @hyba, @albatris, and @unfocused-overwriter, plus anyone else who wants to do it! My words for you are narrow, perfume, disappear, and slowly.

[ficretus]

Theory: Rhodopis as Knightfall, dissecting 2 paragraph story for every detail

Rhodopis has pretty much always been one of the basis of speculation for canonical Knightfall. It was the first proper Knightfall theory I saw. It was short, to the point and mostly made sense. In this post I'd like to dig into Rhodopis theory and look into every detail of the story to see does it make sense as a theory.

First of all, what is common belief regarding Knightfall and Rhodopis:

It's considered to be proto-Cinderella story so it connects her to Cinder. Rhodopis was courtesan that was enslaved twice. she is eventually freed by Kharaxus of Mytilene, brother of poet Sappho, who then marries her. People translate this into Knightfall because just like Rhodopis, Cinder was enslaved twice. Kharaxus becomes Jaune through Sappho and Saphron connection (both lesbians, Saphron lives in Greek themed city, oldest fragments of Sappho's poetry were found on ceramic vase shards which can be connected to Terra being named after terracotta). Kharaxos freeing Rhodopis and marrying her is then read as Knightfall conclusion of the story.

As I said, it's simple interpretation, however, there seem to be some misconceptions about the story.

First to be clear, when people say Rhodopis in context of Knightfall, they mean Herodotus Rhodopis, which I'll use in this post as well. Reason distinction matters is because Herodotus' and Strabo's versions are completely different. In Strabo's version, Rhodopis is woman who's sandal gets stolen by the eagle and brought to pharaoh. He is charmed by her sandal and orders his servants to find the woman who lost her sandal. Eventually they find Rhodopis and they marry. In fact, when people call Rhodopis proto-Cinderella story, this is the version they refer to (locating woman through her shoe shape and marrying monarch are elements they found their way to the mainstream Cinderella stories).

Nowhere is it stated Kharaxus marries Rhodopis. Here is quote from Heredotus version of the story: "Rhodopis came to Egypt to work, brought by Xanthes of Samos, but upon her arrival was freed for a lot of money by Kharaxus of Mytilene, son of Scamandronymus and brother of Sappho the poetess. Thus Rhodopis lived as a free woman in Egypt, where, as she was very alluring, she acquired a lot of money—sufficient for such a Rhodopis, so to speak, but not for such a pyramid." It's not even mentioned he does it out of romantic feelings in Herodotus version, that part is only in later poems by Poseidippos: "Dorikha, your bones are long since dust, and dust the fillet that bound your hair, and the perfume-breathing robe you folded about lovely Kharaxos when, in his arms, you sipped the wine at dawn." She is here refered to as Dorikha, which is asumed to be her real name. This removes major smoking gun from the theory, although I'd argue that even act of freeing her works as pro Knightfall argument.

Rhodes' name could be pro Rhodopis argument due to it's etymology (both derived from greek word for rose) and being the only named character in Cinder's backstory, but it's pretty uncertain. Rhodes could also mean pomegranate in Greek (which could add more to my "Cinder is unicorn" theory since unicorn in image I used is tied to pomegranate tree. By taking down the tree, unicorn is free, just like Cinder thinks she is finally free after killing Madame and Rhodes)

Now that is out the way, I'd like to put tinfoil on and try to dissect the story for any Knightfall parallels.

Both Rhodopis and Cinder get enslaved outside of their homeland. Rhodopis is taken from Thrace, first to island of Samos, then to Naucratis in Egypt. Cinder is taken first to Atlas, then Evernight.

Both use pseudonyms. Fall is heavily implied to be name Cinder gave to herself. Similarly, Rhodopis is professional pseudonym. As stated above, her real name was asumed to be Dorikha by later poets. Even if that's not the case, it would make no sense for her real name to be Rhodopis. She was Thracian, it would make no sense for her to have Greek name in that time period (in 6th century BC Thrace is not Hellenized).

Island of Samos matches Atlas as a setting. First of all, contrast to the rest of the world. Just like Atlas is most developed city of Remnant, Greece stands as shining beacon of civilization above barbarian lands like Thrace. Both are also technically islands, although one of them is floating. However, if we take Samos' etymology (meaning high in Phoenician), it literally becomes "high island" just like Atlas.

Now here is something I refer to as "Aesop connection". One of Rhodopis' fellow slaves while she was on Samos was famous fable writer Aesop. "and a fellow-slave of Aesop the story-writer. For he was owned by Iadmon, too," Why does this matter? If you imagine Cinder as slave of Atlas, who would her fellow slave be? It would be faunus. Does it make sense to connect Aesop to faunus? I'd say yes, after all, Aesop is famous for writing stories mostly about anthropomorphic animals. Aesop is also one of the most famous storytellers in history, and considering RWBY is story about stories, him appearing in some shape or form wouldn't be weird. I mostly bring this up because if writing staff wanted to check Aesop's biography, they'd have to see this paragraph by Herodotus, which is part of Rhodopis story. So this is bit of a counterargument against claiming Rhodopis is too obscure to be inspiration (another being the fact that Rhodopis appears on Cinderella wiki article). Aesop gets different conclusion to his slavery. He is freed and employed as either advisor to wealthy Samian, or as envoy of king Croesus. This is entering speculative territory, but Aesop's conclusion of slavery matches what one would assume to be conclusion to faunus in the story. Working either with wealthy Samian (and as I said before, Samos=Atlas) or with Croesus (famous for being richest man alive and synonym for immense wealth, "as rich as Croesus") both allude to faunus working together with Weiss (although to be fair, any non Jacques Schnee family member works here) and redemeed SDC as equals, ending the long conflict.

Kharaxus spends immense wealth to free Rhodopis, earning him ire back at home, his sister Sappho even writing a poem criticizing him: "Kharaxus, after giving Rhodopis her freedom, returned to Mytilene. He is bitterly attacked by Sappho in one of her poems." I bring this up as bit of a Joan of Arc parallel to "strengthen" Jaune's role as Kharaxus. Joan's involvement with the King was one of the main points of her heresy trial. This is also relatively logical conclusion if we asume Knightfall or even just Jaune redeeming Cinder happens in canon: his friends would definitely be bitter about him bringing her to the group. If we wanna go through Knightfall rabbit hole, then we can speculate Kharaxus paying massive price could be equated to Jaune giving Cinder (or at least letting her take) Relic of Choice (action which would also certainly cause him to be bitterly attacked by his friends), since Kharaxus returns home without Rhodopis.

In conclusion, Rhodopis is short and sweet theory to the fault. Its length and straight forwardness makes it easy to digest, however, it's minimalism and relative obscurity also make it easy to shoot down if you don't already like or believe in Knightfall as potential canon ship.

[aohendo]

Prince for Hire Deleted Scenes: Part 13

Amount Deleted: 8k? thereabouts (1 half-formed chapter + 1/3rd of the following chapter, + most of another chapter which'll probably get added back in but was in the wrong spot and I haven't determined if there's a right spot yet)

Reason for Deleting: the deleted chapter could be condensed into a few paragraphs and the information, overall, completely redistributed and better integrated into the story. The third of the following chapter was then covered by the newly integrated stuff. That following chapter also received major rearrangement due to the focus being completely scattered.

Ways to fix: cut and paste, cut and paste, delete. Really: determine scene-level focus, then chapter-level focus, restructure this storyline's mini-arc (to include rearranging chapters), and combine/condense to keep the plot moving.

Excerpt length: 487

Context: Kiris needs to eliminate one of Prince Thaav's enemies, and thinks sending Iiriok at him is the best way about it (he's not wrong...)

Taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added/removed!): @whimsyqueen @on-noon @houndsofcorduff @stuffaboutwriting @shrunkupthejams

“Nelovskevouk,” Kiris said, loud enough he was sure ni Musyr could overhear. Verosa refilled his tea. A different type, this time: lavender. “What would you do if you discovered a prince had sinned?”

Nelovskevouk nearly choked on his next sip of coffee. He hid it by clearing his throat—which is to say, not at all—and by taking another large sip to clear the crud. His brow slowly rose.

Innocently, Kiris rolled his mug between his palms. Ni Musyr glowered at them. At him.

“Why do you ask?” Nelovskevouk eventually said, when Kiris wasn’t forthcoming with more information, too preoccupied with not making eye contact with ni Musyr. It was all consuming. Whatever he’d done to piss her off—or whatever Nazvili had done—he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. “Yphant?”

“Answer him, vakon,” ni Musyr ordered.

Kiris wished he couldn’t feel the blood draining from his face. The collective of princes was easier to face than her. Even the inquisitors—at least he knew why they hated him. “I… may or may not have overheard another prince—” it was like being ground by a glacier—“doing things?”

“Really?” Her eyes narrowed, and she leant forwards, and Kiris, again, leant back. Not so far that he tilted over his chair this time. “What sorts of things?”

This wasn’t his plan. Her involvement was not in his plans, except as witness. Nelovskevouk’s, yes. Let him eliminate Tevez for a prince’s sin. He was reliable, Kiris and Nelovskevouk’s younger sister, Kuthri, the only exceptions Kiris knew of. But ni Musyr? He didn’t know her. He didn’t know what she would do.

It was almost thrilling.

“Desiccation,” Kiris lied.

Nelovskevouk spun in his seat, and Kiris found himself quite suddenly bearing the brunt of the entirety of his attention. He had lovely eyes. This was already turning into a very tiring day.

“Who?” Nelovskevouk demanded.

For some reason, Kiris didn’t particularly want to look away from him. Ni Musyr was like being ground down, pummeled and pulverized, an unrelenting pressure. Nelovskevouk… wasn’t.

Prince Thaav would die soon.

Kiris glanced at Tevez.

“One of Prince Thaav’s enemies,” ni Musyr said. Smiled. “One of your allies, Pretty Boy. Curious.”

Nelovskevouk ignored her. He leant into Kiris’ space, and Kiris resisted the urge to pull away, too many people, too close to his space, easy to grab, this was fine, it’d be fine—

“You’re certain?” Nelovskevouk whispered. “First Prince Tevez has never been anything but decent and wise, in all the years I’ve known him. Did you… did you mishear?”

He smelled like flowers. Soaps, not the sharp scent of perfume. Sweat, too: those two weeks Kiris had spent in the Dargoulvga palace, helping Nelovskevouk with Kuthri, every morning he’d practiced on the training grounds; perhaps it did the same here. Weapons—yes—but sometimes, dance.

Iiriok Nelovskevouk was an excellent dancer.

“I know what I heard,” Kiris whispered.

[davyjoneslockr]

Either/or for fugio & naramis but particular ways they show love to one another? Like hair, mixtapes, etc. you mentioned them earlier but I was curious what you think each character’s preferred form of love/affection is

!!! Ooh this is a good question. I'll do both Fugio and Naramis because. They are both so very important

Fugio:

If we're going by the official love languages or whatever, I think Giorno's are primarily physical touch and quality time. He didn't receive much of either growing up, so he's sort of a touchy person, even outside romantic contexts, and feels really loved if someone is willing to spend time with him - even if it's just sitting in silence doing separate things. Both in tandem also remind him that he's not alone, so just presence, in general, is really important to him.

Fugo's are words of affirmation and acts of service. He's not always great at expressing his feelings verbally, but he'll try his best for people he really cares about - and deep down, he needs reminders that he's loved and cared for. He's better at conveying love through actions, even if it's something as simple as helping with chores or errands. At first, he has trouble feeling like he's worthy of receiving compliments or acts of service, but once he is able to accept affection, he absolutely adores both and treasures every word and action.

Both of them adjust to each others' love languages well. Giorno catches onto the fact that Fugo needs verbal affirmations, and has no qualms with reminding him how beautiful he is, how much he loves him, etc constantly. Fugo figured it was flattery, at first, until he realized that he's the only one Giorno showers in praise like that. Fugo has some difficulty with physical touch at times, but will always make sure that Giorno knows he's present and by his side - and, most times, is totally fine with Giorno snuggling him while they're reading on the couch or something.

If they have to be apart for a while, they write love letters. Not just short little poems, either, but long paragraphs of purple prose, written in ink on fancy paper, spritzed with perfume and decorated with pressed flowers, the whole nine yards. It's sort of a private thing, and it's not something they even address much between themselves, but the old-fashioned romantic in both of them adores it. They both have dedicated drawers where they save all the letters, and they go back and reread them every now and then.

Giorno likes using Gold Experience to make little gifts for Fugo. This includes flowers and other little plants, yes, but sometimes? Giorno walks up to Fugo with a tupperware like "it's for you :]" and Fugo looks inside and it's a beetle the size of his hand. Half of Fugo's living room is full of terrariums housing the horrible little creatures Giorno's made for him, and he's just weird enough to enjoy it.

Hand kisses!! The one time Fugo kissed his hand and did the whole "I am yours" speech lives rent-free in Giorno's mind, so when they start dating, he reciprocates the gesture several times. Whenever Fugo kisses his hand, he'll cup his cheek afterwards, trace along the edges of his scar, and kiss his nose/temple/cheekbone. The first time he did this, Fugo almost passed out.

There's something about them living together that's an act of love, too. Not as in living in the same house, per se, but like. Doing mundane chores together, seeing each other first thing in the morning with bedhead and groggy voices, and just being authentic and silly and vulnerable in front of one another. I like to think that, as they get older, they actually start acting more "immature" in certain ways, because they've come to realize that they don't have to be guarded and cynical and overly-mature all the time. They're allowed to just be happy.

Naramis:

Narancia loves loves loves physical touch, and really likes words of affirmation, as well. He's been let down, hurt, and betrayed a lot in the past, so trust is really important to him, and touch from/towards someone he trusts is extremely comforting for him. He also needs reassurance and affirmations every once in a while, just to reinforce the trust he has in his loved ones.

Mista is also really big on physical touch, but loves giving acts of service, too. He likes taking care of the people he loves, romantically or platonically, and, like Narancia, finds a lot of comfort in physical affection with someone he has a strong emotional connection to. While he has no issues with accepting touch, it's a bit harder for him to receive acts of service, because he wants to be the one others can rely on - but, ultimately, they do make him feel really loved, and he appreciates the chance to be vulnerable and cared for.

On that note, Mista loves cooking for people - and he lucked out, because Narancia loves eating his cooking. They watch Food Network shows together and they're like "Eh. You could make that better" "Damn right I could make that better" and then Mista plans out a whole recipe just to 1) spite celebrity chefs and 2) impress Narancia. They'll sometimes cook together, too, and Narancia's gotten a lot better at cooking just from helping Mista out in the kitchen.

They cuddle pretty much every time they're sitting/laying down together, including when they're going to bed. Tbh they probably do rock-paper-scissors over who gets to be little spoon, because even though Narancia's tiny and fits perfectly in Mista's arms, they both enjoy him being a backpack and nuzzling/kissing Mista's shoulders just as much. They both move around a ton over the course of the night, but they always seem to wake up still cuddled with each other - whether that's in an actual cuddling position or just their limbs tangled in a knot.

They're both very into music, and they use it to show affection a lot. Mista plays guitar and sings, so he'll definitely serenade Narancia every now and then. Narancia likes just sitting and listening to him practice, too. He's not as much of a musician, but he'll spend hours curating the perfect mixtapes for him and doodling little hearts all over the label.

Narancia inspires Mista to try different gender-nonconforming type stuff, and Narancia is super supportive. Every now and then, he'll wear dresses and heels, and Narancia will do his makeup and be like "holy shit you're so gorgeous" every five seconds. Mista doesn't lack confidence by any means, but the reassurance is comforting.

Narancia loves the Sex Pistols. He thinks they're fun little guys and talks to them a lot, and feeds them when Mista can't (or sneaks them extra after Mista's already fed them). The Pistols are really affectionate with Narancia, too, and sometimes they just like. Bring him little trinkets they've found, or give him a bit of their food.

They love going on little adventures together. Anything from impromptu cross-country road trips to midnight snack runs. They just like having fun in the moment and making silly memories, so if one of them has some spontaneous idea, they'll go make it a reality together.

Mista peppers kisses across Narancia's nose/cheeks and Narancia happy stims so hard he clips through the wall. Epic speedrun strat

[dolly-decadatia]

Intention of the day-

This is so hard to pick out on days without a pressing need. Also, let’s take a minute to focus on the fact that I don’t have a pressing need. I’ve been in constant crisis mode for 3 decades. I was starting to calm down at the end of 2020 and then my health tanked and I went back into crisis mode. I had 1 single therapy appt recently. It was mostly a waste of time but the one relevant theory she had was that because I’d been in such unsafe situations my whole life, the possible reason I got sick recently was because my body finally “felt safe” to do so. Who knows? But yeah, being in crisis mode I always needed something so it would have been easier to set intentions then. I’m sitting here drawing a blank.

Fuck it. I’m going to set an intention based on my reading yesterday. I’m going to be kind to myself.

Incense: cedar (for confidence) however, I only have one brazier. I’ve got mandarin currant wax melting in the living room and I’m about to light frankincense on the actual order in a little while before I do my daily divination. Les Vampires like frankincense.

Candle: pink would be best, especially with sigil carved into the side and anointed with rose oil. (I don’t have any of that.)

Crystals: I have rhodochrosite and rose quartz (nurturing) and tigers eye (self esteem)

Perfume: rose oil

Flowers: roses and lavender

Color: pink

Food: almonds and chocolate are both good for self esteem and by coincidence they were both in my breakfast.

Affirmations: I love the person I becoming

Daily Divination :

Will I ever be beautiful

Underneath: transgression

Flaws, contradictions, mistakes

It’s all about self forgiveness. “Live better, do better, but let the self punishment go. ... Go now and make amends, then give thanks for self forgiveness.”

“Make amends. Take stock, asses, and redirect, and come back into harmony with the voice of your soul.”

This doesn’t appear to answer my question. Maybe all 3 will make sense together, or Les Vampires think this is what I should be worried about instead of my looks.

Heart: creator (inverted)

“...now you call them scientists and they merge cells, transform bodies, change peoples shapes, repair great injury, change destiny. sometimes, it is wonderful, and sometimes, it is most destructive.”

Is this about my weigh loss and plastic surgery obsession?

“Each day with your thoughts, actions, and decisions you create anew the form your natural energies and soul will take... you can recreate yourself”

This part seems like an answer. I’m recreating myself and I need to make sure I nurture this new being with nutritious thoughts and tend it with actions that will help them grow beautiful.

“You are the vessel through which new life and ideas are born... When we create a new one, they struggle and are often confused and in pain.”

Cursed: (because it was inverted) terrifying paragraph that kicked me straight in the tokophobia. May I learn today’s lesson quickly so I never have to read this terrifying bit again. I believe they’re saying raising this new version of me will require sacrifice and inconvenience and be frustrating and joyless at times but they used a triggering cis breeder metaphor to convey their point that I really could have lived without. Point taken. I will undertake this labor. I had already often thought that my transition was very much me suffering through an unknown amount of years and then “delivering” this beautiful peaceful man and happily dying. That man I was supposed to be was still born. Top surgery botched, looks decimated, sick from hrt which is massively unfair seeing as its safe for 99% of other trans people. He’s dead. I must stop mourning him and put all my loving attention on this next baby I’m nurturing. They are nonbinary and long for peace and beauty and community. How I nurture them now colors who they will be when they’re “born.”

Promise: primal

Connecting deep within, sacred dance, instinct

This is very gendered. Second very gendered card of the reading. I’m unsure if I want to continue to work with Les Vampires. We will see how tomorrow’s reading goes.

Anyway it talks about dancing. The thing that I love to do and am grieving not being able to do right now because of pain and illness. It calls dancing “feminine” which is absolutely ridiculous. This cis obsession with gendering inanimate objects and actions is juvenile and stupid. Makes it hard to suspend disbelief that I’m working with immortal wise vampires. Maybe the author put her own spin on what they told her. Still annoying to read.

My action to work with this card to to dance.

And that’s my future.

Dance.

On a question about “will I be beautiful.”

So how do these go together? I do carry a lot of guilt in my past that I beat myself up for. Is this why I’m not currently attractive? All the self abuse. It’s all taken a physical and mental toll? I don’t take care of myself so I’m physically ugly and I’m too busy ruminating on all my failings that my energy is also ugly? The card does make a bit more sense in context with the other 2.

So in the present, I need to let all that self loathing stay in the past and not feed that poison to my “baby”.

So what’s the future? I do what I need to do to be a responsible Sire and then fledgling me is healthy enough to dance and therefore the answer is “yes I will be beautiful”

Or

I leave the self hatred behind, nurture my fledgling and then fledgling me’s “beauty” is the beauty of dancing meaning “no, you won’t achieve physical beauty, but you will achieve a beautiful art form to offer the world.”

I feel uncomfortable. Today more than yesterday I feel the human author behind the guide deck. This is why I’m an atheist. Once holes appear I rip them bigger and look into them. This was why I couldn’t be Wiccan. I had the same problem pretending to talk to a Goddess as I did the Abrahamic God. I was much happier when I was a pop culture pagan because I could just do the LaVey school of “this is theatre because humans need ritual” with characters I was more attached to than deities. If they are all made up anyway, why do pick my faves? I may end up back in Pop Culture Paganism at the end of this journey. It’s too early to tell.

As an ex PCP I can say, ok maybe this is just a book but my belief makes Les Vampires real. Of course I’m spotting an undercurrent of bullshit. It runs through everything.

But still I’m shaken. I had found so much comfort in the concept of loving vampire guides yesterday and now doubt is setting in and my good mood is tanking. It’s going to take a lot of work to resuspend disbelief and try and feel that love again.

In the meantime I accept my task of forgiving myself and nurturing my fledgling .

Later on a thought occurred to me. Maybe all the gross prego talk was because Les Vampires are trying to dumb down the beautiful Sire/ fledgling relationship into terms a human would understand. The bulk of the target audience won’t understand them the way I do. Now I feel bad for having sulky, bratty energy in front of them. I’m going to make amends by forgiving myself like my Underneath card said and nurturing my fledgling like my Heart card said.

[teamicamea-scl]

From Their Days: Trio

Hey guys! Here's a drabble that won't be in the story but we still wanted to share with you! This will feature the Trio in their younger days, we hope you enjoy!

Late Nights At The Diner

“I ought not to have listened to her," he confided to me one day. "One never ought to listen to the flowers. One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance. Mine perfumed all my planet. But I did not know how to take pleasure in all her grace. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity."

And he continued his confidences:

"The fact is that I did not know how to understand anything! I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her... I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little strategems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her...”

He barely notices the world around him. At that moment, the raven-haired teenager is soaking up every word he could from the book in his hands, his eyes flying through the words he’s read possibly a hundred times by now. Many of his peers teased him for reading an illustrated children’s book over and over again, but he could care less; they were idiots who obviously didn’t understand the context behind the story of The Little Prince.

To be honest, even the teen didn’t fully understand the text just yet. That’s why he can never get tired of reading the book --every time he did, he discovered something new hidden between the pages and paragraphs.

Adjusting his glasses, he flips to the next page just as there’s an obnoxious sound against the table.

“Pol! Little brother, you’re here early!”

Pollux doesn’t bother looking up from his book and continues reading, though now his concentration is ruffled. It doesn’t help that Castor slides into the booth across him while drumming his fingers on the table.

“I’m not here early, you’re simply late.” Pollux replies.

Castor scoffs. “Me? Late? C’mon, Pol. I’m right on fucking time. Now can you put down the book for a minute and look at me? Pretty please?”

Pollux ignores him and continues reading until Castor groans.

“C’mon, Pol. Don’t be an asshole.”

Pollux sighs and takes off his glasses, lowering his book. His eyes land on his twin...and he freezes. His gaze goes to Castor’s hair...God.

“What did you do?” Pollux asks.

Castor chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. “You like it? Because I fucking do!”

The older twin beams proudly as he glances at his reflection on the glass windows: his once black hair is now dyed blue, the contrast between the two boys now so fucking obvious that no one would mistake them for the other. There’s just no way.

“Castor...why?”

“Because I wanted to, Pol. I think we’re old enough to make our own decisions. Besides,” Castor says with a smirk. “Not like we got adults who’ll scream at me for it.”

Pollux rolls his eyes. “No, but we have school rules.”

“Fuck the rules, they better deal or I’ll torch the whole place.”

Lyra’s legs are tired the moment she stops on the sidewalk across the diner. It was a bad idea to run there but she knew she was late and to be honest she wasn’t in the mood to be reminded by Pollux how rude that was.

She takes a second to catch her breath before walking to the other side, her gaze fixates on the last window on the left of the building trying to find the twins sitting in their usual spot. Pollux is there, his ugly clothes give him away easily… she wonders if Castor is not there yet and who the hell is the blue-haired guy sitting across from the younger twin?

The familiar bell on the door rings when she steps in, she walks towards the boys and not one second later she recognizes the laugh of the blue-haired boy.

She laughs, “Cas!! What the hell!?!?!?” She screams excited and everyone in the room is aware of her.

When he hears her voice, the blue-haired twin gets up on his seat and waves at her before extending his arms and grinning. “What do you think, babe? Like the new hair?”

Pollux rubs his temples. Now everyone is looking at all three of them.

“I love it!! Fuck!! Yes I do!!” She runs just as Castor jumps off the couch and waits until she jumps into his arms. He pulls her close against him, the smile never leaving his face.

“I knew you’d like it, sunshine. Heh, Pol loves it so much he cried.”

“I did not. Now sit down. You two are making a spectacle of yourselves.”

“Don’t lie, Pol, I saw you from outside… you were a mess.” Lyra clicks her tongue.

“The mess is the both of you...what are you two wearing?” Pollux eyes her fishnet stockings with a straight face, but Castor could swear his brother’s eye twitched a little.

“I think she looks hot.” Castor tells him, making way for Lyra to slide into the booth and sliding in after her.

“Castor, you always think she’s hot.” Pollux says with a sigh. “I’m just surprised Lyra is dressing this way, that’s all.”

Lyra smiles, “thank you, it’s nice… getting yelled at for dressing like this. I had to run away before they caught me.” She fixes her hair behind her ears, “after we are done I want the both of you to go with me somewhere.”

Castor laughs at what she said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “You’re such a rebel, babe. But okay, let’s order so we can blow this joint.”

Pollux shakes his head and gestures to the orange juice and fries already in front of him. “You two were late so I ordered already.”

Castor reaches forward and slides the plate of fries to the middle of the table. “Thanks, Pol. Awfully kind of you, brother.” He snatches a fry but suddenly there’s a huge tarantula on his hand. Shocked, Castor drops the fry and pulls back his hand, the tarantula now gone.

Silently, Pollux pulls back his plate. “Order your own food.”

Before Pollux grabs one of the fries, his plate tilts and fries land on the napkins on the middle of the table. Lyra gets one and feeds it to Castor. Opening his mouth, Castor takes the fry between his teeth before facing Lyra, waiting for her to bite from the other end.

Lyra laughs and shoves the fry inside his mouth.

Pollux watches the exchange and thinks how ridiculous these two are. The unspoken attraction is obvious, even to him. But for now, he’ll stay silent and wait for things to unfold naturally. He motions for the waitress and tells the two to stop messing around and order.

///////////////////////////////

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[themomerath]

I DONE BEEN TAGGED

Tagged by @viennathedachshund (thanks for thinking of me <3)

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE SONG(S) TO SING?

My music taste varies so dramatically from day to day that a single paragraph couldn’t cover any of it. HOWEVER, the songs I tend to sing in the shower most are as follows: 

I Choose You

Lifted

River Lea

Buenos Aires

How to be a Heartbreaker

I could probably go on forever but honestly by this point I’m just recommending the songs I like to shout.

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE FLOWER/TREE/PLANT?

I’m a fan of Willow trees, Wisteria, and Rosemary. For a variety of reasons, I suppose, but primary being that the first two are just.... super pretty and relaxing to look at, and Rosemary is just so satisfying to run your hand through because when you pull you fingers away you smell like the bets seasonings.

FAVOURITE COLOURS?

I always say this as “any colour the ocean can be”-- shades of blue, grey, and green. (I can’t pick one because GOD so many colours are so good!!!)

WHAT DO YOU ALWAYS DOODLE?

My default tends to be squares or geometric shapes. Occasionally I'll start face shapes and hair for characters but that usually doesnt last long :'D

HOW DO YOU TAKE YOUR COFFEE/TEA?

Coffee with lots of cream but no sugar, unless it's a flavoring (like coconut or raspberry). Tea I usually take straight unless it's earl grey or english breakfast, which I take with milk and/or sugar.

FAVOURITE CANDLE SCENT?

Suntan by Bath and Body Works

Turquoise Waters by Bath and Body Works

Spiced Apple Toddy by Bath and Body Works

(Can you tell I’m a slut for Bath and Body Works?)

SUNRISE OR SUNSET?

Sunset because It’s the only one I have the energy to be awake for  :’D

WHAT PERFUME DO YOU WEAR?

AIR by Bath and Body Works

WHAT’S YOUR GO-TO DANCE MOVE WHEN YOU’RE ALONE?

You know that leg thing Beyonce does in the Formation Music Video? Either that or just general hip gyrations because all my dance moves are entirely focused below the torso.

FAVOURITE QUOTE?

It’s highly important to recognize this as part of a larger context, but particularly this quote (from a Jeanmarco fanfiction) absolutely floored me when I read it. 

Let me tell you what it means to love a man who can’t admit to the world that he loves you back. It’s a unique thing. Somewhere between the pain of unrequited love and the absurdity of dumping someone via text message.

It’s a sunburn.

You spend all day outside and feel the heat on your skin, and it’s incredible. You feel free and you run faster and you play like a little kid because it’s summer. You stay out longer and your heart pumps slow, sluggish with the warmth. It is lovely. You want to stay like that forever.

Then you wake up the next morning, and all you’re left with is burns.

And in my case, more freckles.

[...]

The longer you spend in the heat, the worse it is; skin blisters and cells die forever and pain. The pain of a burn is so present and aching every moment and there is no true relief.

So you deal with it the same way you deal with a sunburn.

You do little things to make it feel better -- cold baths, aloe vera, ibuprofen -- and you pretend it’s not there.

It hurts at first, but you can’t stop moving. You can’t stop living.

Sooner or later the blisters will heal over, and the skin will peel, and you will be new underneath. A new man, with a college degree and a job in a flower shop that you actually like and that pays well.

And that area will always be a little darker than the rest of you. It will always burn first. But you learn to live with it.

You get dressed, turn the stove off, heave the overcooked eggs into the trashcan, wipe your fucking eyes, and go to work.

From Wisteria by @butterflychansan [omission mine, not because it’s less powerful by any means, but because the middle part truly does rely a great deal more on context].

This particular segment of this fic absolutely changed my perspective on fanfiction as an artistic medium.

And, a second quote for good measure: 

If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets.

From Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami.

FAVOURITE SELF CARE ROUTINE(S)?

Going on a walk in the bright sunshine to buy fancy soda.

Buying a book and enjoying it with warm tea and comfy socks. 

FUZZY SOCKS OR HOUSE SLIPPERS?

Fuzzy socks, absolutely.

WHAT COLOUR ARE YOUR EYES?

Greybluegreen.

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE EYE COLOUR ON OTHERS?

This is an impossible question. What i like most about human eyes is the variety of colours-- from dark chocolatey brown to pale blue, every single of of them is so damn cool. I cannot possibly choose just one when there are so many good ones out there.

FAVOURITE SEASON? WHY?

My answer changes depending on what season it is. But I think typically, I would say Fall. The flavors and smells of the foods of the season along with and looks of the leaves changing colours to make way for winter-- That’s an absolutely stunning transition. So I’m a fan of that.

NECK, CHEEK, OR NOSE KISSES?

Probably neck. All three have their time and place, but... neck kisses are tender and intimate. And I like that.

WHAT DOES YOUR HAPPY PLACE LOOK LIKE?

A well-lit library and a cup of coffee.

FAVOURITE BREED OF DOG?

Labrador retriever! 

DO YOU EVER WANT TO BE MARRIED?

Marriage is an outdated tradition that has been forced upon people for generations. 

That said, fuck yes. Having a wedding has been something I’ve dreamed about as a child, and while I think the symbolism is manufactured, it’s just.... really great symbolism. And I would absolutely get married if the right time for it came.

CURSIVE OR PRINT?

Print. LIke, don’t get me wrong, cursive is pretty, but... It’s so decorative. It feels like special occasion handwriting instead of useful utilitarian writing.

FAVOURITE WEATHER?

Depends on my mood-- A crisp fall day might be great, but I also love a cloudless, sunny day with a bit of a gentle breeze.

Tagging @ahhhlec, @mccreamed, @shadow-silverman, @opallight, @jaja-han, @huggieshugdealers, @danwritesthings, and any of my followers who are interested!

[junsojung-text]

Standing before dazzling novelty Ahn Soyeon

Sojung Jun’s oeuvre imbues a sense of unraveling a single ‘universe’ each time. The reason why her video running for several to a few dozens of minutes gives an impression that it configures a universe – without being confined to dealing with some scenes or incidences – would be because it has led us into a life of somebody. Facets of daily banalities shown by characters of nothing extraordinary used to immerse the audience as if to confront their life. Such transference is made possible because their life exists in a temporal flow which is nothing like ours. Unlike us that are being swirled in the ‘contemporariness’ by being consciousness of somebody’s stride in the middle of the common time slots that are huge, abstract and undoubtable, they maintain a single ‘universe’ because they live through their own solitary time.

The image of an old man fasting a fishing rod in the glittering sea under the sunlight is attuned to the slow speed of Mother Nature to the point of being described to catch the years (The Old Man and the Sea, 2009). Those that tacitly fulfill their given roles despite being out of spotlight for long – laborers in a kimchi factory (Something Red, 2010), a mechanical embroiderer (A Day of A Tailor, 2012), the last theater signboard painter of the kind (Time Regained, 2012), a clown doing tightrope walking (Last Pleasure, 2012), a taxidermist (Angel of Death, 2014), a haenyeo (a female diver who dives into the sea without any equipment to harvest seafood) (Treasure Island, 2014), and an earthenware artisan (The Poem of Fire, 2015) – are people that have sublimated their career out of the spotlight into a domain of art through repetition and skillfulness.

Sometimes, those that are exiled into a different tempo-spatiality from us by being trapped in unexpected restraints in life are on Jun’s radar. They are a foreign immigrant worker that has a lot to say about their life (Story of Dream: Suni 2008), an overseas adoptee (Interval Recess Pause, 2017), a refugee or a blind (The Ship of Fools, 2016) or those that are distinguished or excluded due to the race (Specters, 2017).

That their life is sublimated as an exclusively meaningful shelter – instead of a shabby wasteland – is attributable to Jun’s endeavors to step closer to the meaningful moments that only exist in their dreams and memories. Efforts to step into somebody’s time and space by mobilizing all possible media and senses connect us to their world – albeit temporarily – although complete restoration and sharing are impossible. They become the main characters in their own play on the stage that is sophisticatedly set by the artist.

Jun’s act of art paying attention to those that are pushed out of the contemporary movement in today’s world replete with novelty and change is an act of resistance to show her will of not being swirled by the entire and violent flow in the fancy name of ‘progress.’ Unstoppable curiosity over discovery of novelty seems to take us to innovation and a better future, but a rosy future is inevitably the stage of capitalism behind which remain the voices of those that are excluded from the history as well as endless ruins that are no longer new. It is the reason why we expect the view of ‘Angelus Novus’[1] from artists despite the storm pushing us to the future.

Her interest in a forgotten domain has been supplemented by literary reference, but recently, she has further deeply contemplated over the point where modernity and avant-garde dreams disrupt before capitalism in the era of colonization through her research over early-day poetry of genius poet Yi Sang (1910-1937), the icon of the modern avant-gardism of Korea. By encountering multinational researchers of Yi Sang during her stay in Paris, the breeding ground of the modern culture, she searched for possibilities of hypothesis with Yi Sang in mind by escaping from the present through intersection of heterogeneous axes of time and space.

The starting point of her research and exhibition is Yi Sang’s poem <AU MAGASIN DE NOUVEAUTES>. It is a title piece among poetry series titled <Architecture Infinite Hexahedron> (1932) first released by literati and architect Kim Hae gyong in the penname of Yi Sang. It is also an enigmatic poem under the French title with combination of Japanese, classical Chinese characters, Chinese and English. The 22-line avant-garde poem translated as <A New Store> is full of knowledge and imagination over the concepts of physics and figures, and hatred towards cultural colonialism in the modern times and harsh criticism against consumptive capitalism.

The motif of the poem as a contemplative place is Mitsukoshi Department Store opened in Gyeongseong (the original name for Seoul) in 1930. Yi Sang conjured up ‘Architecture Infinite Hexahedron’[2]where squares are endlessly repeated as he encountered a flashy and complicated structure of the space. The new five-story store had numerous square-shaped showcases, and people realized a space of infinite repetition by repeatedly ‘going up and down’ on escalators/elevators. It is expressed as a recreational place in a rooftop garden – a modern architectural dream - for shopping-loving mademoiselles, which is filled up with the scent of a French Coty perfume.

Yet, most of the poetry is written to reveal that a department store representing novelty is a symbol of colonial ideas and is nothing more than an imitation of the Western modernity. A department store is not only an abnormal place to arouse Joseon (the former name of Korea) not equipped with modern production technologies to consume more but also a place to transplant the Japanese culture. Even Japan as its subject prioritizes the West, and points out a paradox of ‘self-colonialization’ as a cultural translator. A fad that starts in spring in France reaches the Eastern world in autumn, and even the main branch of Mitsukoshi Department Store in Tokyo – like a globe as a ball-shaped miniature of the earth and mademoiselles as mimicking monkeys in the rooftop garden – is just a copy of Bon Marche Department Store built in Paris in the 1850s.

Japanese’ craze over Germany’s renowned aircraft carrier Graf Zeppelin[3] known as then largest of its kind was strong enough to be applied to various ads including that of an anthelmintic drug. The poet pinpointed a phenomenon where even the victory of a technology that frees up humans ends up being dissolved in capitalism. Violence hidden behind the charm of novelty in modern times strides on the street like ‘military boots’, sweeping away precious small stuffs of the past. The poet compares himself to a helpless canary in a multilayered cage of mockery, confessing that there is nothing he can do to the horrific reality, simply saying ‘Ggood Bye’ pitifully.

Poetry acts as a source of inspiration for flexibly forming reasoning as a means of empathy and imagination despite the time gap of almost about one century. Yi Sang’s universe of poetry being indefinite, temporary and subject to a broad range of interpretation must have been an intriguing motif for Jun that takes an interest in the relationship between avant-garde aesthetic experimentation and political practices. The exhibition unfolds in multiple layers including a video where documentaries of the past and movie clips are montaged with the present moment in Seoul, Tokyo and Paris where sounds & texts, sculptures & publication of research paper, and spatial structures strike a harmony. Each piece of work is mutually interlinked, yet detached, which in turn exchanges a serial impact to one another. The process of repetition and a sort of violation amongst works is a methodology that is closely aligned with Jun’s goal of seeking for a runway from obsession with novelty.

A 25 minute-long video titled <Despair to be Reborn>(2020) as a center of the entire exhibition uses <AU MAGASIN DE NOUVEAUTES> as a prism to reflect the journey of an amplified light. Contemplative tempo-spatiality derived from the department store is expanded into the day and night of the past and the present, and also into skylines, subways, parks and back alleys in Seoul, Tokyo and Paris. The structure of the video is vaguely divided into such paragraphs as “In my dream where I was absent”, “In your dream where you were absent”, and “In our dream where we were absent.” Each of them brings in the present, past and some future. Yet, it’s not clear because – as the word ‘absent’ suggests – of the absence of a memory substituted with imagination and omission of a subject. A narration that is out of sync with each scene – just like the nonlinear spatial movement – and usage of Korean, Japanese and French is out of context with the subjects along with cacophony of a harp and gayageum (a traditional Korean zither-like string instrument with 12 strings) heightening the tension. Such an incidental encounter with inconsistency causes a chasm between images and words, which in turn approaches Jun as a chasm of a precious possibility who is to re-write the memory.

That the video is involved with a commercial space of <AU MAGASIN DE NOUVEAUTES> is reminded through an advertisement that opens up the work, yet cutting out middle parts. The unfamiliar voice of a narrator informing on “product information” presents Seon-bawi, Inwang Mountain's holy Immortal Meditation Rocks (or maybe some other similar looking rocks) as an item for sale. The voice also promotes new usages of the rocks as decorative gardening item or a storage space for one’s house keys. Just like how aircraft carrier Graf Zeppelin – as the amalgam of science and technology of the humankind – being appropriated as a capital on the signboard for an anthelmintic drug, the video jokingly predicts a formidable future of capitalism where even treasure-like mountains of the people of Korea could be traded as garden decorations. Yet, mentioning of a ‘storage place for hiding keys’ is conveyed as a secretive command. Jun recalls Yi Sang’s message to be awakened again in a new aspect through the arousal of despair by appropriating some phrases[4] from the work of Yi Sang: “Be in despair people, Be reborn people, Be reborn people, Be in despair people.” The artist seems to find a hope in ‘Child of the Night’[5] and this child does Parkour by traversing the contour lines of a city, denying a predictable future and seeking to inscribe his presence.

Her publication project <ㅁ> is directly derived from a repeated square as the key image in the poem, but it comprehensively indicates such signs as Korean Alphabet consonant ㅁ (mieum), Chinese character ㅁ (Ip Gu), a square screen and four dimensions to deal with the issues of space, language and image. An ad-hoc publication gathering was formed with her suggestion, engaging 11 specialists in various fields – architecture, art history, mathematics, film, music and language – and explored the past and the present, and Asia and Europe with a focus on the 1930s when Yi Sang was active along with his poetry. They have broadened up the possibilities of interpretation by using multi-languages and irregular meanings – features of a poem - and frequently utilizing signs. The participants suggested various outcome ranging from critical research to creative fiction and new ideation by using their own mother languages or special languages in each field – drawing and score, etc. Discussed were the following topics: the history of Passage, department stores, and the World’s Fair, aesthetics of avant-garde montage, irregular language usage and translation of literature during the Japanese colonial rule, political features of post-colonial and East Asian avant-garde poetry, surrealism and strategies of strolling, leaps and resistance of science and technology, dichotomy in the modern times and reasoning of reverse perspectives.

In a chapter among them all, Jun released <Diagrammed Robot>(2020) in a new format of a critical fiction. It is an interpretation of Yi Sang’s poetry and a handbook on her own video works where she suggests a method deviating from a newly established code system or a perspective view: an anatomical map of a robot in the name of a ‘drawing in a reverse perspective.’ While her prior works were dominated by a perspective view in the form of a scenery, this time, she reversed it to suggest an anatomical map of a robot with limbs and organs. The robot as a scrap metal and chunk of meat is a surrealistic monster as a result of ‘ad-hoc cross-breeding of the past and the future.’ And surrealistic reasoning is the artist’s authority to make a crack in the reality.

The first part of the video embodies a peculiar image of Seon-bawi rocks in Inwang Mountain and Guksadang Shrine as a religious furnace that embraces all sorts of beliefs within. It is considered as a ‘head or a mass.’ The movement of escalators in a department store or in a subway in Paris is revealed as the ‘torso or chest.’ The ‘eyes or nose’ would reject a single view, and the ‘ears or mouth’ connected in Mobius strip is based on the reference of Ritronello which follows the disorder in chaos. Graf Zeppelin in modern times and drones in the contemporary period are compared to the ‘legs or toe nails’ realizing the magic art of shortening distances and warp, while ‘arms or hands’ establish a temporary pathway as a tactile sense of identifying the world of night. Hypothesizing a runway by combining the ironical and connecting time and space is what the ‘genitals or pelvis’ related to the reproduction of robots is to do. Lastly, the duty of redefining the perception of time and memories to ‘multiplicate a single one’ and ‘delete what is fixed’ is imposed on the ‘heart or viscera.’[6]

Jun reintroduced the medium of sculpture, which she has not used for long, to this exhibition, further diversifying and giving a volume to the layers within. She explored the primate form of sculpture as a chuck being reminiscent of stones or rocks. These were made out of melted plastics – PET bottles, globes, straws and disposable cups – and plastic sheets. They are suggested as dissolved consumptive capital and scenes of a destroyed city, reflecting Yi Sang’s dream world: he imagined a city where everything would boil and melt down when sirens ring at noon, dreaming of wings to grow under armpits. Visualized is a world that has been converted into the world of pure and transparent chunks after the existing values and systems break down by embodying the lines reminding of globe fragments or roads and remains of daily living. It could also be a pathway connecting the time from the past to the future – from one end to the opposite end in space. Moreover, this primitive chunk derived from a scenery – interestingly enough – is reorganized into <ORGAN> of heart, knees, hips and eyes, moving forward as a dynamis of new birth while forming a fragmented body.  

Yet, would the sign of this birth be realized? Would there be a valid key hidden in Seonbawi rocks in Inwang Mountain – the center of modern Seoul, yet the epicenter of irrational and premodern beliefs – to reverse the historical flow after the modern period? Jun made <Storage>(2020) resembling a miniaturized Inwang Mountain with precious silver, under which she hid a suspicious key inscribed with <AU MAGASIN DE NOUVEAUTES>. Silver is a capital that flew in from the Orient enabling the modernization in the West, thus is an ironical historic evidence. While the operability of the key is unidentifiable, the small mountain plays a role being ‘disguised’ as a precious product on the shelf in a showroom resembling either a temporary scaffold or a new store.

[1] Walter Benjamin that owned Paul Klee’s printmaking work of <Angelus Novus> (1920) called it the ‘angel of history,’ diagnosing the historical scene driven by a storm of progressiveness.

[2] It is the name of a spatial diagram used in architecture. The diagram called ‘tessère’ in French was first suggested by Dutch artist and architect Theo van Doesburg in 1925. It is a theory where the internal and external parts in a space are determined by the shape of a square, and the shape is infinitely expandable in all dimensions. A similar idea is found in paintings of Mondrian engaged in De Still movement. Kim Jiwoo, Lee Soojong, ‘Intellectuals who diagnoses modern society including himself’, Journal of the Korean Poetics Studies, no.57 p.174

[3] LZ No.127 sailing out for a world travel in August 1929 departed from Germany, and arrived at Tokyo, Japan as a stopover site before crossing the Pacific Ocean after travelling the Eastern Europe and Russia. It achieved a travel time which was 22 hours faster than expected by finishing off the sail in 102 hours for 6,600 miles. It is said that the Japanese were utterly shocked and overwhelmed by the dominant science and technology of the West, and acclaimed for a narrower geographical gap between the East and the West.

[4] Last line in <Notes to the Lines 2> in Yi Sang’s poem series <The Third Angle Design> (1931)

[5] “Topologists are children of night. Algebraists deal with the knife of strictness with absolute clarity.” It is a comment of French mathematician and philosopher René Frédéric Thom(1923-2002) pinning hopes on topologists that imagined connection of tempo-spatial continuums and organisms, instead of algebra as the basis of modern technological development through absolute clarity. Emmanuel Ferrand, “Child of the Night”, <ㅁ>, organpress, 2020, p.284  

[6] Sojung Jun, “Diagrammed Robot” <ㅁ>, organpress, 2020, pp.305-315 ⬅︎

[pamphletstoinspire]

St. Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta

St. Padre Pio was one of the holiest saints of the 20th century. His insight into the usefulness of Maria Valtorta’s revelations for spiritual reading is certainly most reliable, as he was a mystic who communicated often with Our Lord and Our Lady; he often had instantaneous spiritual insights (such as the ability to read hearts); he was a stigmatist, bilocater, and prophet; he obtained miraculous cures and other miracles for many people; and he had numerous documented mystical experiences with other people, as well as lived in the same country at the same time as Maria Valtorta, who herself testifies that she had mystical experiences with him, and who others testify that they have experienced or witnessed supernatural occurrences connected with Maria Valtorta and him.

Drawing from handwritten testimonies of Rosi Giordani (a spiritual daughter of St. Padre Pio), Marta Diciotti (Maria Valtorta’s live-in housekeeper, friend, and confidant), and Maria’s autobiography, we will explore some of these experiences and testimonies.

Letter from a Spiritual Daughter of Padre Pio’s Telling About His Verbal Command to Read Maria Valtorta’s Works

The following is an exact copy of a letter written by a spiritual daughter of Padre Pio, Rosi Giordani, to Dr. Emilio Pisani, the editor and publisher of Maria Valtorta’s works. Included among the export publishers who receive special recognition each year from the Italian Ministry for Cultural Goods, in 1995, Dr. Pisani's Centro Editoriale Valtortiano (the publisher and worldwide distributor of Maria Valtorta’s writings) was awarded the Culture Prize by the Italian Presidency of the Council of Ministers.1 Dr. Emilio Pisani is the son of Knight Michele Pisani, a renowned Catholic publisher who was knighted a Knight of the Order of St. Gregory the Great by an Apostolic Brief of Pope Pius XII in 1943, upon the recommendation of the Pontifical Priestly Missionary Union.2 In this letter to Dr. Pisani, Rosi Giordani attests to the words of Padre Pio directed to a spiritual daughter of his, ordering her to read Maria Valtorta’s books. This letter is taken from the book published by Dr. Pisani entitled Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta:3

For Dr. Emilio Pisani,

Beloved in Jesus!

My name is Rosi Giordani, a spiritual daughter of Padre Pio. I am from Bologna, but have been living here for many years with my mother, who was born in 1897, like Maria Valtorta. Father has been at rest for twelve years in the cemetery of this town. In 1981 I was present with Mother at the Basilica of the Annunciation in Florence for the celebration of the anniversary of Maria Valtorta’s death. I was with dear Domenico Fiorillo. I embraced Marta and listened to her lovely talk.

I am writing particularly to tell you the following: a spiritual daughter of Padre Pio from the outset, Mrs. Elisa Lucchi, known as Malvina, from Forlì, a year before Padre Pio’s death asked him in Confession, “Father, I have heard mention of Maria Valtorta’s books. Do you advise me to read them?” Padre Pio replied, “I don’t advise you to—I order you to!”

San Giovanni Rotondo

January 7, 1989

Rosi Giordani

Padre Pio once wrote about the special care and solicitude that he had for his spiritual children: “I belong entirely to everyone. Everyone can say: ‘Padre Pio is mine.’ I deeply love my brothers in exile. I love my spiritual children as much as my own soul and even more. I have regenerated them to Jesus through suffering and love. I can forget myself, but not my spiritual children. Indeed, I can assure you that when the Lord calls me I will say to Him: ‘Lord, I will remain at the gates of Paradise; I will go in when I have seen the last of my children enter.’”4

Introduction to the Mystical Experiences Between Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta:

A Publication of San Giovanni Rotondo (The Place Where Padre Pio Spent the Last 52 Years of His Life)

The following are recollections of Maria Valtorta among the followers of Padre Pio. What is quoted below is from a fortnightly publication on Padre Pio’s work, and this was reprinted in the book Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta.5

The following is news published regarding the Our Lady of Grace Prayer Group in Ancona, taken from La Casa Sollievo della Sofferenza, a magazine published twice monthly by Padre Pio’s foundation in San Giovanni Rotondo (vol. XXVIII, no. 14, July 16-31, 1977):

“After the usual Eucharistic celebration, followed by recitation of a third of the meditated rosary, the group’s spiritual director, the Most Rev. Bernardino Piccinelli, Auxiliary Bishop of Ancona, permitted a public reading of one of the most interesting instances testifying to Padre Pio’s extraordinary relations with Maria Valtorta of Viareggio, who had died a few years before with a reputation for holiness and was the author of famous literary works…”

Background on Some of the Common Miraculous Occurrences Involving St. Padre Pio

For those who are unfamiliar with the many miraculous occurrences that frequently occurred with the holy saint, prophet, and mystic, St. Padre Pio, I recommend the following article as a good place to start acquainting yourself with these phenomena: Life and Miracles of Padre Pio. Near the top of that article, there are links that go to additional articles dedicated to specific themes of his miracles, including stigmata, bilocation, gift of healing, gift of reading souls, encounters with his guardian angel, triumph over the devil, etc.

In this particular article about Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta, several of his common miraculous phenomena that occurred between Maria Valtorta and him that we will discuss was his well-known supernatural rose fragrance as well as him appearing in dreams. Before we proceed further, I want to put into context and establish what is meant by “his well-known supernatural rose fragrance”. Throughout history, various saints have miraculously exhibited a very strong scent of roses which cannot be attributed to natural causes. This is indicative of great holiness and the sign of God’s Presence. This has sometimes been called the “heavenly fragrance”, “celestial perfume”, or simply “miraculous scent of roses”.

An article by Jim Dunning, on the popular website, Mystics of the Church, relates:6

Although [Padre Pio] never left the monastery in a physical sense, he was observed at different places many miles away on numerous occasions. Thus he possessed a gift shared by very few saints; that of bilocation. Sometimes he appeared beside someone he wished to help; at other times he made his presence felt by the perception of a singular fragrance. This was noticed by everyone in the vicinity at the time.

An unusual aspect of this latter gift is that Padre Pio held it while still alive. Saint Teresa of Avila was reported to have emitted heavenly scents immediately after her death. A similar account was given of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux (the Little Flower), whose body at death was said to have produced a strong scent of roses. There are numerous accounts of saints’ bodies possessing a distinctive fragrance years after their burial, but few in modern times were so honored during their lifetime.

Another article relates:7

The aromas are a feature of Padre Pio's spiritual views. He used to say to those who felt the scent: "What is there to explain... It is my presence."

Also note that many people have testified to having had mystical experiences with Padre Pio appearing to them in their dreams, and in them, speaking to them. The supernatural origin of these dreams has often been confirmed by subsequent miracles (such as healings) or by prophetic statements from Padre Pio in the dream that later came true (for example, he may tell them that something is going to happen that they would never have been able to guess would happen and would have no way of knowing it, and it in fact does occur).

From Maria Valtorta’s The Notebooks (1943): Mystical Experience of Communicating with Padre Pio in Dreams & the Experience of His Well-Known Supernatural Rose Fragrance

Maria Valtorta relates in The Notebooks, in 1943:8

I have seen and spoken to Padre Pio of Pietrelcina (in dreams). In dreams, too, I have seen him in ecstasy, after Holy Mass. I have seen his penetrating gaze and felt the scar of the stigmata on my hand when he took me by the hand. And, not when dreaming, but wide awake, I have noted his fragrance. No garden packed with fully-blossoming flowers can emit the heavenly scents which flooded my room on the night between July 25 and 26, 1941 or the afternoon of September 21, 1942, precisely while a friend of ours was speaking to Padre Pio about me (I did not know he had left for San Giovanni Rotondo). On both occasions I later obtained the graces requested. The scent was also perceived by Marta. It was so intense that it woke her up. It then ceased all at once, as it had come all at once.

Br. Daniel Klimek, T.O.R., discusses this dream and makes some good points (especially the third paragraph):9

Notice all of the sacred components surrounding Valtorta's dream, signs signifying that her encounter was, indeed, more than a simple dream. It was something deeper. First, she encounters the experience after Holy Mass, the holiest of all rituals between God and man on earth. Second, she encounters the experience in a state of ecstasy; thus, it has the feeling of an out-of-body experience for the mystic. Third, there is a vividness to the dream that is evident in Valtorta's intimate details of the encounter – from the fact that touch is accentuated in the way that Padre Pio held her hand and she could clearly see the details of the painful stigmata, to the fact that she describes Saint Pio's "penetrating gaze," showing us a poignant personalism in the encounter between these two Italian mystics. This personalism is further noticeable in the very fact that Valtorta reported speaking with Padre Pio. Thus, it wasn't simply a casual dream of a saint that she experienced, but a deeply personal and intimate interaction with a saint.

The fact that a powerful, sacred fragrance remained afterward while Valtorta was wide awake, a fragrance so powerful that no "garden bursting with flowers in full bloom can give off the celestial scents" which filled her room and which even woke up her friend Marta, further shows us that her experience was something special. Notice that the second time that this fragrance came, according to Valtorta's description, was when a friend of the family's was speaking of Valtorta to a priest in Saint Giovanni Rotondo, the site famous for a hospital founded by Padre Pio.

What further merits attention is that Valtorta experienced the encounter in the 1940s, back when Padre Pio was still a controversial figure in the world of Catholicism as a mystic. It would not be until decades later, in 2002, that Padre Pio would finally be recognized as a saint through formal canonization during the papacy of Pope John Paul II, who himself revered the famous stigmatic. Yet, before Padre's ecclesial recognition by Rome, the friar remained a controversial figure, admired and revered by countless of people but, unfortunately, also demonized by his bishop who spread many falsehoods about Padre's reputation and sanctity. The path of controversy is the path that every mystic must walk. Valtorta is no stranger to this reality, having both strong supporters and critics in the Church while her writings continue to inspire a wider audience. Perhaps her early encounter with Padre Pio, recognized today as an unquestionably holy presence, an encounter that took place back when Saint Pio's sanctity was still being questioned by many, hints at a sacred source behind Valtorta's own mystical experiences: for she saw authenticity in a holy man before the Church even recognized that authenticity.

From Maria Valtorta’s The Notebooks (1944): the Experience of Padre Pio’s Well-Known Supernatural Rose Fragrance Again

Maria Valtorta relates in The Notebooks, in 1944:10

July 25, 1944

Yesterday there was no dictation. Rest for my weary shoulders, crushed by abundant writing in recent days. But not an absence of heavenly favors.

First of all, a lot of peace, and then the visible presence of my Heavenly Friends and their caresses and—perceptible to others as well—that scent of roses, which is sometimes pure, as if there were tufts of just-cut roses in the room, and sometimes seems fused to a tenuous smell of iodine and vinegar, as if the roses had withered a little on their stems. The perfume comes slowly; at the outset, it is barely a nuance; it then intensifies and grows, virtually coming in waves, at times very forceful and at times less marked. It then disperses as it has come. It is generally the smell of roses. But sometimes it is complex, as if there were gardenias, jasmines, violets, lilies of the valley, normal lilies, and tuberoses. I never smell carnations, irises, daffodils, freesias, or other flowers. Only the ones I mentioned above.

I think it is brought by some “Friend” or comes with the blessing of Padre Pio. But I do not know exactly. And I greet it every time with thanksgiving, saying, “Whoever you are, thank you for your perceptible protection.” For I feel protected when I am in the midst of those fragrances, even more than usual. As if I were in the arms of someone who loves me with the perfection of a saint.

November 29, 1944

…Eight days ago, on November 22, precisely the night preceding Marta’s going down to Lucca to find out about permission for haulage, in my short sleep at dawn, I dreamt of heading for Viareggio (on foot), together with Marta, and meeting Padre Pio, or a Franciscan—but I think it was Padre Pio—who looked at me and said, as if speaking to himself, “It is bitter, though, to have gotten enthusiastic about returning and to experience such delay!” I turned around and, a bit irritated and excited, asked, “What’s that? What’s that?” He replied, “Nothing. I was saying that it is bitter to have gotten enthusiastic about returning and to experience such delay.” He said that twice and disappeared.

I woke up with concern and said to Marta, “You’ll see that nothing can be done.” Marta replied, “Why, no! On the contrary, Padre Pio came to say that the delay has been bitter, but it is over.” I responded, “No, no. You’ll see that it’s beginning now. He was too sad on saying those words.”

Marta went to Lucca…and found out that it was impossible to leave until after the 30th because permission was denied.

A Testimony About Padre Pio’s Words About Maria Valtorta’s Sufferings

Before I quote the testimony of Marta Diciotti (Maria Valtorta’s live-in housekeeper, friend, and confidant until the day of her death) concerning Padre Pio’s words about Maria Valtorta’s illnesses and sufferings, it is important to put her illnesses into context.

In 1920, at the age of 23, while walking down the street with her mother, Maria was struck in the back with an iron bar by a communist anarchist delinquent. She was confined to a bed for three months, and then recovered enough to be able to move around again. In 1925, she read the autobiography of St. Thérèse of the Child Jesus, and, inspired by it, offered herself as a victim soul to the Divine Merciful Love. Five years later, she took private vows of virginity, poverty, and obedience, and then (after much deliberation and preparation) offered herself also as a victim to Divine Justice.

God accepted her offer. As a result of complications from her injury in 1920, as well as having contracted numerous, terrible illnesses which caused her great pain, she was bedridden beginning in 1934, and was forced to remain bedridden for the remaining 28 years of her life. She suffered excruciatingly.

I will give a couple of excerpts from her autobiography where she explains her many illnesses and, important for this article, describes how she offers up her sufferings willingly for God, does not want to be relieved of them, and she turns down potential healings for the sake of others. This is important when we later see what Saint Padre Pio said of her sufferings.

First, it should be noted that she suffered from five major chronic illnesses and ten other minor ones during the entire time she wrote her works. Her illnesses included progressive paralysis, myocarditis, an ovarian tumor, lung ailments, chronic peritonitis, volvulus, neuritis, and others.

Maria Valtorta writes in her autobiography:11

On February 2, 1935, after a heavy sopor and a terrible cardiac crisis, paresis appeared. It was then that the family doctor had his theory accepted by the consultants that not only my heart was damaged, but also the spine, or, rather, the spinal marrow. We do not know if it is a tumor or the formation of liquid resulting from the blow received in 1920, but the lesion exists. After the consultation I wrote as follows (I copy from my diary): “My soul is full of song. An incomprehensible song and incomprehensible gladness for someone unaware of the most burning longing of my heart...! You, my Good, know why I am happy...! The fact is that I do not have one malady, but three afflicting me! I kiss this trinity of pain wherein I see the will of the Trinity reflected and worship God, who adorns me with three such gifts, and with St. Francis I cry, ‘Lord, I am not worthy of such a great treasure!’ I clasp these three nails to my heart, your three nails, O my King, O my Christ, O my All, and since the more love grows, the more it sees itself comprehended and compensated, with the boldness of lovers I ask You, ‘Why just three wounds? Why not five, like yours?’ And I trustingly wait, for I feel that You will adorn me with all, all your jewels of pain....”

The three maladies were myocarditis, the ovarian tumor (now formed), and the spinal lesion. But I saw that the doctor was concealing something. And I prodded him to speak out.

On the morning of the 3rd I observed an undecipherable sign from the doctor to Mother. They went to the front hall and shut themselves in. “Just fine,” I said, “now I’m coming too.” Holding on to the furniture, I went barefoot to the glass door and, grasping the sewing machine to keep myself erect, I looked through the glass and heard the conversation. “The professor informs you that it is a form of progressive paralysis. Very slow, but extremely dangerous and inexorable in its course. As a result of a scare or some emotion or other, it may accelerate, strike the diaphragm and the bulbar centers, and provoke instant death. If there are no factors speeding it up, it may last years, gradually extinguishing the life of the organs....”

I went back to bed because—my heart was leaping and my legs, bending. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. I now knew enough, though. I have always wanted to know the truth. And to tell the truth.

The paresis beginning in the lower abdomen had little by little spread to many other organs and from time to time gives signs of paralyzing others. When it rises, it is the head which is affected; when it descends, the thorax. It is most painful because, according to the bulbar center stricken, it occasions blindness or deafness, or impairments involving speech, swallowing, breathing, digestion, renal filtration, writing.... A mine of troubles.

It was then that I made a solemn pact with Jesus to rescue a soul for every crisis. I had done so before informally. And how happy I was if I had many crises a day.

Maria Valtorta writes in her autobiography:12

The doctor obstinately maintained that either tuberculosis or hysteria was present. Analysis after analysis.... And the tuberculosis would not make up its mind to pop out so as to please him. Test after test to establish hysteria. But neither did it want to show up to make him happy. And I suffered terribly.

Another consultation with a surgeon. “It’s appendicitis! It should be operated on immediately!” Boom! In 1920 the same thing had been said, and after fourteen years the appendicitis had still not appeared. I am still waiting for it. And I live on raw salad, peas, and similar delights for an intestine which, according to the surgeon, is nearly perforated...!

Another consultation: “It’s a case of genital insufficiency.” Boom thrice over! I had never suffered in that sense. Insufficiency, of course! If anything, there was a tendency towards super-sufficiency! But that had to be the breeding ground. There was no solution. Very comfortable for doctors to take care of women! What they are unable to classify by its proper name is called hysteria, and we’re taken care of! Ovarian hormone treatment. The result: my heart remained the same. An ovarian inflammation leading to the tumor which gives me so much pain and not only physical troubles.

Then, since they had failed to hit the bull’s-eye, ladies and gentlemen, it was time for a change. The physiologist came back once again. Properly worked on by the family doctor—oh, human inconsistency!—he took back his entire diagnosis of a short time before, and whereas he had previously put me on water fresh from the tap and fruit juices for my pressure, he now ordered super-nutrition; whereas he had previously ordered complete immobility, under pain of death, he now ordered me to get up and go to the pinewood; whereas he had previously decalcified my arteries with all the nitrates possible, he now ordered calcium again without interruption, because there was bilateral tuberculosis (boom!), which, if not checked by supernutrition, air, movement, and calcium, would take me to the cemetery in three months (boom! boom!) amidst tremendous hemoptyses (boom! boom! boom!).

It was September 4, 1934. Today is April 8, 1943. I have eaten less and less, have not taken air, except for what comes in through the window, have not moved about, have not ingested calcium, and I am here—waiting....

I had to engage in movement, but none of the three consultants committed himself to taking me in the ambulance to have the X-ray done.... They knew that on moving I risked death, if I did not precipitate it as well.

In short, one gave me alcohol in any case; another prohibited even watered-down white wine; one administered heavy doses of caffeine, and another prohibited coffee; one fed me to excess, provoking crisis after crisis, and another put me on water and fruit juice.... Enough to drive you crazy!

Finally, a professor came who was a friend of ours. “Why, who has given you all this stuff?” he exclaimed on seeing the pharmacy I had on my bedside table. “But they’re mad! I’d throw everything into the middle of the street.” An examination and the complete exclusion of tuberculosis. A serious myocarditis, definitely, and now an ovarian inflammation. Bed, complete repose, nutritious but very limited food intake, cardiotonic injections, and that was all. “And then I’ll see to finding the doctor you need.” And he found him.

This is my current physician, who has been treating me for eight-and-a-half years and who, if not a genius healing all maladies, is at least a good psychologist who understands the causes of ills. And this is already quite a bit for a patient, particularly for certain patients!

With respect to my recovery... He has often stated for years, “We can do nothing in this case. We are faced with forces stronger than medicine which impede the slightest relief of the patient’s condition just as they impede her death, for, in human terms, she should have died years ago, on account of both the violence of the maladies gnawing at her and the foolish treatment applied at the outset. I am not a convinced believer, but I surrender to the evidence of a miracle: a miracle even greater than that of a cure. I do nothing. I merely follow the malady as best I can because I feel that even if I accomplished the impossible, I would collide with a Will which would annul my every effort.”

It’s a good thing he understood! But the others—those who were just “passing through,” shall we say, like the consultants—also reached the same conclusion. “If you are a believer, go to Lourdes or Loreto. Here the hand of God is present, and He alone can work a cure.”

It has often been proposed that I go to Lourdes or Loreto. My parish priest at the outset also suggested accompanying me there gratis. But, though grateful to him, I refused. First of all, as I have already written, it would be a serious inconsistency. What has been donated is not asked for. In the second place, I renounce the grace of health which might be granted me in favor of another ill creature who is not resigned to infirmity.

Every time there is a pilgrimage of patients or a solemn novena, like the ones to Our Lady of Lourdes, St. Joseph, St. Anthony, and others, I say to the Lord: “If I went, if I asked, You, Infinite Goodness, would bring me, too, back to health. But I ask and beseech You, instead, to give someone else the health, or at least the relief from agony, which You would give me. May another enjoy it and give You praise. There are so many fathers and mothers of a family who are ill and needed by their children! Heal one of these! There are so many patients who despair over being such: heal one of them! It is enough for there to be another creature who loves and blesses You, and I am content, much more than if I were to get well or my agony were to diminish.”

Just think how lovely Paradise will be for me, where I shall meet those who were healed through my renunciation! Healed of physical maladies and of distrust or despair! Now I do not know who they are. But in Heaven I shall know. My Lord Himself will be the one Who points them out to me when, clasping me to His Heart, He says, “Come, blessed one, for I was ill and you healed Me.”

This blessedness, too, will certainly exist for those who renounced recovery to heal another! Not even a glass of water given in His Name is in vain or goes unrewarded.... What, then, will be the reward for having given the grace of health in His Name to an ill brother?

Oh, I am so happy when I suffer very, very much...! My mission is to suffer. Every time the doctors’ compassion thinks up a remedy and every time the compassion of believers utters prayers for my improvement, a more serious deterioration and more acute suffering are observed.

In the economy governing the Universe everything has its reason for existence and its mission to carry out. The circling stars give us light and send forth astral forces influencing the fructification of lesser elements and the laws of the tides. The waters obey the eternal code directing them to descend in rain and snow from the clouds which amass them to sprinkle the earth and form glaciers nourishing the rivers, which, flowing into the lakes and seas, sustain them with their substance and turn them into a kind of enormous reservoir from which the sun draws up the evaporating vapors to create new clouds giving rain. Fish, the quite dimwitted fish, serve to clean the waters as well as for human food. Birds serve to exterminate insects and for the spontaneous sowing of the flowers’ seeds. The trees, respectful of vegetable laws, robe themselves in leafy branches in the spring to provide an abode for nests and shade for man or cover themselves with fruit to feed man and the good Lord’s birds. Seeds agree to be buried in the black earth, where nothing creeps but little worms, so as to sprout, in due course, as small plants supplying bread and food of every kind. Sheep cover themselves with thicker wool during the autumn to give tufts in the springtime to the birds building their nests and the warmth of clothing to the sons of man. Bees and butterflies serve to spread pollen, without which the flowering of plants would be of no use. Winds have their reason for existence, for they regulate heat, sweep clean the sky, purify the seas, and act as paranymphs in the vegetable marriages between flowers. Even the brambles have their mission. They are a defense for the hanging nests filled with tender bodies against the danger of man and snakes and serve as a hook for the tufts of wool sought out by the birds and donated by the flocks.

Everything, everything has its reason in creation, and everything has its mission, given to it by the Creator. I have mine: to suffer, to expiate, to love. To suffer for those who are unable to suffer, to expiate for those who are unable to expiate, to love for those who are unable to love. I do not think of myself. I say to the good Lord, “I trust You!” and that’s all I say to Him.

In fact, Jesus told her in one of His dictations to her:13

You are a nothing. But I have called you to this mission. I formed you for this, watching over even your mental formation. I have given to you an uncommon faculty for composition, because I needed to make you the illustrator of My Gospel....

I have crucified you in heart and flesh for this. So that you could be free of any bondage of affection, and would be the mistress of many more hours of time than anyone who is healthy could have. I have suppressed in you even the physical needs of nourishment, of sleep, and of rest, reducing them to an insignificant minimum, for this.

In your body, tormented and consumed by five grave and painful major illnesses, and by another ten minor ones, I have increased your energy in order to bring you to be able to do that which a healthy and well-nourished person could not do, for this. And I would wish this to be understood as an authentic sign. But this arid and perverse generation understands nothing.

...You are a nothing. But into this, your "nothing," I have entered and said: "See, speak, write." That "nothing" has become My instrument.

Now we will discuss what Saint Padre Pio said about Maria Valtorta’s sufferings.

If you are not familiar with Saint Padre Pio’s history of obtaining miraculous cures for countless people, see: Padre Pio and the Gift of Healing.

Testimony by Marta Diciotti, Maria Valtorta’s live-in housekeeper, friend, and confidant until the day of her death, taken from the book Recollections of Women Who Knew Maria Valtorta:14

The professor (Nicola Pende) wanted to take Maria to Rome, to his clinic on Salaria Street. And he would have provided transportation for her, either in his fine car, which was big and comfortable, or in an ambulance—whichever she preferred.

“Yes, yes, Professor,” Maria said. “Later, on arriving there, I would become a guinea pig.” In this way she shielded herself against the numerous proposals. In addition, she once said to me, “It’s useless all the same… They won’t cure me. They make me suffer more, and that’s all.” And I replied, “Why not say so?”

She answered, “Why let others in on my secrets? No one can cure me anyway.”

She said this to me on many, many occasions. And, in addition, more than once she said, “The Lord wants me like this in any case! And even worse than this,” or “Once I was cured, I would make all my offerings again.”

I remember that once a warrant officer from Marina, who lived alone with his wife near here, on Vittorio Veneto Street, and was named Arena, spoke to Padre Pio, whom he had gone to see, about Maria. In fact, at one time men in particular could also speak with that famous Capuchin, not just make a confession. This warrant officer, then, who felt pity over Maria’s many sufferings, by his own initiative asked Padre Pio to have her obtain the grace of getting healed, or at least of suffering a little less.

“Look, Father, that poor woman is suffering so,” this man said.

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. But if I can do anything, it will be for her soul. But I can do nothing for her body, to relieve her afflictions.”

And while he was speaking with Padre Pio, a big wave of perfume was perceived here. When he returned home, he came to see Maria and told her about his request and the answer he had received. She smiled and said “Well, yes! He’s right.” And she asked him about the time of that conversation with the friar in San Giovanni Rotondo. Well, the time—and, obviously, the day—correspond exactly to the moment that wave of perfume was perceived.

Maria Valtorta writes in her autobiography:15

When pain loosens its hold, when I know prayer is being offered for my recovery, I tremble and become anxious about my treasure’s being taken from me. It would be the only thing that would make me waver in the limitless trust, the boundless confidence I have in God. I would be tempted to think that God had found me so unworthy that He no longer associated me with the redeeming work of His Son.... And I, who recognize my worthlessness, but am familiar with the infinite mercy of my God, who raises us—poor human wretches—to the degree of redeemers, would fall into discouragement and weep immensely. But I trust my God!

As she wrote earlier:16

Every time the doctors’ compassion thinks up a remedy and every time the compassion of believers utters prayers for my improvement, a more serious deterioration and more acute suffering are observed.

…It has often been proposed that I go to Lourdes or Loreto. My parish priest at the outset also suggested accompanying me there gratis. But, though grateful to him, I refused. First of all, as I have already written, it would be a serious inconsistency. What has been donated is not asked for.

These last two excerpts show why Saint Padre Pio said of her:

“Yes, yes, I know, I know [she is suffering]. But if I can do anything, it will be for her soul. But I can do nothing for her body, to relieve her afflictions.”

He could do nothing for her body to relieve her afflictions not because he couldn’t obtain a healing for her (which he has obtained for numberless other people during his life), but because her afflictions were God’s Will for her for the benefit and salvation of other souls. To heal her would be to undo her offering, which she would then make all over again, undoing the healing. As the doctor said:17

“We can do nothing in this case. We are faced with forces stronger than medicine which impede the slightest relief of the patient’s condition just as they impede her death, for, in human terms, she should have died years ago, on account of both the violence of the maladies gnawing at her and the foolish treatment applied at the outset. I am not a convinced believer, but I surrender to the evidence of a miracle: a miracle even greater than that of a cure. I do nothing. I merely follow the malady as best I can because I feel that even if I accomplished the impossible, I would collide with a Will which would annul my every effort.”

Saint Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta are two of the greatest prophets, victim souls, and spiritual giants of the 20th century, who no doubt experienced multiple connections on a supernatural plane during their lives on Earth, and who are now enjoying each other's company in Heaven.

This article related several testimonies that confirm that St. Padre Pio recognized that Valtorta was a true fellow mystic and victim soul whose writings were given by God for the benefit of souls of good will. But St. Padre Pio is not the only canonized or beatified saint who has approved, endorsed, or praised Maria Valtorta's work.

References

1. Centro Editoriale Valtortiano (CEV). Centro Editoriale Valtortiano srl. Viale Piscicelli, 89/91, 03036 Isola del Liri (FR), Italia.

http://www.mariavaltorta.com/index.php/eng/centroeditorialevaltortiano-eng/

2. Fireworks: Sunrise of Truth Encyclopedia, Vol. 1. The Maria Valtorta Research Center. Kolbe's Publications: Sherbrooke, Canada. 1996. p. 90. ISBN: 2920285009. This book is also available online here:

https://web.archive.org/web/20130106000533/http://valtorta.org/FIREWORKS.htm

3. Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta. By Dr. Emilio Pisani. Centro Editoriale Valtortiano. 1999. p. 68. ISBN-13: 978-8879870719.

4. Padre Pio of Pietrelchina: “Have a Good Day!”: A thought for each day of the year (3rd Edition). Edited by Br. Mariano Di Vito. Edizioni “Padre Pio da Pietrelcina”, Piazzale S. Maria delle Grazie, 4 71013 San Giovanni Rotondo, FG, Italy. 2015. pp. 174-175.

5. Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta. p. 60. Op. cit.

6. Padre Pio – the Saint Who Wore Gloves. By Jim Dunning. Mystics of the Church. Originally published in Irelands Own magazine.

http://www.mysticsofthechurch.com/2010/03/padre-pio-saint-who-wore-gloves.html

7. The Scents of Padre Pio. By Antonio Norrito. Casa di Padre Pio.

http://sanpadrepio.myblog.it/archive/2012/03/16/the-scents-of-padre-pio.html

8. The Notebooks: 1943. By Maria Valtorta. Centro Editoriale Valtortiano. May 13, 1943. p. 27. ISBN-13: 9788879870320.

9. Maria Valtorta Encountered Padre Pio. By Daniel Klimek.

http://ministryvalues.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=1483&Itemid=125

10. The Notebooks: 1944. By Maria Valtorta. Centro Editoriale Valtortiano. pp. 468-469, 626. ISBN-13: 9788879870429.

11. Autobiography. By Maria Valtorta. Centro Editoriale Valtortiano. 1991. pp. 322-324. ISBN-13: 9788879870689.

12. Autobiography. By Maria Valtorta. pp. 358-361. Op. cit.

13. The Notebooks: 1944. By Maria Valtorta. Centro Editoriale Valtortiano. November 25, 1944. pp. 623-624. ISBN-13: 9788879870429.

14. The text for this reference is also quoted in: Padre Pio and Maria Valtorta. pp. 64-65. Op. cit.

15. Autobiography. By Maria Valtorta. p. 348. Op. cit.

16. Autobiography. By Maria Valtorta. pp. 359-360. Op. cit.

17. Autobiography. By Maria Valtorta. p. 359. Op. cit.

[thequillswhims]

Clementine Wetherbee

Victorian London, oppressive heat, an aristocrat walks through the slums. He's carrying an ornate filigree orb. Just looking at it causes a sense of unease.

The instructions or keywords for Wriday April 2nd 2021 for Happy Cats Meow Movies group

July, the 15th of 1847. The air reeked, the Thames stanched, the streets steamed of piss and shit, the world stank. People smelled and produced even more fumes, but that is not the tale I want to recount. It's merely context for what follows, for I need you to understand the importance of what you are about to read. Imagine those dreadful scents aggressively sneak up your nostrils, hold your breath hostage, choke your lungs and gag your throat in an escapable constancy of dread, standing on the cliff of nausea, one foot in the open air, about to plunge to the unavoidable disarray of you rendered but a mere puppet vomiting their guts out, uncontrollably, as if possessed from the inside, and dangled in convulsions by an invisible puppeteer from the outside. That is where I want you take your mind so that you can appreciate the breath of fresh air I will grant you in the following paragraph, a mere respite before we go back in, diving in the disgust, the crass and the pungent stank of the core of this tale.

July the 15th of 1847 was also the wedding day of one Miss Clementine Wetherbee, far far away from the hell of the slums of East London, I assure you! In fact, she was born outside of London and enjoyed a quiet but rich and fulfilling life on the English countryside. And how do I know so much you ask ? Well, then, let me take off the mask of anonymity and present myself. I am myself Miss Margaret Thompson, daughter of the Wetherbee household's chief cook as locally and colloquially known as the King of the Kitchen, I was hence sort of a princess, but only amongst the servants, granted, I had inherited the best of both my parents and was blessed with some beauty and talent, and graces and patience which promoted me to be Miss Clementine's play date and companion in her childhood, first lady companion and maid in her teenage years and for ever her confidant and trusted friend and servant for what otherwise would be blissful years of a respectably boring life, only embellished by a good reputable husband and a few children in good health after which I was already prepared to take care of, sing songs and educate to the best of my abilities and knowledge.

But that road ended up in a precipice and my dear Clementine fell in an abyss of which I could never retrieve her from.

She met Doctor Samuel Indridasson, in the dread of the slums of London, which to this date I do not comprehend the motivations of her father for having allowed a proper young lady's gaze to fall upon such misery, but the way of men are like that of God, mysterious and not always making sense for us, from the fairer sex. It wasn't properly an arranged marriage, but her father greatly counted on the doctor's charms to naturally woo her daughter into submission. A man of his importance would be such an addition to the family's reputation! His ... advanced age didn't temper his ability to love women and be out and about from sun rise to sun down, Mr Wetherbee wasn't concerned that a hair to the household would pop into world in a fashionably reasonable time. All this fluff to say that, it about took a glance to charm the girl and marriage papers were written, signed and officialized in a magically speedy time, I was down in the kitchens helping my illustrious father make prepare the wedding cake, my mind running in a million directions keeping track of Miss Clementine's dress, hair braids, hair pearls and diamonds I would have to sew in, her make up - discreet but impactful. Oh dear lord, my heart was racing for her, for we even shared the same sentiments in Life's greater events.

July the 15th 1847 the wedding reception was the talk of the ton! and probably in the outskirts, echoing down to the slums, her sweet ethereal perfume twirling in the wind, caught by the stench, grabbed like a small bird in a hunter's net.

A little bird caught in a hunter's nest, flapping it's wings desperately, terror gripping it's poor little racing heart, air stripped violently from it's fragile little lungs.

July the 15th 1847 was the last time I saw Miss Clementine Wetherbee.

She was my precious little bird, caught in a trap I couldn't dream of rescuing her from.

How do I know you ask ?

July the 16th, 1847, I found myself strolling the slums of London, I shall not recount the reason of my presence in such dreadful a place, but rest assured, I was not alone nor in danger.

July the 16th 1847, me and my companions walked past a tall handsome man in rich embroidered clothing and shiny leather boots. He was toying around with a gold and silver ornate filigree orb.

It was but a second and I could have sworn that my ears were ringing with the agonizing worry ruling over me, but I heard Miss Clementine's voice, loud and clear, screaming, howling in despair, choked by fear and tears "Margie! Help me!"

But the instant I turned around, the tall aristocrat man had vanished in the crowd.

Only the stank, the stench, the steaming piss and shit flowing in the street was there to remind me that I might have imagined those dreadful soul breaking cries.

[robertthomasgreene]

Paragraphs to a Ghost, a poem

I had to open a Facebook profile in order to make a roommate finder account because I’m homeless. Tonight a ghost crept into my heart and moved around and started chewing and tugging at my cranium, a Dahmer siren for your search. I found you and began to cry uncontrollably. Politically progressive captions this, loving family and friends that. Your perfectly perfect ways always made me feel ugly and insufficient. The man I saw kissing you and holding you is a troll stuck in a tree. I leave you two for good; I feel like loving you those years was loving this stranger who got to fuck your perpetually twinked ass. Yes, seeing you brought out the darkest and most selfishly homosexual recondite feelings I will ever know.

Let me listen to “Perfume” on repeat; you never understood Britney Spears and for that you are boring. I bet you never read the Charlotte Brontë novel I gave you. You will never know which songs I cried about you to, nor which passages tore at me because of you. You will never see how long and gorgeous my hair has gotten, nor how amazingly I dance. You will never heal my knees that you kissed with tendonitis when you left. You will never smoothen my forehead from the wrinkles you drew there.

You are become Marilyn Monroe, except somewhere awkward like Antarctica where no one gives a shit about you. Inside my laptop a ghost lives like a lava lamp, out of context and increasingly languid. I store you in my liver, to always caress you in the purest disdain; to always hate you in peace. But I gayve my hart to my soulmate who reads my poems and loves me. I love the fonts on his phone more than you liked to hear the sound of your own voice. I am a peasant on a valley full of grass, content with the goats and my husband. Breakfast and oral sex keep our stomachs full; semi-local tourism with moments of uncontrollable laughter bestow us with royalty. Wanting anal sex and travel to France keep us excited and yay. I keep my tumblr page and his yoga practice like a Ziploc bag on your Pandora’s box, lodged in the barn, unbeknownst to the horses. At night, I hitchhike with the wolves to the outskirts of the city, and breathe in big, and you are not on my mind.

[gingrichvisualnarrative17]

reading response 3/11

THE VOICE OF THINGS

~thinking about;; general impossibility of accurate conceptual translation when a text is so fully about the richness of its language— the general (obvious) difficulty of translating poetry to get meter and definitions to match

~”Disclaiming any taste or talent for ideas, which disgust him because of their pretension to absolute truth, he abandons ideas and opts for things.” Are these mutually exclusive? Are ideas necessarily rooted in a presumption of truth?

~poems in paragraph form, not a form I’m used to seeing.. addressed in into though, “Written in prose, the orderly lines, grouped familiarly on the page in everyday paragraphs, suggest immediate communication. Even the language, at first glance, seems to be the language of everyday. “

~thinking about;; the importance of titles in poetry

~”It is within this seed that one finds —after the sensational explosion of the Chinese lantern of flavors, colors and perfumes which is the fruited ball itself—the relative hardness and greenness (not entirely tasteless, by the way) of the wood, the branch, the leaf; in short, the puny albeit prime purpose of the fruit. “

~Fire: “Fire has a system: first all the flames move in one direction . . . (One can only compare the gait of fire to that of an animal: it must first leave one place before occupying another; it moves like an amoeba and a giraffe at the same time, its neck lurching, its foot dragging) . . . Then, while the substances consumed with method collapse, the escaping gasses are subsequently transformed into one long flight of butterflies. “

~”I am easily convinced, easily dissuaded. And when I say convinced, I mean if not of some truth, then at least of the fragility of my own opinion.” — such a good distinction

~”Passing off one's opinion as objectively valid, or valid in the absolute, seems to me as absurd as maintaining, for example, that blond curly hair is truer than straight black hair, that the song of the nightingale is closer to the truth than the neighing of a horse.” Is preference tied to truth? It seems it doesn’t have to be, but maybe I’m just being dense??

~”Why is there this difference, this unthinkable margin between the definition of a word and the description of the thing designated by the word?” That idea of a word as representation of a concept— Plato’s theory of forms, the word is not the thing, but a representation of it, therefore imperfect, incomplete, and open to interpretation. Also language/definitions are cultural (speaking within a language, not between different languages) the definitions and understandings of words are in as much flux as ideas are, the language is constantly shifting, people’s experiences shape their understanding of words, and slang/vernacular move language and definitions forward. Not just in adding words but in adapting preexisting words.

BLUETS

~thinking about;; use of italics— creating a code or system for your writing that isn’t necessarily on the same page as typical use, but also not so far from it it becomes indecipherable

~”I admit that I may have been lonely. I know that loneliness can produce bolts of hot pain, a pain which, if it stays hot enough for long enough, can begin to simulate, or to provoke-take your pick-an apprehension of the divine.” — divinity in the pain of loneliness— very romantic

~thinking about;; I love this text!!?! this is beautiful and sad and so so TANGIBLE in a way I can’t totally explain??? I wish I could be more eloquent and maybe later I will be able to but currently I can only articulate that I love this text and can feel it in my body and through my blood and I don’t know why

~”On my cv it says that I am currently working on a book about the color blue. I have been saying this for years without writing a word. It is, perhaps, my way of making my life feel "in progress" rather than a sleeve of ash falling off a lit cigarette.” yesyesyes

~”But why bother with diagnoses at all, if a diagnosis is but a restatement of the problem?”

~numbering sections— makes it a cohesive piece that clearly has an order but also allows it to be parsed out and taken in bits and pieces, while always keeping in mind that it does exist in a greater continuous context, but is not fully reliant on its situation within the larger whole

~”It was around this time that I frst had the thought: we fuck well because he is a passive top and I am an active bottom. I never said this out loud, but I thought it often. I had no idea how true it would prove, or how painful, outside of the fucking.”

~"What are all those I fuzzy-looking things out there? I Trees? Well, I'm tired I of them" — incredible last words

~”And what kind of madness is it anyway, to he in love with something constitutionally incapable of loving you back?”

~”If he hadn't lied to you, he would have been a different person than he is. She is trying to get me to see that although I thought I loved this man very completely for exactly who he was, I was in fact blind to the man he actually was, or is.” amazing !!!

~”that if what I was feeling wasn't love then I am forced to admit that I don't know what love is, or, more simply, that I loved a had man. How all of these formulations drain the blue right out of love and leave an ugly, pigment-less fish flapping on a cutting hoard on a kitchen counter. “

~”What seems clear enough: in 304 AD Lucy was tortured and put to death by the Roman emperor Diocletian, and thus martyred for her Christianity. What is unclear: why, exactly, she runs around Gothic and Renaissance paintings holding a golden dish with her blue eyes staring weirdly out from it.”

~I just bought Maggie Nelson’s book Argonauts on Amazon— I swear I saw it before but I forget the context?? Maybe when I was looking up queer lit to buy for Sarah…

~"What good is my peek at her pubic hair if I must also see the red lines made by her panties, the pimples on her rump, broken veins like the print of a lavender thumb, the stepped-on look of a day' s-end muff ? I've that at home." << what a gross thing to say, William Gass !!

~”Loneliness is solitude with a problem.”

~”Mostly I have felt myself becoming a servant of sadness. I am still looking for the beauty in that.”

~”Eventually I confess to a friend some details about my weeping-its intensity, its frequency. She says (kindly) that she thinks we sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair. (Can a reflection be a witness? Can one pass oneself the sponge wet with vinegar from a reed?)” !!!!!!

~ I love the word cogent

~”the romance of seeking”

~I just bought this book on Amazon even though I am reading the PDF right now— why do I do this

~”to see blue in deeper and deeper saturation is eventually to move toward darkness.”

~”The Oblivion Seekers” by Isabelle Eberhardt

[the-starchariot]

Bouquet

Nouns / phrases: Visitation, invitation, social life, conviviality, regalement, cultivation of friendship(s). Gifts, generosity. Affability, pleasantries, cordiality. Etiquette, good manners, polite platitudes. Appreciation, recognition, thankfulness. Congratulate, reward. Compliments, admiration, flirt. Flattery, honeyed words, bootlicking. Decoration, design. Perfume, jewellery, make-up, new hair style. Prettiness, (conventional) beauty. Embellishment, hyperbole. Window dressing, euphemism, glorification. Traditionally also: happiness, creativity and art, sex.   Activities: To visit, invite, socialise. To cultivate friendship(s). To give a present, regale. To act courteously. To thank, show appreciation, congratulate, reward. To compliment, admire, flirt. To flatter, suck up to someone. To decorate, design. To make oneself look/smell nice (to dress up; style one's hair). To embellish, elaborate, exaggerate. To glorify, sugarcoat. Attributes: Invited; on a visit. Convivial, sociable. Given as a gift, generous. Appreciative, pleased. Affable, pleasant, cordial. Well-mannered, according to etiquette, courteous. Admirable, commendable. Flattering, flirtatious, ingratiating. Decorated, conventionally pretty, fragrant, melodious. Well-dressed, tarted up. Embellished, hyperbolic. Glorified, euphemistic. As a person: Person with the above attributes. A welcome visitor, a good hostess or host. Peacock. Interior designer, hairdresser, stylist, plastic surgeon. Bootlicker. As advice: Be nice/more sociable! Visit/invite! Watch your manners! Show appreciation! Tend to your appearance! Negatively: Don't exaggerate / stop sugarcoating! Don't be vain!   Time factor *) : When etiquette allows; or when it pleases. When in good company. On a visit.

About the meaning: The Bouquet is one of the cards where I depart at least slightly from traditional approaches. I don't see happiness per se in the Bouquet but only the joy we feel when someone pleases (treats) us. I don't see art or creativity in the Bouquet (only design), nor sex, because I find those better represented by the Lily. My interpretation of the Bouquet is directly derived from why and when we give (or receive) a bouquet of flowers, or why we pick flowers for ourselves and put them in our home. Visitation and invitation / social life: One of the most common situations in which we give or receive flowers is when we visit someone, or when someone visits us. This is why the Bouquet to me represents both visitations and invitations, and, more general, a person's social life. The Bouquet speaks to me of being sociable, or convivial, of cultivating friendships. In some cases the Bouquet represents all these as given facts. But often it seems to suggest to be more sociable, to take better care of our friendships. Gifts / generosity / regalement: Because we are usually given flowers as a small present the Bouquet can be interpreted as gifts, and, possibly, as generosity. Along this line the Bouquet can suggest that someone is treated to something, being pleased, regaled. In relationship readings, for example, it can often be taken as the advice to show our appreciation to our partner (or child, or parent, or friend!) by giving them something which makes them happy. This something needn't be a material thing. Often, what our loved ones want most is to spend quality time with us! In less intimate contexts, and/or when personal gifts are not appropriate or not feasible I still have found it quite productive to interpret the Bouquet as the general hint that giving and/or receiving in some other form is relevant to the situation, that generosity is called for. Etiquette / pleasantries / affability: Continuing from the last paragraph, when we give flowers, e.g. to a host, we might do this mostly or even entirely because we are fond of the receiver and would like to please them. We might give someone flowers out of genuine cordiality. But it is also a fact that presenting something, like flowers, is in many contexts considered etiquette. Thus, the Bouquet to me represents not just affability, wholehearted pleasantries, but also etiquette, good manners, politeness. And I feel that in neither of these cases does the Bouquet say much about the graceful person's sincerity. Their pleasantries might be authentic, the politeness be born from honest respect for the other person. But the Bouquet just as well can also hint at meaningless pleasantries, at automated (even grudging) politeness. In other words, the Bouquet doesn't necessarily say that someone treats us pleasantly and politely because they actually like us. It could also say that they are just going through the motions - for example to not hurt us, because it's expected, or, to personally benefit from appearing courteous. Appreciation / compliments / flattery: I wrote above that flowers are sometimes given to someone to express fondness. That's a very important meaning of the Bouquet for me: appreciation, acknowledgement, and, from the receiver's perspective, thankfulness. The Bouquet can stand for recognition we receive or give, for congratulations. In some cases the Bouquet suggests a reward for something, very rarely, even an award. From the perspective of the receiver, the Bouquet might suggest that a "thank you" is in order. From a slightly different angle the Bouquet can also stand for compliments and admiration, and for flirts. Furthermore, because compliments aren't necessarily honest, and because there's sometimes an ulterior motivation behind paying them, the Bouquet also translates to flattery, honeyed words, adulation, bootlicking. The Bouquet sometimes is a warning that someone is just sucking up to us. Decoration / embellishment / hyperbole: Sometimes we use flowers to make our home look nicer, more colourful, more alive. This is why I think it is very appropriate to interpret the Bouquet as decoration, any kind of (interior) design, and subsequently also as any type of bodily embellishment - like perfume, nice cloths, jewellery, make-up, a new hair-do etc. In some cases the Bouquet can suggest that we are too concerned about our appearance, or vain. But first and foremost it stands for anything which pleases the eye, smells nice, sounds pleasant etc. The Bouquet stands for prettiness, (conventional) beauty. If you translate decoration and embellishment into interpersonal and linguistic contexts the Bouquet can suggest window dressing, euphemisms, and glorifications, as well as any type of (especially positive) elaboration, hyperbole, and exaggerations.

About the Image: My Bouquet is excessive, and very colourful, and obvious. You can't overlook it - it is being held out right to you, thrust into your face over the card's frame. None of the more contained designs I tried first were as able to convey how much the Bouquet has to do with social interactions. For the same reason I also ended up including a smiling face behind the flowers. It is only the lower part of the person's face which is visible. The smile is beautiful; you might be tempted to automatically interpret it as honest, too. But did you know that we can know an authentic smile from a fake one by looking at the smiling person's eyes? While the mouth part of a smile will look the same in both genuine and fake smiles, only the first creates those lovely little crinkles in the corners of the smiling person's eyes. By painting only the mouth part of a smile I left it open whether the affability the card represents has any depth or is just superficial, whether the praise it can stand for is motivated by true admiration or is just flattery, or whether (if the person in the image represents the receiver of the Bouquet) they are genuinely pleased about their gift or just pretending to be.

Bouquet-Rider Visitor (who's invited themselves?); a welcome change (or news); to invite change; social intrusiveness or presumptuousness. Greatly exaggerated or embellished news. Intrusive design or fragrance, flashy outfit. Overwhelming beauty. Something changes one's beauty standards. Obtrusive compliments or flirting. Bouquet-Clover A chance to visit / be visited / be more sociable. Circle of friends in which nothing serious is ever spoken about. Don't take compliments you are getting too seriously. To have some fun with decorating / a makeover. To dabble in interior or fashion design. Light-hearted flattery or flirts. To not take the cultivation of friendships serious(ly enough). A welcome opportunity. Bouquet-Ship To be welcome(d) were you go. To welcome a foreigner; a stranger. A welcome journey/change. To re-decorate. To be not very committed to one's friends. Change your ways - you need to be more friendly, praise others more! To go visit someone new; to embark on the venture of broadening one's social circle. To explore new social circles. To leave one's social circle. To leave behind the need to look pretty and look for something better. A farewell party; a farewell gift. To give (or receive) praise for making a change. Exaggeration of an adventure. Admiration of adventurousness. Bouquet-House Gratitude or admiration for family(members). Interior design; to make one's home nicer. A family member who always tries to be nice to the others. The attempt to make family life more pleasant Family gatherings; to reconnect with family members. Familiar flattery; to be used to compliments or admiration. Elaborate rules or plans; to overdo it with planning. Traditional beauty standards. To plan a visit. Rules which apply when visiting/receiving guests. Home visit. Visit of the family or a family member. To be comfortable socializing. To have very set taste. Rules regarding the showing of gratitude. Bouquet-Tree Compliments about our appearance; flattery about physical characteristics. Attempts at making our body look/smell/feel more beautiful. Exaggerated decoration of one's body. Or: Natural beauty. Natural decorations - e.g. flowers, living plants, the use of natural materials etc. Very stable and strong circle of friends. To find grounding in one's social circle. Gratitude for health; gratitude to one's ancestors. Gifts which are very usable, down-to-earth; pragmatic gifts. To be nice for pragmatic reasons. Bouquet-Clouds Fake compliments. Someone is being nice but has a hidden agenda. Confusion about how you should react to niceness / compliments / flattery. Insecurity in social situations. To misunderstand someone's pleasantries. To not know how to express gratitude or admiration. To be conceited in regard to one's attractiveness. Bouquet-Snake The use of flattery to  get something, to manipulate somebody. To be happy and proud of your own achievements. To crave (loving) attention, admiration, or a more active social life. To be very adept in social settings. To put a lot of effort into looking nice. Bouquet-Coffin End of pleasantries. Loss of comfort, beauty, or social circle. To suppress one's social abilities/needs. To not allow oneself to make oneself more pretty/attractive. To let go of the illusion that everything/everyone is nice. Bouquet-Bouquet*) Very pretty, very pleasant, very elaborate. To flatter someone's looks; compliments regarding someone's good manners. Someone for whom beauty is everything. To bring a gift when visiting. To exaggerate one's social life. Bouquet-Scythe Unexpected visitor or invitation. To put an end to flattery. to reap praise for effort / hard work you've put in. Or: to be nice to people just because you want something from them. Bouquet-Whip To behave in such a friendly and non-confrontational way that others think they can be mean to us. To exploit someone's goodnaturedness. To react with kindness to aggression. To alleviate guilt or shame. Attempts at appeasement. Gestures of reconciliation. To gloss over / sugarcoat / whitewash something which is quite horrible in reality. Bouquet-Birds Chat and gossip in our social circle. Worries about a visit or an invitation. (Noisy/chaotic) party or gathering. To be full of happy but chaotic thoughts. Someone is so admiring that it annoys the admirer. Attempts to be pretty for or nice to everybody in all kinds of ways. Fluctuating views on what is beautiful. Pretty platitudes. Bouquet-Child To be nice to or reconnect with a child, young person or childhood friend, maybe give them a present. (Birthday) party for a young person. Pretty child. To welcome a child. To be grateful for a child. To praise a young, inexperienced person. To take the first steps towards improving something. To take the first step towards another person. Naivety when we are just being flattered. Guileless friendliness. To meet friends for games. Bouquet-Fox Flattery and social visits for selfish purposes; to be nice to others for one's own gain. Distrust of compliments; to not trust someone's kindness. Be cautious of being too generous! Friendliness as self-defence. One's identity is dependent on one's looks. To have one's own beauty standards. Commendable caution. Caution in regard to a visit(or); to be cautious of who one welcomes in. To do something nice for oneself; self-praise. Bouquet-Bear Invest in your friendships now so they'll be strong when times are more difficult (or to prevent them from falling apart). Looking nice, making a good impression, is so important to you that it dominates your life. Influential social circle. An interfering visitor. Someone tries to influence who someone else make friends with. To visit or invite a (grand)parent. To flatter, try to win over, or even bribe, someone who is in a position of power. Powerful flattery; to be easily overpowered by flattery. Bouquet-Stars The longing for fulfilling, friendly contact with other people. To reach out to others with the hope of getting friendliness in return. Wishful thinking we were more attractive, or our situation was nicer, etc. Illusions about our looks. High hopes concerning a social situation. A type of spirituality in which aesthetics play a big role. To aspire to beauty. To trust someone's friendliness. Bouquet-Stork A slow transformation towards being more sociable, less isolated. Being nice to someone can transform them. The longing for a richer social life. A transition for which we receive praise. A returning visitor; to revisit a place we once visited before. What we consider beautiful is transforming. To transform something (or one's own body) by decorating, embellishing, enhancing it. To exaggerate or glorify a longing. Repetitive compliments. To try again in the hope that maybe this time our gifts / compliments / flirt will get better reception. To feel pulled towards that which is pretty, or towards people who flatter us. Bouquet-Dog Show your appreciation to your friend(s) or employee(s) more! Visit a friend or invite them. Someone really needs to know you love them / are proud of them. Someone dependent on approval. Unconditional admiration. Admiration from a friend. Someone totally adores you (possibly not in an entirely healthy way). To make oneself look pretty to please others. Bouquet-Tower A conflict between wanting to retreat and wanting to (or feeling one should) be more sociable. A social recluse. Let people in! To get admiration for one's achievements. To turn down an invitation. To refuse entry to someone who would like to come in. To not accept a gift. Praiseworthy leadership. To flatter, kiss the ass of, or even bribe, a person in power. Bouquet-Garden To meet someone in public - to go to a restaurant or cafe etc. together with one or several friends. To present a friendly face on the outside even when we don't feel friendly. A culture of welcome. Commonly accepted standards of beauty. To want to be pretty to others. To have a very large circle of friends. Facebook type of friendship. Lobbying, marketing, PR, advertising. Bouquet-Mountain Social phobia (to freeze in social situations). Difficulties with making or accepting compliments or with giving or accepting gifts. It's going to take a long time until you and someone else (or a group of people) will come to accept/like each other. It's difficult to make friends with a person, idea or situation. Exaggerated problems. A greatly embellished tale of conquest/victory. Praiseworthy patience. Friendly silence. Tackling social dealings/gatherings. Bouquet-Crossroad To choose that which is more pleasant. To receive appreciation or praise for a choice we make. To think about the reward of a certain (difficult) decision. Difficulties to choose because all the options are similarly nice. Bouquet-Mice False compliments, someone is kissing ass. False friendliness. Something which used to be nice is slowly being corrupted, getting stale, becoming foul. Lack of social life. A conflict between having very little and wanting to be generous. To ruin something nice. To spoil things for others. An unwholesome concern with aesthetics. Bouquet-Heart A very loving, very affectionate, friendship. The love for one's friends. A kind gesture, a compassionate act. To humbly ask someone's forgiveness, or to generously offer someone forgiveness. To flatter someone, to be nice to someone, in order to win their love or forgiveness. To have one's heart in social life. Infatuation with someone because of their beauty; to give our heart to someone just because they are nice to us. "Love" which is conditional on the other person giving presents (or time, or admiration). Flirtatiousness. To dress up for a lover (or, to attract someone new). Bouquet-Ring Social connections, social ties, social commitment. To be bound together by friendship. A promise to visit someone more often. Shared taste, shared aesthetics. Connections/affiliations which make us look good. Cohesion through being nice to each other. To exaggerate commonalities. Glorified relationship. Bouquet-Book To share knowledge; to be invited in on a secret. Praise of knowledge, praise of one's study efforts. To study interior design or other trainings which have to do with beauty, design, fashion. Facts or knowledge about beauty/design/fashion. The truth behind the flattery. To categorise something as compliments, pretty, pleasant, flattery etc. Bouquet-Letter Letter of congratulation; to pay compliments; flattery. To invite or to get invited. To let someone know they are welcome. To express gratitude/appreciation. Communication in one's circle of friends - possibly communication on Facebook if it's not public to all. To mince one's words; to say something in a roundabout way; to beat around the bush. To express oneself only in nice ways other people appreciate (whether this fulfils one's own needs or not). Styling which expresses something, which is supposed to deliver some information (e.g. about one's availability, or class). Bouquet-Man (a) Man who is: invited; on a visit, convivial, sociable; socially active. Man who is affable, well-mannered. Man who is appreciated by the querent, or generally praiseworthy. Man who is flirtatious, or ingratiating. Bootlicker. Handsome man; groomed man. A peacock. Man who tends to exaggerate or whitewash things. A welcome visitor, a host. Interior designer, hairdresser, stylist, plastic surgeon etc. To show appreciation to a man; to flatter or flirt with a man or men in general. To visit a man; give a present to a man. Bouquet-Woman (a) Woman who is: invited; on a visit, convivial, sociable; socially active. Woman who is affable, well-mannered. Woman who is appreciated by the querent, or generally praiseworthy. Woman who is flirtatious, or ingratiating. Bootlicker. Pretty woman; groomed woman. A peacock. Woman who tends to exaggerate or whitewash things. A welcome visitor, a hostess. Interior designer, hairdresser, stylist, plastic surgeon etc. To show appreciation to a woman; to flatter or flirt with a woman or women in general. To visit a woman; give a present to a woman.   Bouquet-Man (b) Man who is: invited; on a visit, convivial, sociable; socially active. Man who is affable, well-mannered. Man who is appreciated by the querent, or generally praiseworthy. Man who is flirtatious, or ingratiating. Bootlicker. Handsome man; groomed man. A peacock. Man who tends to exaggerate or whitewash things. A welcome visitor, a host. Interior designer, hairdresser, stylist, plastic surgeon etc. To show appreciation to a man; to flatter or flirt with a man or men in general. To visit a man; give a present to a man. Bouquet-Woman (b) Woman who is: invited; on a visit, convivial, sociable; socially active. Woman who is affable, well-mannered. Woman who is appreciated by the querent, or generally praiseworthy. Woman who is flirtatious, or ingratiating. Bootlicker. Pretty woman; groomed woman. A peacock. Woman who tends to exaggerate or whitewash things. A welcome visitor, a hostess. Interior designer, hairdresser, stylist, plastic surgeon etc. To show appreciation to a woman; to flatter or flirt with a woman or women in general. To visit a woman; give a present to a woman.   Bouquet-(Sensual)Lily To go to a private view or theatre with others; to make music with others; artist group. Praise for someone's artistic accomplishments. Positive art reviews. Harmonious (interior) design; physical embellishments or verbal niceties with the goal of creating harmony. To give someone a sexy love letter / to get given a love letter. Thankfulness for the comfort and pleasures one can enjoy. Intense thankfulness. A very generous lover. Invitation to have sex; welcome sexual advances. Swinger party. Honest compliments or (possibly manipulative) flattery regarding sex. Bouquet-(Virtuous)Lily Any virtue relevant in order to have friendly, harmonious, close relationships with other people: willingness to compromise, loving kindness, righteousness, compassion, altruism, generosity etc. To treat others well. Honest compliments; honest feedback. Presents with no strings attached; to give gifts not to get something in return but to make the other person happy. To behave virtuously in order to create an atmosphere in which everyone feels happy and safe. Bouquet-Sun Party, celebration, congratulation, joyful gatherings. Superficial friendliness. Celebration of friendship; to find joy in cultivating friendships. Warm compliments, positive feedback. Great praise or appreciation. Pretty only on the surface. To please somebody. Making other people happy makes you happy, too! Bouquet-Moon   Profound gratitude; very sincere compliments. Emotional visit; emotional compliments. Recognition causes deep emotions. To visit someone who is sad. Someone visits when all we want is to rest. To rest from social situations. Social phobias. A beautiful night. Exaggerated emotionality; to exaggerate a fear/need. Bouquet-Key To open one's door to others. To accept compliments and praise. Welcome attention; a welcome visitor. To let beauty into one's life. Means to appear beautiful to others. Exaggerated welcome. Inclusive standards of beauty. The key to a healthy social life. To think that if you want to succeed you have to flatter others. Someone gets what they want by flattery or bribery - or, by being nice to others, in an honest way. An imminent visit or social situation. Bouquet-Fish To be very generous, to give away gifts or money. To receive a lot of flattery because people want your money (or other things of worth they feel you could give them). To view friendship as currency; to be friendly out of calculation (to gain something). Bribes (not necessarily financial in nature). Bouquet-Anchor Focus on aesthetics. Stable circle of friends. To find safety in social niceties. To stick with pleasantries. To be confined/restricted by having to be nice. Pleasant status quo. Nice, pleasant stop or break. To welcome a break. To make a stay / residence pleasant. Bouquet-Cross Social life or some aspect of it (e.g. a visit) feels like a burden. Friendliness, and/or being likeable, is our foremost duty. To be friendly on principle. To see it as our task to make things nice for others. The burden of always having to to please others. Generosity is a duty. Fateful visit. To compliment someone's dutifulness. Gratitude for someone's shouldering a burden / taking responsibility. To make someone's suffering easier for them; to help them forget their pain for a while by doing something nice. To present a pretty facade even when one is suffering inside.