#i take notes on things i find interesting there is no rhyme there is no reason. i simple note something i personally want to keep in mind as

[thewingedwolf]

like a quarter of the way through a clash of kings, this is just some random assortment of thoughts, pls remember that i do not remember jack shit about what happens later so no one can judge me if i wonder if a theme will hold throughout the series okay.

davos seaworth

i don’t have anything intelligent to say beyond that i love this man so much. can’t wait for him to completely crash into the northern storyline in the books. i highlighted this line from him because i loved it so much, because i love when peasantry get one over the lords: in time, my little black ship will fly as high as Velaryon’s seahorse or Celtigar’s red crabs.

i do love his chapters for a similar reason to arya’s - we get a glimpse of what the low born in this universe deal with. davos thinks a lot about his life before stannis & the way he’s treated in comparison to the other lords. he’s always keenly aware of how precarious his situation is & it not only gives him the unique ability to give stannis honest advice, it makes him more astute than a lot of the men around him.

tyrion i - iii

first of all, i love putting tyrion on like 2x the speed to get through his chapters quicker lmao

second - there’s just such a dissonance between his very clear headed way of understanding the precarious social roles of sex workers & the way he looks at shae (and tysha, since he still thinks she’s a sex worker atp). he can recognize, mourn, and attempt to get some semblance of justice for the woman and her baby that cersei has ordered murdered, and even when he’s being kind to slynt to put him at ease, there’s an undercurrent of disgust there at how callously slynt thinks about the young woman he had murdered. and yet, just moments later, he thinks about how he’s given shae a pretty house with pretty guards and pretty things, but when she makes moves to become closer to him emotionally, he thoroughly puts her back in her place as a low born sex worker. there’s a line at the very end of his chapter where he says “he wanted to laugh, he wanted to weep, most of all, he wanted shae” and it just boggles my mind that he can yearn for love, sensuality, & understanding so keenly, but can’t extend his belief that Women Are People Too to the woman who shares his bed, then descends into a “maybe all women are bitches, actually” as he continues down his path.

catelyn i

interesting how quickly robb turns on catelyn. he was a bit more amenable to listening to her in agot, but the moment he feels he’s “a man grown” he stops listening to her almost immediately and completely. part of it is youth, part of it is, ya know, the general violent patriarchy of westeros eating at his brain, and both of these imo combine to make this storm of extreme resentment towards cat, something she clocks almost immediately. “kings don’t have mothers” is how she puts its. i think atp she’s gotten the idea that he resents her calls for peace bc it makes him feel like he’s being brash & dismisses her on the word of the men around him - that she has a “woman’s heart” and is too gentle to understand how wars are won.

but imo he seems equally resentful that she’s right to chastise him at almost every turn. she’s right to think theon will turn, balon can’t be counted on, cersei will find his terms insulting, the lannisters would only trade sansa for jaime, rickard’s anger & grief will become a problem, the river lords shouldn’t have been sent home, he should have acted quicker in trading jaime, and she’s going to continue being correct! Catelyn is intelligent, she was raised as Hoster’s heir apparent for most of her childhoodl. She is a well of knowledge that Robb refuses to tap into because she will not tell him what he wants to hear. This might have been something he outgrew as he got older tbf; plenty of 15 year old boys are resentful of their mothers telling them they are wrong. But those other 15 year old boys aren’t kings waging wars, and they get the benefit of failing and learning better. Robb, uh, does not 💀💀

theon i

where’s that “theon gets so bold for being a misogynist” post, it’s always what i’m thinking about. he’s so mean to that poor sailor’s daughter even as he’s projecting his own daddy issues onto her, but in his projection of “all fathers are cruel to their children, that’s just life” he doesn’t offer her sympathy, he tells her to get over it. partially general lordly “you’re a peasant woman and i’ll use you how i like” but also clearly theon’s own issues with father figures & masculinity.

also theon has “a certain affection” for robb, okay you lying bitch lmao just a lil bit of feeling right, you basically don’t care at all about robb, he’s just a dumb kid. smh. also interesting how he asks after his mother & sister first, and how dismissive he is of balon, how he remembers nothing positive of his brothers. he walks onto Pyke clearly trying to emulate them yet well aware they are not men worthy of emulating.

dany i

idek what to say about dany lmao. i sort of wish she’d spent more time with the dothraki & more time focusing on her khalasar bc that’s the only culture she ever really accepts & wants to be part of. it kind of makes sense with her personality - i think there is something appealing to a girl who has been abused by a brother who is clearly less intelligent & less capable than she is, in a people who literally wear their capability in their hair. but grrm clearly isn’t interested in fleshing out the dothraki lmao and we move on from the dothraki sea quickly.

the other thing that sticks out to me is her relationship with jorah. it means something very different to her than it does to him & it’s just now that she’s started to realize that, but she still believes she can reconcile those two things for him. she doesn’t desire him, but she does love him, and she believes that giving him a gentle, happy ending to his story & giving him love as his queen will be enough for jorah. such a sweet little girl way of thinking about him, and it really reminds me how young she is at this time, which makes his whole existence so much worse.

arya & sansa

my main thoughts on arya are just how horrifically the war has spread to the small folk. so many of these chapters are arya’s pov; tyrion, robb, & cat are all involved in the politics but arya is right there witnessing what the cost of the war is. the scene with the woman who keeps saying please and her toddler in particular were really unsettling.

i think there’s also a lot of emphasis on how helpless sansa & arya are in their circumstances & how often they try to steal just a bit of agency. arya is always reaching out for some sort of emotional link - to yoren, when she’s scared by the wolves, to gendry, to hot pie, to jaquen. trying to find something to anchor her amongst her life spiraling out of control. sansa, meanwhile, asserts her independence at every turn - reaching out to tommen & myrcella when Joff clearly dislikes them, making smart comments even knowing joffrey will beat her for it, saving ser dontos, all to remind herself that she is still a person with a moral compass, still worthy of dignity. it’s depressing lol, they’re both really going thru it right now.

bran

bran’s chapters are a breather between everyone’s doom & gloom and jon being so involved in Important Plot Things rn. he’s such a sweet boy, willing to take criticism from Maester Luwin, doing his duty as a prince even as he’s struggling with how his life has been transformed by his disability. he’s kind and serious about dealing with manderly & hornwood, and he quickly realizes both that lady hornwood is lonely & in need of a husband to protect her claim, while also that her seat needs an heir & lord hornwood had a bastard - he thinks of jon, of how smart & skilled jon is, and thinks about giving the seat to a bastard. hes also funnier lmao - like the comment about how the marriage bed always involves a man sleeping on top of his wife aksjsjs. such an 8 year old thing to think.

there’s also more of bran’s selective amnesia - the moment the lannisters are mentioned, he starts having trouble breathing & has another green dream. something to be said - and none of it is good - about how closely intertwined bran’s trauma is with his abilities. i don’t want him to come back as an empty shell

(even though i maintains that he wasn’t an empty shell. but was that just the actor making decisions or did d&d just badly adapt something more complicated or completely axe a chunk of bran’s arc, i mean it’s clear they didn’t like him, they cut him out of a full season lmao. and i mean. look at my username. LOOK AT IT. this is my header on twitter and it’s been my header for a long time!!!!:

i love him, and if his ending is sad i’m going to lose my mind and i’m sure if it’s tragic, grrm will write it beautifully and i’ll just cope by reading fanfiction and changing my icon to him forever in mourning. but so far, the show and a lot of theories just make me wanna die aksjdj so every time there’s a vague implication of More Bad Things happening with bran, i’m getting paranoid).

but there’s a clear conflation between bran being traumatized and bran’s abilities, at least in the beginning.

varys

he gets his own bc he’s in tyrion’s chapters all the time but i am ALWAYS wondering what is the truth and what is a lie with this man lmao. he seems sincere in thinking that robert’s bastard & the mother would have been safe but surely he would realize that when lannisters are involved, babies are fair game bc of his Ditchwater Prince, right?? did he just underestimate cersei’s cruelty or did he just not care? did he figure gendry would be more useful in the future, if he needed one of robert’s bastards to get one up over Cersei? or did he simply not act fast enough? - because we know from arya that Varys hadn’t wanted the Lannisters & Starks to start fighting as quickly as they did, so did he simply not have the time bc Joff’s cruelty & Littlefucker’s scheming took him by surprise? Or is he framing it this way because he knows if he’s just like “yeah i didn’t care about the baby dying” he knows it would offend tyrion?? TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW VARYS.

[scuttlingcrab]

What if Raphael sent Tav an embarrassing gift? Something he'd definitely find pleasure in, but Tav would be mortified to receive? xD

LOL. Thank you for sending me this one. I died writing this, had me grinning from beginning to end. x

Summary: Raphael gives Tav, his very favourite client, a generous gift after she signs his contract.

Notes: Some suggestive imagery from the devil we know and love.

Link to my other work in the Devil's Archive.

The Devil's Muse

(Image via keylana-dragon)

“I beg your indulgence. A brief word, before you depart.” 

Raphael spoke in a low rumble, intending his voice for Tav but unperturbed whether or not the other companions overheard him. 

Tav hesitated, her ears perking up as his voice shattered the silence. She hovered near the door of his suite in Sharess’ Caress, halfway through the threshold as she attempted to make her leave. Shadowheart, Astarion, and Karlach waited on the landing outside, the companions lingering like flies on a rotten corpse. 

Raphael casually leaned against the desk, resting his hands on the smooth, rich rosewood. He lightly tapped his fingers on the surface, warming up his digits before the second performance began. 

The little mouse was always the last to leave his company, lagging behind her companions. It was only for a moment, but that was long enough for Raphael to take note, keeping a detailed record after each encounter.

She tried to play coy, never giving Raphael the satisfaction of losing himself in those dark delectable eyes. He could often feel Tav’s gaze on him as soon as he turned his back to her, those eyes burning through his very body and spirit. 

Despite her attempts of acting aloof, with her crossed arms and narrowed lips, she remained at the forefront of their conversations. Raphael would catch her leaning towards him, edging closer as he spoke his rhymes of wisdom and warning. Tav in turn spoke softly when she addressed Raphael, her words blunt yet voice cracking with emotion. 

That confounded mortal fanned the flames of his desires the more detached she presented herself. She was becoming a nuisance; occupying every waking thought and following him freely into every dream. Raphael had an insatiable longing for carnality, his chest overflowing with passion. He had been reduced to his primal instincts, letting his lust for that woman lead his motivations instead of his ambitions for the Crown. He would need to be more cautious. 

“There is one thing I wish to show you… now that the contract has been signed.”

Tav raised an eyebrow, biting her bottom lip as she watched Raphael, waiting for him to continue.

“What in the flaming Hells does he want now?” Karlach shouted, shoving her obnoxious face through the doorway. “C’mon soldier, we need to leave.” 

Karlach placed a hand on Tav’s arm, trying to lure her outside. Tav remained cemented, grabbing Karlach’s hand in return. 

“Hold on a minute.” Tav responded, “let’s hear what he has to say.”

“It would be in your best interest, little mouse, if it was just the two of us.” An edge of warning in Raphael’s tone.

“Oh, go on then, devil.” Karlach sneered.

“Come now, Karlach, no need to be unpleasant. Can we not speak with civility?” 

Tav regarded the situation with curiosity, her intense stare shifting around the room. Raphael could just about hear the rusted cogs turning inside of that tadpoled infested brain of hers.

Tav nodded, walking to the centre of the suite. 

“Alright, Raphael. I’m not interested in any more secrets. Whatever you have to say or show can be done in front of everyone.”

Karlach stomped her way into the room, standing close behind Tav. The Tiefling's infernal engine roared, the flames in her chest growing more chaotic as she shot Raphael a scathing glance. Shadowheart and Astarion shared a few hushed words as they followed Karlach, shuffling reluctantly back inside the Devil’s Den. 

“So be it, if you insist.” 

Raphael snapped his fingers and a large painting sizzled into view, suspended above them. The entire party gasped in unison. 

“A gift for my new treasured client.”

The painting showcased Tav reclining on a leather chaise lounge against a dark grey backdrop, her body bending with pleasure. She was draped in a red robe, the sleeves falling loosely off her slender shoulders, stopping just above the hill of her breasts. Her eyes were closed and her lips wore a savoury smile, as if she was on the cusp of release. Her dark wavy hair poured off the edge of the furniture like a waterfall. 

Raphael beamed, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he respected the painting in the very presence of his muse. He had painted Tav’s likeness from memory, hoping he would be able to do her justice by capturing her unique beauty on the canvas. 

Whether Tav signed Raphael’s contract that afternoon was debatable, he would’ve delivered his gift to the little mouse regardless of the outcome.

He had worked diligently behind the scenes since their last rendezvous in the Shadow-Cursed Lands; sketching mockups, painting, re-painting, one failed canvas after another, until he successfully recreated the image that plagued his mind for what felt like an eternity.

Raphael knew it would never be perfect, he still found flaws as he stared at the painting; minor errors in the brushstrokes, a few shadows that could’ve perhaps been blended better. He only hoped it added to the charm and the little mouse would not notice. 

Raphael returned his attention to his guests, immediately observing Tav. She was frozen in place, her eyes wide and fixed on the painting, as if she was hypnotised by it. There was something different to her face now, something Raphael always yearned to see from the mortal. A faint gleam in those eyes, a playful smile slowly crawling up her delicate lips the more she stared at the artwork. Had he stirred something in the little mouse? At long last? 

“Perhaps, at a later time, we can admire it together, once the Crown is in my possession, yes? Until then, it will remain in my House of Hope. For safekeeping, naturally.”

“This has got to be a fucking joke, right?” Karlach shouted, getting in between Tav and Raphael. “I told you he was a creep!”

“I don’t know, it does capture her essence... in a drab, lifeless kind of way.” Shadowheart murmured, her cheeks blushing as she continued to gape at the painting.  

“And here I was thinking only his poetry was questionable.” Astarion whispered, giggling like an ill-behaved schoolboy. 

“I often forget how ignorant you mortals are. A pity.” 

Raphael straightened his posture and kept his chin held high. He tightly clasped his hands behind his back, imagining what it would feel like to have his fingers around the companions' brittle necks, ridding them of their pitiful lives. Those foolish twits would feel his wrath in due time. Perhaps one, or two, would perish when they fought the Elder Brain. Yes, that would be most preferable.

Raphael instead approached Tav, ignoring the companions and their onslaught of criticisms. He turned to face the painting, standing beside her. Raphael could see Tav out of the corner of his eye, feeling the warmth radiating off her body as she continued to stare at the artwork. 

“I never took you for a painter, Raphael.”  

“I occasionally dabble in mortal amusements from time to time, when I’m feeling inclined.”

“And do you always give your clients such risqué gifts? These types of things are open to suggestions.” 

“It’s an innocent gift, I assure you. But now I am most curious, what does this painting tell you?”

Raphael crossed his arms, his fingers trembling as he raised a hand to his chin, anticipating her answer. 

“A promise of what could be? Maybe what more could be offered?”

“Very astute. I have been known to provide exceptional entertainment when certain deals have been met.”

Raphael tilted his head, taking an opportunity to lean towards Tav. It was a subtle gesture, but their bodies were now touching, linked together. With his arms still crossed, he removed an index finger from his lower extremity, lightly caressing Tav’s exposed forearm. The little mouse did not flinch at his touch but he saw her smile grow. 

“One note though.” Tav whispered. 

“Go on?” 

“I think my jawline is a bit off, don’t you think?”

Raphael bit his tongue, unsure whether he wanted to incinerate the little mouse or take her by the neck and violently kiss her.

Raphael had Tav's signature but he’d only praise the occasion when that little mouse bestowed the Crown to him. Her contract didn’t amount to a hill of beans when compared to his grander schemes. Raphael would not rest until he had succeeded in his plight to unite the Nine Hells, until he faced Mephistopheles, and claimed his birthright. 

Raphael had once made a promise to himself not to allow any distractions. It was too perilous, opening him up to failure and eternal punishment. But that damned little mouse found a way through his defences, crept through the cracks of what he thought was a sturdy foundation. The woman had caught Raphael in her snare. Until he held her in his arms, until she was his, she would continue to plague his dreams. Perhaps along the road to ascension, he would add Tav’s heart to his list of conquests. 

“I will make sure to keep that in mind for my next piece.” Raphael noted, turning to face the rest of the party. 

The silence was heavy, the awkwardness weighing on the companions. Raphael stared at each of them until they looked away, unable to handle the intense heat of his gaze without melting. 

“You may take your leave. The room is getting far too crowded for my tastes.” Raphael waved the party off, walking back to his desk. He left the painting floating above him. 

“Gods, I thought he’d never ask. Fucking prick.” Karlach whispered, practically sprinting out the room. 

“Tav, you owe me a damned drink.” Astarion groaned.

Shadowheart had no words, but she curiously eyed the painting a final time before trailing after Astarion. 

“Don’t disappoint me, little mouse. The fate of the world, our very futures, hang over your shoulders.”

Tav remained in the room, staring amorously into Raphael’s eyes. He held his breath, relishing the seconds he was allowed to devour her magnificence.

“Thank you." Tav mouthed, and quickly made her exit.

Raphael released a sigh, resting a hand on his desk to keep himself from combusting. That damned woman.

The curtain had fallen on this act, but it was not yet the finale. Change was brewing, mists of uncertainty clouding Raphael’s judgement, and for once, he was not fearful of what was to come.

[poem-i-wish-i-wrote]

His like a poem I wish I wrote

pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader Author's note: Hey, this is my first time writing fanfics on tumblr. I haven't wrote a fanfic in years. It's not great. But I'll get there. Also forgive my mistakes, English isn't my first language. Summery: The poem you want to write just walked in through the door and wants to make conversation

It wasn’t that early in the morning. Around 8:30. It was raining outside. The window foggy, the rain strumming on the street with a steady pattern. You take in the steam of your coffee. It smelled like just what you needed. A cartado, your preferred first caffeinated drink for the day. The coffee shop wasn’t that busy. Only a few people were around. 

You try to take in everything around you. It all seemed so perfect this morning. A new city, an unknown place, an exceptional cup of coffee, the sound of rain, the humid weather, what more could you ask for? Staring at the blank screen in front of you, you could think of a few things you could wish for.

You woke up this morning to the sound of the rain and you wanted to go for a walk. You also felt ideas running around your head. It’s been a while since you last wrote something. You really desperately wanted to write something today. 

You’ve been sitting here for a while. Your head was running around coming up with half a line, messy rhymes, phrases that didn’t have much of a meaning. Nothing came together. You shift your eyes from the screen to the window again with an exasperated sigh.

That’s when you heard the jingle of the bell on top of the cafe’s door as someone walked in. A man wearing  a white hoodie, black jeans walked in, hood on his head to shield him from the drizzle outside. He walked to the door and took down his hood, a hand ruffling his hair to brush off the water droplets.

You sip your coffee as you watch the boy order. He was unbelievably beautiful with white sleeves pulled up to his veiny forearm, messy chestnut blonde hair ( or at least that's what it looks like from where you were) sharp jaw and those beautiful eyes. The boy finished ordering and gave the barista a smile before turning around looking for a seat. And of course he caught you staring. You quickly darted away your eyes in embarrassment and you didn't notice his amused smile. He walks over and seats at the table right in front of yours facing towards you. You notice that but don’t look up at him from embarrassment. You sip your coffee and keep looking at your blank screen. 

Eventually you do take a glance and his on his phone. You are getting a little irritated. There’s this blank screen in front of you with not a thought in your head to write down, and then there’s this boy in front of the screen in a distance that looks like poetry. Oh no, he's looking at you now. Your eyes meet and he gives you this soft small smile that makes you want to melt in your seat. You smile back as the waiter approaches with his drink. You try to find a place to avert your gaze or look for something to do. Suddenly you don’t remember how to act normal. 

The boy looks at his drink then back at the beautiful girl sitting at the table in front of him with rain soaked hair, sipping her coffee so gracefully. She’s looking out the window at the rain with her chin resting on her hand and he kind of wishes she was looking at him like that.  He picks up his cup and walks to her. 

“Is this seat open?” You look up to see the boy standing right infront of you. Unsure of what’s happening you just nod. 

“Would you mind some company?” “Not at all” 

He pulls the wooden chair and sits down. “I’m Oscar”

You introduce yourself too saying it was nice to meet him.

“I saw you looking at the rain with great concentration. Do you like the rain?” “Yeah, it’s my favourite type of weather.” You smile. It was, but that was not the reason why you were looking at rain drops on the street. It was so you could stop yourself from looking at him.

“You looked very interesting, in this quiet cafe with a nice book in front of you while looking at the rain. Thought I’d introduce myself and get to know you a bit.” He says pointing at the book in front of you with his eyes, the cover green and blue with the words “Normal people” printed on it in white font.

You blush slightly. “So Oscar ,what do you do?” you ask, sitting up a little straight, signaling that you’d like to know him too. He smiles before saying he's a formula one driver. 

“Oh. You're here for the race then, that’s supposed to happen this weekend?” “Yeah. Do you follow motorsports?” he asked, sipping on his coffee, an americano you noticed. “Not really a sports girl.” You shrug. “ What do you do?” “I’m a writer.” 

You see his eyes perk up at that. “Oh that’s very interesting. Any books of yours I might have read?” . “I don’t know, are you a big reader?” You reply with a smile.

“I do read but really not much.” He replies honestly. “You chuckle a little, “even if you did, I don’t think you would’ve read mine.”

“Are you a local here?” he asks, leaning back in his chair looking at you with undivided attention, it almost made you feel a little dizzy. “No, I’m here for a literary festival for my recent book.”

  You two chat for a while. He orders you both another round of drinks. You get to know him from Australia and this is his home race, which makes it a big deal. He explains how the races work when you ask him, and you listen attentively. So does he when he asks you to tell him about your book. 

“It was wonderful to meet you, but unfortunately I have to go to work now.” He says after he takes the last sip of his second coffee. “But maybe I can see you around again? I’m here for a few days.”  He asks, almost shyly. You smile. “I’d love to.”

You exchange numbers and he gets up to leave with the same warm smile.

You look back at the empty white screen of your laptop before turning it off. Because the only poem you would love to write just walked out the door.

A/N: hope you enjoyed it. Requests are open.

[familyabolisher]

hi!! i hope you’re having a lovely day :-) i really enjoy reading your blog and how you pick apart Things & was wondering if you have any tips and guides for reading and analyzing poetry? ive always struggled w forming coherent thoughts abt poems and would love to know how you approach it. thank you sm for your time ✨

so the big thing that made poetry "click" for me was realising that i was trying to read it the way i might try to read a novel -- identify a discourse taking place, look for points in the text that supplement my argument, construct a position on what the piece is "about" based on these points -- all very undergrad essay-core and frankly a v boring way to think about novels as well, but like, completely mind-numbing when it came to poetry. i think a better approach is to interface with the poem at the level of language and technical construction. i find that it helps a lot to know the technical terms for particular phenomena in the language of poetry, but even without that shorthand knowledge, you'll get a lot out of poetry when you start looking at the choices being made at the level of individual words or even syllables. so instead of asking "what is this poem about?", we can start to ask, for instance:

what is the tone of this poem? is it sparing or loquacious? emotional or detached? asking questions or answering them? what's the vantage point - is this a detached omniscient third-person narrator making observations, or are we as the reader being guided towards a particular perspective on the part of the speaker?

what is the mouthfeel of this poem? can you find any 'shapes' -- any assonance, any internal rhyming, alliteration, anything that causes you to pay attention to particular words, phrasing, etc. why is your attention being called to those moments?

what is the rhythm of the poem? is it free verse -- if so, can you find any points in the piece where more or less attention to rhythm is being paid? why does the line break on this particular word? are the sentences short or long? how is the poet interfacing with their chosen meter? what does this meter lend to the poem? if you're reading multiple works by the same author, compare their use of meter -- do they use the same meter regularly or switch it up, and why were those switches made?

if you can annotate a poem, do so. note down anything which seems linguistically interesting, even if you don't know the "correct" technical word for it -- any clusters of words with similarities whose placement might be interesting (eg. what words are rhymed!), any noteworthy rhythmic discrepancies, placement of line breaks, anything that sticks out. i like to think of reading poetry as a playful exercise -- you're playing around with the words, seeing how they work, enjoying the rhythm and texture of the piece as it comes to you, and trying to construct "a reading" only after the fact.

i think there are times when the reading-for-a-discourse approach can be v helpful and illuminating, but it's best to stumble on those opportunities organically rather than focusing all your energy on trying to answer the "what is this trying to say?" question. if a particular discursive component of a poem sparks your interest (like eg. you read the rime of the ancient mariner and notice how the poem interfaces with contemporaneous abolitionist discourses as well as colonialist ideas about polynesia, just as an example), you've obviously got a compelling hook from which you can anchor a reading, but going in expecting such a reading to jump off the page will often just result in frustration.

this doesn't mean that we don't take the discourse of a poem seriously, or that we don't understand the "rules" of poetry to be postdiscursive phenomena highly contingent on social context. if anything, understanding poetry at a mechanical level opens up significant doors for answering these types of questions -- we can understand, for example, the reactionary nature of the academic revolt against free verse and the desire to return to metered poetry better once we understand the function of form and structure in fascist aesthetics. similarly, spending this kind of time with a poem makes it a lot easier to get a handle on what it might be "about," and what sort of choices are being made to render that "about"ness coherent.

also -- and this is true of anything, including poetry -- if a poet isn't working for you, try reading somebody else. a lot of poets that people will say are good and interesting are neither of those things. poetry has the advantage of being (usually!) a quick read compared to novels, so it's far easier to shop around, read widely, realise what you like and dislike, and engage accordingly.

one of my favourite pieces of literary criticism and examples of the value of this sort of reading practice comes from nabokov's epilogue to lolita, in which he both defends the novel in question against accusations of salacity and speaks very disparagingly of efforts to read a thesis statement into it. he writes:

Every serious writer, I dare say, is aware of this or that published book of his as of a constant comforting presence. Its pilot light is steadily burning somewhere in the basement and a mere touch applied to one’s private thermostat instantly results in a quiet little explosion of familiar warmth. This presence, this glow of the book in an ever accessible remoteness is a most companionable feeling, and the better the book has conformed to its prefigured contour and color the ampler and smoother it glows. But even so, there are certain points, byroads, favorite hollows that one evokes more eagerly and enjoys moretenderly than the rest of one’s book. I have not reread Lolita since I went through the proofs in the spring of 1955 but I find it to be a delightful presence now that it quietly hangs about the house like a summer day which one knows to be bright behind the haze. And when I thus think of Lolita, I seem always to pick out for special delectation such images as Mr. Taxovich, or that class list of Ramsdale School, or Charlotte saying “waterproof,” or Lolita in slow motion advancing toward Humbert’s gifts, or the pictures decorating the stylized garret of Gaston Godin, or the Kasbeam barber (who cost me a month of work), or Lolita playing tennis, or the hospital at Elphinstone, or pale, pregnant, beloved, irretrievable Dolly Schiller dying in Gray Star (the capital town of the book), or the tinkling sounds of the valley town coming up the mountain trail (on which I caught the first known female of Lycaeides sublivens Nabokov). These are the nerves of the novel. These are the secret points, the subliminal co-ordinates by means of which the book is plotted—although I realize very clearly that these and other scenes will be skimmed over or not noticed, or never even reached, by those who begin reading the book under the impression that it is something on the lines of Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure or Les Amours de Milord Grosvit. That my novel does contain various allusions to the physiological urges of a pervert is quite true. But after all we are not children, not illiterate juvenile delinquents, not English public school boys who after a night of homosexual romps have to endure the paradox of reading the Ancients in expurgated versions.

It is childish to study a work of fiction in order to gain information about a country or about a social class or about the author. And yet one of my very few intimate friends, after reading Lolita, was sincerely worried that I (I!) should be living “among such depressing people” —when the only discomfort I really experienced was to live in my workshop among discarded limbs and unfinished torsos.

[kbs-and-fds]

Yo, Welcome to my photography blog!

This is a photography project with a focus on older digital cameras sold before the mid 2000s. I've been working with these sorts of cameras since 2022, which grew from my interest in retro computers that I have had since 2020 or so. Here, I'll introduce you to my cameras, my computer rig, and try to convince you that this is a cool hobby.

General Q & A:

Whats in the name? - Kb refers to Kilobyte, all of the photos I take with these cameras only take up a little over 100 Kilobytes of digital storage per photo. FD refers to the physical media the photos are stored in, currently one camera uses floppy disks (FD), the other two use compact flash (CF) and smart media (SM) cards. unfortunately, their shortened forms do not rhyme and so they do not matter.

What can I expect from this blog? - amateur photography using old cameras, I guess. I'll say some nonsense below each photo but you're free to ignore it. I don't plan on reblogging anything here, so don't expect that. I am the star of this blog. me me me. I tend towards finding weird buildings/architecture, "liminal spaces", sunsets, and generally trying to see how well I can make a photo look like a blender render in a Kane pixels video. don't expect any consistency, though. the medium will remain the same but the vibes will absolutely fluctuate with my mood. I'll try and tag things correctly if it's off putting.

Are you a cool person? - I tend to be! I don't want this place to be alienating for anybody but assholes who don't deserve to see the stuff I do. being a tumblr blog, I follow a lot of the standard stuff. jerks are not welcome and I'm not gonna give you the pleasure of an argument if you do turn your head round these parts.

who are you? - trans pan girl. takes pictures. listens to Femtanyl. much unlike Peter Parker.

My Cameras

Mavica FD-7

released in 1997, this was the second of Sony's "Digital Mavica" line of cameras. it records photos of around 50Kbs in size to a standard 3 1/2" floppy disk. it has some standard features like a manual focus wheel, 10x optical zoom, and exposure control. I haven't found a strict source but I believe this camera is less than one megapixel. I actually have a few different Mavica cameras (a fd-71/75/83/85/87 and a cd-1000) but they aren't different from the fd-7 enough to justify being used often. I'll make note on individual posts if I use 'em at all.

Kodak DC220

released in 1999, with a quality of exactly one megapixel the DC 220 is a weird little thing. it has custom software, connects to a computer via com ports with a transfer speed of ~11,000 bit/s. (roughly 30-60 seconds per photo in my experience) you can add custom text to your photos in the cameras built in software, and attach custom audio to each photo. it is a pain in the butt to get working, but it's quirks make it worth the frustration.

Olympus E-10

made in 2000 with a quality of a whopping four megapixels, the Olympus E-10 is the newest addition to my collection, and possibly the nicest camera I'll ever own. it's a fixed lens DSLR camera capable of 4x zoom, you can easily adjust the aperture and exposure on the fly, it's photos tend to be a whole 100kb in size (1/10th of a megabyte!) and to be entirely honest I have no idea how to use it. but I will eventually!

My Computer

I try to use all era-appropriate tech to transfer photos and do any edits, this is the computer I do all that processing on! its a Dell Optiplex gx1- the daddy of pretty much any computer used in public schools (Chromebooks don't count) It's got a Pentium 3 CPU clocking at 500MHz, 512mb ram, running windows ME. it has all the original Kodak DC220 software installed, and I can't really access the Kodak's photos any other way. I've also got a few other weird bits attached to it -an HP sketch pro cad tablet and an external data cartridge SCSI device. both work, but I don't really bother to use them, they just look neat.

that's about it. have a good one! thanks for reading this all, if you did.

[thatkippycat]

Hello!

I was wondering if you can do a headcanon on any lackadaisy cat and how they would react to a hairless cat reader.

Thank you!

I did a handful of characters (romance, sorry if you wanted platonic) for this, so I suppose a bit more quantity over quality this time. Ideally, it's still relatively ok. If there's one that I miss and people want them, I'd be happy to do a part 2. Hope y'all enjoy!

Various(Lackadaisy) x HairlessCat!Reader

(Note:this has one of my personal headcanons that, similar to Stardew Valley players, Ivy just collects people, learns everything about them and moves on.)

Mordecai Heller

• Mordecai is a very analytical tomcat, and you being without fur is certainly... analyzed.

• You're just a regular at the Marigold who stands out to him for your appearance, and definitely no other reason.

• It's not because of the way the lighting makes your bared skin look heavenly, nor is it because of how easily he can see the way you blush around him.

• Yeah, he's in denial about it, that's for sure, but a gentle nudge in the right way and boom, he melts like butter on a hot pan for you.

• In private, of course. He has a reputation to maintain.

• Though, he definitely doesn't mind silently adoring you from across the Marigold.

• And if anyone so much as maliciously looks at you because you're different, well, Mordecai is very good at hiding both his feelings and the nondescript adult sized bags he "takes care of."

Rocky Rickaby

• Imagine if you will, being a god/goddess. People throw themselves at your feet, and want nothing more than to sing your praises until the end of days.

• That's how Rocky sees you.

• To Rocky, seeing you is like Romeo seeing Juliet. There isn't a better phrase to describe it than utter adoration.

• Unlike Mordecai though, Rocky's love for you is no secret.

• In fact, if you let him, he will go on for hours about how beautiful you are, building shrines to you with rhymes and prose, as well as painting you as heaven-sent bliss with the saccharine notes of his sweet symphonies.

• Yeah, there's no better way to put it, he's smitten.

• He also really likes the way it feels when you hug.

Ivy Pepper

• Ivy has a tendency to "collect" people.

• It's something she isn't super aware of, but it definitely affects your first couple of interactions.

• Ivy is totally entranced by you, and while at the beginning it's mostly just because of your lack of fur, it begins to become more and more about you as a person.

• She gets ahead of herself. A lot. And you definitely need to ground her sometimes.

• Yet despite it all Ivy genuinely adores, in a way that's not her finding interesting people, getting to know them, and then just moving on.

• It's not luck, by the way. Ivy genuinely loves you that much, because you are just that amazing.

Calvin "Freckle" McMurray

• On a more comedic note, Freckle is the one to make sure that all your needs are accounted for, even if it means being a bit overprepared.

• It's not that he's wilfully ignorant or dumb, he just needs a gentle reminder every once in awhile.

• The sunscreen and extra layers when it's cold out is very sweet of him though.

• Freckle's similar to Rocky in that he absolutely adores you, treating you like an angel sent from above, even if that is a bit sacrilegious.

• Unlike Rocky, he's not overtly affectionate, aside from packing things you may need because, well, no fur.

• Instead Freckle hangs off your every word, silently appreciating you. Just being in your company is just... amazing to him.

• Also, since he's usually worried about you being cold, you get the perfect excuse for cuddles too ;3.

[slugtranslation-hypmic]

All the MTC song trailer snippets are out? What are your opinions? :D I think Rio's is surprisingly chill and I'm still torn on Samatoki's, the lyrics might decide that one!

Heyy did you listen to the mtc album snippets ?

Nope. Let's check them out!

Backbone:

Title note: Presumably from 気骨, which has a slightly stronger-- almost noble-- connotation than English "backbone." Someone with 気骨 never lets anything stop them from doing what they believe is right, and not necessarily in the personal sense like in the English phrases "Grow a backbone." or "They have a strong backbone." As some people in this comments section are noting, it's also possible to interpret the title literally. The back is a recurring image in Japanese fiction; in this case, it represents Samatoki single-handedly shouldering various burdens for those he cares about. People are also drawing connections to the Aohitsugi's death motifs and Samatoki's skeleton speaker.

20 seconds in: Okay he literally just says the shouldering burdens bit haha. I guess that part is canon authorial intent

24 seconds in: "Nobody can break my 'backbone.'" If we assume this should be interpreted figuratively, that's like "Nobody can make me do anything I don't believe in." / "Nobody can break my spirit."

35 seconds in: "My 'backbone' is my true strength." This + the traditional Japanese-reminiscent instrumentals remind me of the Katen-gumi. Iirc they have a scroll hanging in their main office proclaiming their dauntlessness, an attribute Samatoki embodies well imo.

53 seconds in: This is a mean-spirited thought, but I always find it funny when Samatoki's like "This god damn city is broken and filthy... *takes a drag from a cigarette*" when the god damn city in question is one of the most affluent in the world.

64 seconds in: With that said, it's nice to see him acknowledging the positive presence he has in Yokohama and vowing to rid it of... whatever ills are plaguing it... taxation and ne'er-do-wells with illegal mics, no doubt. An Ichirou-esque sentiment.

71 seconds in: Props to Asanuma for rhyming jinsei and shinsen so well. "My life is always fresh; this is still just the prologue." Samatoki being receptive to growth? You love to see it. With that said, it's interesting to see the discrepancy between the two ideas of "It's time to change." and "My core values will never change." as we see in this song. I'm not sure how that'll actually play out in canon, so we'll have to wait and see.

Overall: That was fun! It had a nice beat. I look forward to hearing the full song when it drops.

Awake:

Title note: ??? 目覚めた? Like, "I'm woke af now"? Haha let me see what this song is actually about and then come back to this...

Side note: I was staying with a friend-- a buddy from the old scanlation team-- when this song preview dropped, and she was keeping me up to date with this song's delayed release drama. When it finally dropped, she was like "YOOO SLUG, LISTEN TO THIS" and turned her phone waaaay up, blasting the sonorous tones of Mr. Komada into our not at all soundproof hotel room, immediately alerting me to two things: 1. I was not awake enough for this. 2. The illumatic Iruma Jyuto was IN the building and, at that volume, probably in every floor of the building. Anyway, I'm still not awake enough for this, but let's go.

5 seconds in: Love the horns. Very MTC and very Gen III Pokemon. Yokohama 8/10 too much water

20 seconds in: hey hey heeey

30 seconds in: I appreciate the technical skill involved, but I am not comprehending one word of this. I'm going to have to look up the lyrics when I'm done fr.

Overall: Seems fun to rap! Once again, looking forward to the full song.

Top YT comment at the time of writing: Juuto: Y'all never seen me like this before! Me: Yeah, no shit.

Scrolling through the comments: Spare lyrics, ma'am? Spare lyrics for the poor? Jesus, there are some thirsty-ass mofos in this comment section...

Well, I didn't find any lyrics, so here goes watch 2 with a lot of pausing, I guess. Hmm the gist of the chorus seems to be "I'm not fucking around anymore" which-- like someone else has pointed out in the comments-- is kind of how Juuto's been since day one...? I'm not sure what's changed. I suppose the biggest difference would be it's no longer "I'll solve this problem" but "we'll solve this problem." I do like the opening of this first verse: When someone makes bad choices, who's left smiling? Who's left grieving? What is right, and what is wrong? Can that be something for every person to figure out for themselves? Here's another interesting bit: I used to think I didn't have any interest in colluding with other people-- it was more like mutual exploitation. But then I joined hands with a couple of like-minded people, and now we share the goal of victory. Yeah, it seems like the biggest changes here are Juuto embracing teamwork, which hell yeah. Opening up and trusting other people with his mission, in turn taking on their missions and incorporating it into one singular goal? That's baller.

Title note revisited: yeah I guess deadass this is "awake" in terms of "I'm woke now" haha. Or like, "I've come around to [the power of friendship]"

NO WAR:

5 seconds in: Oh, now I get why someone on the Samatoki video called this "Riou's baby-ass song"

22 seconds in: I was NOT prepared for the autotune. I think I'm a little too tired because I found this really, really funny.

30 seconds in: "Conflict isn't entertainment; it's not a show." YOU TELL 'EM, RIOU.

44 seconds in: I always really, really appreciate Riou's unwavering distaste for warfare and conflict even as he considers it something worth devoting his life to. I would sincerely love it if the authors were to ever dive into why Riou has such dedication towards serving in the [whatever] army and whatever cause they were fighting for, but I don't think that's the story the authors want to tell. We probably just have to assume it's for whatever Riou considers to be a morally good cause.

49 seconds in: Ignoring the rhyme-induced silliness of "my buddies are my turret," I like the thematic consistency of each MTC member stressing that they're not alone anymore--that is, that they've given up on their self-imposed solitude--and they have each other to rely on and trust with their backs.

53 seconds in: "Practically brainwashed puppet soldiers" Oh?? Mind expanding on this a little, Hypmic? Again, I doubt the writers are keen to delve into the causes of WWIII or why Riou joined up at all, but the suggestion of propaganda or coercion being involved is tantalizing.

65 seconds in: I like the bit that goes (paraphrased): "What can you see when you look out of your binoculars at base camp? Rifles, revolvers--is that it? Instead of obsessing over who's strong and who's weak, why not be soldier who prays for peace?"

Overall: The lyrics are vaguer and more platitudinous than is my preference, but I fully recognize that my interests in this topic are outside of the scope of the story the writers want to tell. Which is fine! The music is pretty chill; I think I'll like this song when it comes out in full.

My favorite YT comment by a landslide: Thank god he's not making us work out again.

Thank you very much for the asks! :D It's fun to check this stuff out, and I probably wouldn't have done so otherwise.

[writing-for-life]

Dream’s Therapist

Nightmares

I peruse the client’s previous session notes to prepare as usual and decide to go over his journal entries together to find out what might cause his insomnia. It might also give clues as to why he believes he is a cosmic entity weaving stories, dreams and nightmares.

The client is punctual again (my receptionist informs me he was 20 minutes early). Upon entering my office, he hesitantly takes off his coat and lays it over his lap, neatly folded. I notice this is a deviation from his usual habit of keeping his coat on. I have once more made sure the room is only dimly lit to avoid discomfort, and I forego the apparently undesired small-talk.

DT: Last week, I asked you to journal about your daily routine and any thoughts that might come up. How did that go?

Dream: I did as requested. But unfortunately, nightmares refuse to be confined to paper.

DT (I notice he has apparently brought no journal or notes and rhymes things off from memory): So you did manage to sleep, but you had nightmares?

Dream (I notice the quirked eyebrow, but he seems to lift one corner of his mouth, too, which rather hints at amusement than annoyance): No to both. As I told you previously, I create them.

DT: Okay, tell me about them. What in particular made you journal about them?

Dream: Well, my nightmares are not unlike… unruly children (I notice a fleeting disengagement in his gaze before he quickly shakes his head and resumes). There is the Corinthian…

DT: Your nightmares have names and distinct personalities?

Dream (I notice he looks at me as if I’ve got two heads): Why yes, of course they do. They fulfil particular functions, and I gave them sentience. May I proceed?

DT (I notice prickliness due to my interruption, and I remind myself I really shouldn’t do that): Of course.

Dream: Thank you (He actually rolls his eyes at me at this stage). The Corinthian generally… misbehaves and tells me he wants to feel what it is like to be human. And thinks I only care about my realm and my rules.

DT (I notice a degree of displacement, projection and delusion all rolled into one and briefly contemplate my course of further questioning): And do you think he is right?

Dream (He voices something resembling a groan): Of course not.

DT: Well, last time, you told me you care about rules and responsibilities to a great degree. That you are the king of dreams and nightmares. That feelings are a quaint human invention. It sounds like he might have picked up on those… vibes? How does it make you feel if I suggest that might be a possibility?

Dream (I notice his fingers clutching the coat in his lap very tightly): It makes me feel annoyed that you are ignoring the fact that I don’t feel.

DT: You feel annoyed?

Dream (I notice his Adam’s apple moves up and down in quick succession, and his gaze briefly turns blank. He then blinks and looks straight at me again): The other nightmare is an endless staircase. I shall not tell you its name at this point as not to confuse you (He looks at me with an expression that hints at haughtiness. No, I think it’s pity). Each step leads to a different fear—abandonment, failure… (He stops himself and looks at me as if he expects an interruption.)

DT (I notice he has ignored my prodding for admitting that he does indeed feel. I, in turn, decide to play along): Interesting. And how do you relate to that particular nightmare?

Dream (I notice a somewhat annoyed sigh): I don’t. I am its creator.

DT: But isn’t that a relationship?

Dream (He looks out the window): Perhaps.

DT (I notice he seems somewhat zoned out): And did you ever think about bridging the gap between creator and creation?

Dream (I notice the eye-roll again before he looks at me): That is hardly necessary because they are me. After a fashion. As in: Not entirely. But also: Yes.

DT (I quickly hover on the thought whether this admission can be called progress or not): And how does that make you feel?

Dream: That they are… familiar, and comforting, even in their chaos (I notice he has forgotten to go into an immediate rant about not feeling and start to think we might be getting somewhere). But some of them are just extremely… disappointing.

DT: If they are disappointing, what would need to happen to make it less so? Could you… change these nightmares? Imagine them to be different?

Dream (I notice he uncomfortably straightens in his chair, and his jawline hardens): You are aware you, to a degree, want me to change myself by suggesting so?

DT: I don’t want anything.

Dream (I notice something that could almost be mistaken for a smile, and he blinks slowly): That is a lie.

DT (He is right of course, but I notice he is trying to turn the tables on me every time he wants to avoid a topic): What I was trying to imply is that we are not talking about my wants when we are on the topic of yours.

Dream: How unfortunate. In any case, do not trouble yourself, I know them anyway. (I notice he leans back in his chair and looks… smug?)

DT (I choose to ignore whatever this is): What about you then? What do you want?

Dream (I notice he looks at his boots. A few minutes of silence ensue. They don’t feel too uncomfortable): I want the endless staircase to lead to a cosmic bakery. I want each step to smell of freshly baked bread.

DT (He is clearly mocking me, he told me he hardly eats. I also notice it is past my usual lunchtime, I like bread and I’m hungry. But I decide to see where this is going. I stay silent. I stare at him. He still stares at his boots.)

Dream: There are also teacups in that bakery, and they gossip about the weather, debate existentialism, and occasionally sip Earl Grey. I think they are staging a revolution.

DT: A revolution?

Dream (He still stares at his boots): Yes, it is indeed absurd.

DT: Absurdity is our ally in here, nothing to get hung up on.

Dream (I notice his gaze finally disengaging from his boot and instead locking in on me. His mouth twitches. I am not sure if he smiles?): They demand equality. The cracked teacups want reparations for their shattered handles. The chipped ones insist on universal healthcare. And the most beautiful, rarest porcelain ones are terrified of being replaced.

DT (It gets harder not to laugh, but I just about manage since I can’t beat the feeling that this is just superficially funny but actually hinting at something deeper. It always does): And how do you feel about their demands?

Dream: I fear a teacup uprising (He flings his coat over the armrest of his chair). Can you imagine the horror of tiny porcelain picket lines?

DT (I am really grasping here): What if you gave them a common goal?

Dream (I notice he raises an eyebrow and cocks his head): What, like summoning the Teapot of Enlightenment? The one that brews wisdom instead of tea? Staining saucers in the process and leaving rings on tables?

DT: Gaining wisdom can be a messy affair I guess?

I notice the room seems to smell of tea and imaginary pastries and wonder what’s going on.

Dream (I notice he gauges my reaction for a good two minutes. I manage to hold his gaze. He holds mine. Until he doesn’t and looks at his boot again. The silence lasts for another three minutes): You are indulging my attempts at weaving absurd stories that are in no way related to your questions. Why?

DT: I am not indulging you. I’m letting you communicate whatever you wish to communicate. You might think it’s unrelated, but it tells me things, and that’s enough.

Dream (I notice he still doesn’t lift his chin, but he looks at me): And what does it tell you?

DT: Does it matter?

Dream: Perhaps.

DT: I don’t think it matters what I think about you, I am just here to ask questions that make you think. Maybe hold up a mirror on occasion.

Dream (I notice that his eyes disengage again, and his voice turns very quiet): What if I don’t like mirrors?

DT: I guess that’s okay, you don’t have to like the mirror. But if you don’t like what it reflects at you, you could change either what stands in front of it or how you relate to that reflection. Like you just changed the way you relate to your nightmares.

Dream (I notice he looks at me again): And what makes you think I changed the way I relate to my nightmares?

DT: Because you just told me a story about cosmic bakeries and teapots that weaved quite a bit of light into the darkness?

Dream (I notice he sighs and looks out the window): Like ink and stardust.

DT (I don’t follow): Pardon?

Dream (I notice he grabs his coat): I trust our time is up?

DT: Almost, but not quite. You can make use of the remainder if you want.

Dream (He gets up and puts on his coat): I do not. However, I shall… think. And write. In the journal.

DT: Same time next week then? Can I use ink to put your appointment in my diary?

Dream (I think he smiles, but it is hard to tell for certain): You may. I am sure you will also provide the stardust…

< Previous Session

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[name-esfandiar]

Persian translation of the Ring Poem by J. R. R. Tolkien (by me)

Here is my take at translating the Ring Poem from english to persian, hope it will arouse your interest !

If you are interested by the process and my notes, it will be below it all.

English

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

Persian

سه‌ حَلقه واسهٔ پادیشاه الفی تَحت آسمان،

هفت‌ واسهٔ اربابه��ی دورفی توی اُتاق سنگ،

نه‌ واسهٔ انسانهای فانی محکوم به مرگ،

یک واسهٔ ارباب تاریک بر سریر تاریکش،

در استان موردور کجا سایها می‌خزند.

یک حلقه واسهٔ حکم راندنِ برهمه. یک حلقه یافتنشان،

یک حلقه واسهٔ آوردنِ برهمه و توی ��اریک پیوستنشان

در استان موردور کجا سایها میخزند.

Transliteration in latin script

se halqe vâse-ye pâdishâh-e elfi taht-e âsemân,

haft vâse-ye arbâbhâ-ye dvarfi tu-ye otâq-e sang,

noh vâse-ye ensânhâ-ye fâni mahkum be marg,

yek vâse-ye arbâb-e târik bar sarir-e târikesh,

dar estân-e mordor kojâ sâyehâ mikhazand.

yek halqe vâse-ye hakam rândan-e barhame. yek halqe yâftaneshân,

yek halqe vâse-ye âvardan-e barhame o tu-ye târik peyvastaneshân

dar estân-e mordor kojâ sâyehâ mikhazand.

I hope you will like it :) if you like the topic, you can keep reading

My process and few interesting notes

Of rhymes, rhythm, and word choice

As it can be seen, I managed to make the second quatrain have quite perfect enclosed rhymes ! A thing I could not successfully replicate in the first one… or could I ?

The first and forth verse are the problem — although both 3 syllables, and cretics as per my prononciation (kept the second e in esemân specifically for that effect) ; so quite rhythmically pleasant. But it was too close to perfection to let it pass. Even if the idea of the only two words not rhyming being the sky of the Elves and the darkness of Sauron’s throne was dramatically fortunate, even quite brilliant. But it was not by my doing, only chance’s ; so it was important to me to add brilliance intentionally, by making it rhyme all the way.

My first idea was to change the word for dark, تاریکش (târikesh) into ویران (virân), making it then :

se halqe vâse-ye pâdishâh-e elfi taht-e âs(e)mân,

haft vâse-ye arbâbhâ-ye dvarfi tu-ye otâq-e sang,

noh vâse-ye ensânhâ-ye fâni mahkum be marg,

yek vâse-ye arbâb-e târik bar sarir-e virân,

It was a fine solution, but that had problems still.

Firstly, the -esh in تاریکش (târikesh) is the possessive suffix, part of the bigger nominal group سریر تاریکش (sarir-e târikesh), meaning “his dark throne” (lit. throne dark his) ; hence the -esh. If I was to use the word ویران (virân), that possession was no more, making it mean “the dark throne”, which was okay-ish (ahah, get it?), but not literal.

Furthermore, ویران (virân) means more “desolate”, “ruined” than ���dark” ; it could mean something, like a “dark world”, but it wasn’t literally because it was dark. But desolate was fine ! Mordor is quite it, given how it’s described.

Note how I wrote this time âsemân with parentheses, âs(e)mân, pronounced then âsmân — both are equally said — to match the metric of virân. A nice touch, but no possession.

I wanted the possession.

My second idea was to change the word for sky, آسمان (âsemân) into عرش (‘arsh), making it then :

se halqe vâse-ye pâdishâh-e elfi taht-e ‘arsh,

haft vâse-ye arbâbhâ-ye dvarfi tu-ye otâq-e sang,

noh vâse-ye ensânhâ-ye fâni mahkum be marg,

yek vâse-ye arbâb-e târik bar sarir-e târikesh,

As easily guessed, it had problems.

The first problem was both one… and a genius play on words. For عرش (‘arsh) means sky but in a metaphorical manner, think throne of God type of sky meaning. Which was a problem, and a miracle. Alluding to earthly religions is always risky for translations, in my opinion ; too much connotation, interfering with the translation itself. But, at the same time, it was fun. The parallel between the “throne” of the Elves (or maybe Eru Ilúvatar’s one ?) and the throne of Sauron. Good vs evil is always neat, especially when speaking of Tolkien !

Another issue was the fact that the rhymes were poorer than before, rhymes still, but poor.

A good point was the fact that we kept the possession. Important point, of course.

Of my process and sources

This part will be quick, I promise.

I mostly used Glosbe, not that much for words (well, I used it to find عرش (‘arsh) or ویران (virân), to be fair) but more to have access to its corpuses, diving into the open subtitles of the Lord of the Rings movies. I didn’t want to copy-paste the already made translations, but I used it up has a way to see how they prism through they translated english. It was interesting. Used the french ones, too.

Yes, because last of all, persian in not my mother tongue, neither is english. French is, so excuse my “frenchism” if it occurs.

If you are a persian speaker, any notes or thoughts are more than welcome ! Please, enlighten me. Know that I tried my best and do as best I could, given my knowledge, my guts, and my sources.

[mo-nee-ta]

Rabbit Nabokov, Ruhenheim’s Konrad and Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin

Disclaimer: I haven’t read 20th Century Boys yet, so I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies (and you’re welcome to correct me!). I only wanted to take a look at the bizarre Rabbit Nabokov game.

I also haven’t read Nabokov’s translation of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, but I definitely plan to read it—at least fragments of it. 

Keep in mind that these are only notes on a heavy work in progress. You’ll find the TL;DR version at the end.

Rabbit Nabokov is a fictional high-stakes gambling card game invented by a character named Aleksandr Nabokov. 

The creator is a hybrid of two Russian authors: Aleksandr Pushkin and Vladimir Nabokov.

This isn’t the first time Urasawa used a real-world author’s name to create a fictional character; Monster introduced two characters named after one author: Karel Ranke and Petr Čapek.

So why is the fictional creator of a fictional gambling game named after two Russian authors?

For starters, card games are referenced in both Pushkin (The Queen of Spades) and Nabokov (King, Queen, Knave). 

But there’s something more interesting and of substance, and it’s about Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, a milestone of Russian literature. Nabokov thought it was impossible to translate it faithfully while keeping the rhymes and he was dissapointed and disgusted with the already existing English translations of it (because he was a massive hater). 

So his partner-in-crime wife, Véra, suggested he should create his own translation of the sacred text.

And these were the beginnings of a work with the following title:

Yes, this should be treated as a full title, because this isn’t just a translation of Eugene Onegin. Most of the text here is not, as one might think, the translation of the poem itself, but Nabokov’s commentary.

The commentary that turned a book of around 350 pages into a beast of around 1850 pages (dare I say, Charles Kinbote style?). 

He also apologized for his own translation (!) in the form of a poem.

Taking all of this into account, one question arises: is this version of Eugene Onegin still only Pushkin’s work? Or did it evolve into its own thing?

Maybe we could say this is the work of Aleksandr Nabokov? 

So why did this Aleksandr Nabokov create a gambling game? One clue can be found in Nabokov’s response to Edmund Wilson (someone Nabokov corresponded with for years), who was critical of Nabokov’s translation:

What does [N.] mean when he speaks of Pushkin’s ‘addiction to stuss’? This is not an English word, and if he means the Hebrew word for nonsense, which has been absorbed into German, it ought to be italicized and capitalized. But even on this assumption it hardly makes sense.”

This is Mr. Wilson’s nonsense, not mine. “Stuss” is the English name of a card game which I discuss at length in my notes on Pushkin’s addiction to gambling. Mr. Wilson should have consulted my notes (and Webster’s dictionary) more carefully.

So here we have it: a card game and a gambling addiction. And it turns out that playing the game can turn into a scene that resembles your average discussion about Nabokov and/or his work.

Just to name one example with an adequate commentary:

The Eugene Onegin shenanigans don’t end with 20th Century Boys. They don’t even start here; they start with Monster.

Remember Konrad? The lingonberry jam-maker from Ruhenheim? Aren’t the lingonberries an oddly specific choice for a character from a far-away background?

Lingonberries are present in Eugene Onegin. 

In his commentary, Nabokov devotes more than one page to explaining why he translated the Russian word Brusnika into lingonberry and why the other translations of brusnichnaya voda were, to say the least, inaccurate. Lingonberries can be deceitful.

TL;DR: Nabokov explains the confusing nature of lingonberries, shows no mercy to his translation predecessors and expects his successors to do better.

Konrad has other traits that make him a suspiciously Nabokovian character. 

His birthday date seems to have some special powers:

Is he telling the truth or is he just making fun of Mrs. Heinich and her superstitions? Was it a mere coincidence that the numbers were a success? I guess we’ll never know!

This combines three things: the gambling, the coincidences and patterns, and the significant number. 

Coincidences and patterns are one of the most important motifs in Nabokov’s work. To quote Lolita: Those dazzling coincidences that logicians loathe and poets love.

While reading Nabokov’s works, it can be useful to pay attention to the numbers; for example, 342 is a recurring number in Lolita.

And the gambling? Deception is an inherent part of gambling; it was also something Nabokov was clearly fascinated with. 

Q: You say that reality is an intensely subjective matter, but in your books it seems to me that you seem to take an almost perverse delight in literary deception.

A: The fake move in a chess problem, the illusion of a solution or the conjuror's magic: I used to be a little conjuror when I was a boy. I loved doing simple tricks—turning water into wine, that kind of thing.

Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth. Every great writer is a great deceiver, but so is that arch-cheat Nature. Nature always deceives. From the simple deception of propagation to the prodigiously sophisticated illusion of protective colors in butterflies or birds, there is in Nature a marvelous system of spells and wiles. The writer of fiction only follows Nature’s lead.

And of course, his stories are full of (lonely, misunderstood, and often very dangerous) deceivers.  

But let’s get back to Konrad, a good friend of Mr. Poppe:

One of the first things you might learn about Nabokov is that he despised Freud. So much that the traces of the Viennese quack can be tracked in his books everywhere; for example, Lolita opens with a fictional foreword written by a fictional Freudian psychologist called John Ray (Jr.). 

Oh, I am not up to discussing again that figure of fun. He is not worthy of more attention than I have granted him  in  my novels  and  in Speak, Memory. Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts. I really do not care.

Making the Nabokov-coded character friends with someone who turned into a Freud-lookalike in his old days (and who’s Monster’s greatest deceiver and a very Nabokovian character himself)? Letting them play Nabokov’s beloved chess? 

It’s like using Nabokov’s tricks against him, which is hilarious.

Another fun fact about Nabokov: he loved annagrams and wordplay. For example, he inserted himself into Lolita using an anagram of his name, Vivian Darkbloom (of course the anagram of Nabokov’s name would be a dramatic and fabulous one; come on, it sounds like a draq queen name). 

And while this is only partially an anagram, it’s still interesting that you can take some letters from Vladimir Nabokov to create a Konrad.

His corpse also looks to me like a middle-aged Nabokov, but since I’m biased as hell, I’ll leave it to your interpretation.

All the examples are something I thought about earlier but wasn’t sure enough to post it anywhere; the lingonberry seemed too general, the anagram wasn’t a full one, and the birthdate was the most suspicious thing to me, but still not enough to share it.

But the obscure Aleksandr Nabokov and his gambling card game are a very solid clue that binds it all together.

And since we’re talking about deceivers and translations, let me add a small easter egg: please get back to the The Secret Woods episode, pay close attention to Edmund ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡° ) Fahren, his suicide note, and see if there’s something possibly wrong with the translation of the passage found by Richard Braun.

TL;DR: 

The gambling card game Rabbit Nabokov was created by a fictional man called Aleksandr Nabokov; Aleksandr is Pushkin’s first name. Nabokov is Vladimir’s last name. 

Both Pushkin and Nabokov have referenced gaming cards in their works. 

Nabokov translated Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin into English because he was deeply unsatisfied with the earlier translations. One of Nabokov’s many comments is about Pushkin’s gambling addiction and a card game. 

Nabokov’s translation isn’t just a translation; it’s full of comments that turn it into its own thing, which can explain the hybrid that is Aleksandr Nabokov. 

Ruhenheim’s Konrad is the real monster of Monster (besides Naoki Urasawa and his collaborator and editor Takashi Nagasaki), and I love him dearly. 

[ladysophiebeckett]

having watched betty finding out the truth five different times fm different versions and skim watching them at different times, it's interesting to see the acting\directing styles.

you can tell when there's appreciation for the original work and when there's apprehension.

'jassi jaissi koi nahin' (india) uses the same dramatic music ysblf used. or it uses some cues but in a different note. 'not born beautiful' (russia) is, to this day, the most faithful adaptation. there's appreciation in accepting the story as is and not making any outrageous changes. 'yo soy bea' (spain) makes a lot of changes but those changes come from the production's knowledge that they're not gonna be as iconic as the original--they know they're not gonna hit the same marks. So a lot of the narrative decisions come down to doing the opposite of what the original did. It's apprehensive in that way, but they commit to those narrative choices and you accept it as an audience member.

the mexican adaptation is rebellious. it's wants to be a comedy. it wants to be dramatic. there is no rhyme or reason to its editing. it wants so badly to one up the original it's based on, not understanding that the original was made with a lot personal touches. the other adaptations mentioned above all have personal touches that ground its audience and you believe everything that's happening.

i could go on forever about overall directing styles of the same thing, but i really want to talk about is The Scene--Betty Finds Out The Truth.

in ysblf, Betty takes her time reading the letter and reacting to it. from a slight happiness bc she sees the gifts and that gradual change as she's reading the letter and you see her entire world fall apart. but it happens slowly. there's an incredulousness to it bc she's been living out a dream and we audience have known the entire time that it was based on a lie. her tears are silent, she's in shock. we suffer with her bc we have to see her process it.

Katya (NBB) and Jassi (JJKN) have similar reactions despite editing styles of these programs being different. both go from ecstatic to slow dread. it takes them time to believe and process what's happening bc its supposed to be a shock to their system.

For Bea (YSB) its completely different bc she doesn't find out fm a letter and is therefore exempt from this, however it should be noted that she goes catatonic and becomes ill at the shock of it all.

Moving on, Lety (lfmb), tho the circumstances of how she finds out are...different (a psychic tells her to find the letter)--her reaction to it is too much, too soon. I'm not saying Angelica Vale is a bad actress bc she's not. But her acting choices plus the direction she received, is less about Lety the character and more selling Vale as a dramatic actress.

It feels like there's a secret motive to it.

Because why does Lety immediately believe the letter? And then starts crying like she's gonna die? There's no emotional build up. Even the staging of it feels unnatural. Lety goes from standing, sobbing to sitting on the floor in front of Fernando's desk to standing up again and going back the chair. All the while violently crying, shaking, yelling. And no one hears this?

It's sad, but we don't see Lety's world collapse the way we see it in other versions. It's like Lety already suspected it and the letter confirms it. She's been ready to cry and scream about it. And this is after the honeymoon filler with Fernando ends. She was happy that morning. The revelation should have confused her.

Not that this didn't pay off, Vale won an award for her work on this. But these creative choices, in hindsight, look like they're serving someone else and not the story you're trying to tell. TBH, a lot of the creative decisions that are made in Lfmb, often feel like Lety The Character, is the one being sacrificed. When it's supposed to be her story.

I know it seems like I'm getting on lfmb's case again, and I am, but it comes from a place of frustration bc every time I analyze something about it, I realize how self serving it is to the people involved in it's production and how the actual story they're adapting gets secondary importance.

There are great scenes in lfmb that hit, but they're overshadowed by everyone and everything else. Lety finding out the truth should have been about Lety, not Angelica Vale's ability to cry on cue.

[goforth-ladymidnight]

On ACOTAR Faeries and Names

For some reason, SJM undoes most, if not all, of traditional faerie lore in her books. (I haven't read TOG or CC so I can't comment on those.) The cynical part of me thinks it's because faeries can be difficult to write well, therefore she took the easy route; the more forgiving part of me thinks it's because she set out to explore why humans believed certain myths about faeries, but then lost interest as she spent more and more time in the realm of the Night Court. (Side note: I find it odd that SJM chose to emphasize that the Illyrians are NOT really faeries, whether High or "lesser". I honestly wonder why that is.) Regardless, there's nothing very faerie about SJM's High Fae, etc. except for their ethereal beauty and pointed ears and the fact that they can do magic, I guess.

I've already written about Aging and Lying when it comes to ACOTAR's Faeries, and I thought I'd touch on another aspect of faerie lore that SJM chooses to ignore. (Heh, that rhymes.)

Names.

His [Rhysand's] eyes shifted to my face. “What’s your name, love?” Giving him my name—and my family name—would lead only to more pain and suffering. He might very well find my family and drag them into Prythian to torment, just to amuse himself. But he could steal my name from my mind if I hesitated for too long. Keeping my mind blank and calm, I blurted the first name that came to mind, a village friend of my sisters’ whom I’d never spoken to and whose face I couldn’t recall. “Clare Beddor.” My voice was nothing more than a gasp. ~ACOTAR ch. 26

Clare and her family are killed because Rhys revealed that name to Amarantha, even though he admitted later (in the next book) that he thought she made it up. So, Feyre's fears were not unfounded, but once she is Under the Mountain with everyone else, she is still reluctant to give her name when Amarantha asks for it.

Lucien is even brought forward and refuses to give away Feyre's name. For his defiance, Amarantha orders Rhysand to shatter his mind before Feyre finally gives in and shouts her name for everyone to hear. The Lady of Autumn even repays her sacrifice by helping her with one of Amarantha's "household tasks".

What is the sacrifice, though? It would seem that the only reason Amarantha wants to know her name is because Feyre knows hers, and wants to address her "properly":

“Feyre,” Amarantha said, testing my name, the taste of the two syllables on her tongue. “An old name—from our earlier dialects. Well, Feyre,” she said. I could have wept with relief when she didn’t ask for my family name. “I promised you a riddle.” ~ACOTAR ch. 35

In traditional faerie lore, it is said that names have power, so giving a faerie your name gives them power over you. (It is important to note that they cannot take anything from you. It has to be given.)

There is a scene in Hayao Miyazaki's animated classic in which the young protagonist Chihiro signs a contract to work for the sorceress Yubaba. In a beautifully animated sequence, her signature floats away and into Yubaba's waiting palm. She literally signed away her name. Chihiro is then given a new name in exchange: Sen. By the next day, she has already forgotten her original name and her purpose (freeing her enchanted parents). It is only when another ensorcelled young man gives her the bundle of her old clothes with a card in the pocket (with her name written on it) that she remembers who she was, and why she's there.

I just think it could have been very interesting to give Feyre a similar plotline in ACOTAR. By giving Amarantha her name, she no longer has it, and can no longer remember it. (And since the story is told in first person, it's easier to convey.)

How she gets her name back could be handled in one of two ways: Lucien gives back her name like the true friend he is, or she doesn't remember it until the very end.

If we explore the second option, this is what I'm thinking: Amarantha sought to break Feyre in mind, body, and spirit. The one thing she could never take from Feyre was her love for Tamlin.

“I love you,” I said. “No matter what she says about it, no matter if it’s only with my insignificant human heart. Even when they burn my body, I’ll love you.” My lips trembled, and my vision clouded before several warm tears slipped down my chilled face. I didn’t wipe them away. ~ACOTAR ch. 43

In my Faeries and Lying essay (linked above), I think it would have been more powerful for Amarantha to want Feyre to admit to lying about her love for Tamlin. In the same vein, I think it would be that much more impactful for Feyre to admit that even if she does not know her own name, she knows she loves Tamlin, and that's enough.

It's the one thing Amarantha couldn't take from her. It's the reason Feyre went Under the Mountain in the first place. And most importantly, it's the answer to the riddle. Love. And that's enough.

[keep-the-wolves-close]

Steady Heart

Chapter 37: O Death

* Pairing: Slow-burn Kayce Dutton x OFC Stella Daniels

* Rating: M

* Warnings: language, dread, violence, kidnapping

* Word count: 1,881ish

I would love to give credits to @dameronscopilot and @deanscroissant for being sounding boards for me during this whole process, giving outsider insight, being cheerleaders, and allowing me to screech at them about things that have happened during the writing process. I seriously couldn't have gotten this far without y'all.

Author's note: I hope everyone is enjoying so far! I hope you love this chapter as well! Please don’t come for me with pitchforks and torches! 😅

Feel free to scream at me in my ask box. I have a feeling we’re all going to need to.

Stella had gone out to the barn to grab Abigail to go for a night ride. The bay roan was antsy. The mare could tell Stella was anxious. Stella hadn’t really had much of a chance to take her out properly as of late, so that didn’t help.

Kayce said he loved her. That still floored her. She wasn’t sure if she was overreacting or not. Her mind tried to downplay what had happened. The last time she got ahead of herself, she ended up getting humbled really quick. She definitely didn’t want to do that this time.

Stella had a hard time comprehending why Kayce would be interested in her at all. If that’s what was truly happening here. She would have to suck it up sooner or later and find out. Then again, Kayce had bigger things going on. He was getting everything settled and finalized with his soon to be ex-wife. He had a living situation, and the time with his son to figure out. There’s no way he would have even been thinking about her during all of that.

Stella quietly led Abigail to the outside. On their way out of the barn, she spotted a solitary crow sitting on a fence nearby. Her face scrunched. A single crow? At night time? ‘What was that rhyme about crows? One for sorrow? Two for mirth? Somethin’ somethin’ blah blah.’ She felt her chest tighten at the thought of what that could mean. She’d seen one too many single crows lately. ‘You gotta stop freakin’ yourself out, girl.’ Stella heard noise ahead of her and saw Tate over at the round pen. He was alone, with what looked to be an armful of hay. She led Abigail over to the youngin’ and his horse.

“Tate, what’re you doin’ out here all by yourself?” She thought it was strange that he was allowed to come out by himself at night. Yes, the ranch was safe for all intents and purposes, but there was no way to effectively say it was safe at all times. It was late and most of the guys in the bunkhouse were out taking care of Jimmy’s problem. Stella ran a count in her head of who was still home. Jamie, Colby, Ethan, and Jake were the only ones in there. They were probably already looking at the backs of their eyelids.

The little boy latched the gate behind him, and faced her. “Grandpa said I had to feed my horse before I got dessert because it’s not fair that I’m treating myself and he’s down here hungry.”

Stella smiled. “Well he’s right, buddy. We can’t just forget about our pets,” she gently patted Abigail’s shoulder. “Do you want a ride back to the house? I’ll let you ride while I walk her.”

Tate’s eyes lit up. “Yeah!”

“Alright, bud. Come stand over here.” Stella knelt down and cupped her hands so Tate could step into them in order to give him a hike into the saddle. When he was seated safely, she handed him one of Abigail’s reins and held the other to walk her along. “So back to what your grandpa was saying.”

Tate sighed. He hadn’t been expecting a lecture from Stella.

“They depend on us. If we don’t come to help them out, they can’t just go get the hay or the feed for themselves.” Stella looked up at the boy. “They don’t have thumbs.” She wiggled her thumbs at him, successfully making him giggle.

“Yeah, you’re right, Aunt Stell. I gotta start thinking about him too.”

Stella nodded, “now you’re thinkin’ like a cowboy.” The fast crunch and skid of tires on the gravel of the hill could be heard not far behind them.

“Who’s that?” Tate questioned.

Stella’s face pulled into a frown and stopped Abigail’s motion and quickly walked around front of her. She wasn’t familiar with the van. Her stomach dropped thinking back to a few weeks ago with those men that were following her. How she said to Kayce a few nights back, “how can you be sure? There’s so many places people can sneak onto the property and we all would be none the wiser.” A couple men spilled out of the van and started to close the gap between them rapidly.

“Tate, get down now!” She clambered to catch the boy so he didn’t hit the ground too hard. She grabbed his shoulders to hold his attention. Quickly, she explained to him, “no matter what happens next, no matter what you hear, I need you to run. And if you can’t make it to the house, I need you to hide in the best hide and seek spot you can think of that’s out of sight and don’t come out until you hear someone you know! Do you understand me?”

He shook his head quickly.

“Take Abigail, use her as cover to run until you aren’t seen anymore. She’ll find someone when she runs off. Go!”

“But Aunt Stel —,” Tate started to object, but Stella cut him off.

“— I said go!! Run!” Stella yelled at him. She hated to scare him, but something was awfully wrong about the situation.

She knew Abigail would make her way back to the barn or in front of the bunkhouse. Stella needed her to be a distraction to keep Tate safe. She stalked off to the round pen. Cursing herself that she only had her hunting knife on her.

“Can I help y’all?” Stella called out to them, shocked at herself for sounding almost like Rip.

“Yeah we’re looking to get a message to John Dutton.” The lead man expressed.

“You are, huh?” She slid the knife out of its belt holster, that belonged to her and Ryan’s dad, in a fluid motion. To the men she approached it looked like she fixed her jacket. “Y’all tell me and you can leave. I’ll relay the message.” She tried to keep her eyes on the men and make sure she could see where Abigail was headed in her peripheral vision. If she couldn’t see Abigail anymore that meant Tate was one step closer to safety.

“Nah we can’t do that. We were sent with a specific purpose. You weren’t it.” The lead man confessed. Stella’s heart sank at the implication about Kayce’s son. “Now where’s the boy, Stella?”

Her hands started to go clammy. Her breathing was shallow. “How do you know my name?”

“We know a lot of things about you. About everyone here.”

The second man started to search around. Stella couldn’t see Abigail any longer. She closed her eyes for a split second and breathed hard. She prayed with every last bit of her soul that Tate was on his way to his grandpa.

“That’s nice, but you need to leave. You’re not getting anything.”

“We came for the boy, and we will not let anyone, let alone some girl, stop us.” The lead man yelled to his partner, “Cut out farther until you find him. I’ll take care of her.”

Stella turned abruptly, starting to make a mad dash for the bunkhouse. Her burning legs wanted to give out, but she pushed them to go faster. She could hear the lead man behind her as he gained length on her. He was almost on top of her and she panicked. She grabbed a piece of rebar sticking out of the sand by the round pen and swung it at the face of the lead man, hard. Stella swung as if she was trying for a home run.

The man’s jaw snapped shut and reopened as he let out a deafening scream. He grabbed the bar tight and yanked her toward him. “You filthy bitch!” The man’s words came out garbled. He gripped up Stella’s hair and pulled as hard as he could.

Stella stabbed at the man with her knife, but in her panic she didn’t have a good hold. She punctured his leg and he howled in pain. It didn’t have the desired effect Stella had wanted. She jabbed wildly and got him in his side twice before the lead man was able to slip it out of her hands.

Tate must have seen her struggle because he screamed her name loud and clear from not far off, “Aunt Stella!!”

“Fuck!” She wrestled with the man to get her balance back and his hand out of her hair. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Tate as he ran over to her. “Tate, I said run to the house!” Stella screamed at him.

Tate continued to dart toward her, he wanted to get the men away from Stella. He was snatched up by the second man she’d lost sight of.

“Stella!!” His tiny voice hollered. Tate struggled against the second man’s grasp.

Stella broke loose from the lead man and started to scramble for the second, but was grabbed from behind. “Fuck you piece of shit! Let us go!”

A fist hammered down onto her head from the man that had her, knocking her glasses off her face. She groaned as her vision blurred. She tried to get her foot behind or under the man’s leg, to sweep his foot out but he stayed on top of it. His arms were wrapped around the top of hers as she struggled to gain some high ground. She didn’t want to do this, but she didn’t have any other option but to ram her head backwards into his nose as hard as she could. She hoped she would break it.

Stella and the lead man both cried out, and he loosened his grip. Her head started to thump wildly. Quickly slipping her right arm out of the weak hold he had on it, Stella wrapped it around the lead man’s neck and tried to flip him like she would a calf. They both hit the ground and groaned. Stella was winded and half woozy, but scrambled her way to standing.

She ran forward trying to make it closer to the bunkhouse. A silent prayer was said. Stella let out a scream she hoped would be heard by the entire ranch. “Colby! Anyone help!!” She would have gotten away if the other man hadn’t been enraged and made his way back for her after getting Tate in the van.

“Fuck!” She squeaked out. He gripped her up by the neck making her lose air and landed a solid fist to her face that dazed her. Her posture drooped and the man behind her let her fall to the ground.

She tried to claw her way back to standing to run toward the van. Both men kicked her sides, her head, her arms; anything they could get at to make sure she stayed down. The bunkhouse was too far away to have heard their screams clearly. She couldn’t breathe from the wind being knocked out of her and her vision was starting to go. No one was coming this time. With one final attempt to crawl back to her feet to get to the van, the lead man landed a knockout blow to her chin with his foot and Stella stopped moving all together. That solitary crow cawed and fluttering wings was the last thing Stella heard.

[briannysey]

Getting Started Reading Poetry in "Free Verse"

So @gunkbreaker asked me for recommendations on where to get started for reading stuff in free verse. I'm a poet who mostly learned, wrote, and read what I could through the internet and in open mics, and only recently have started to get a classical education on this. So I've got some thoughts, but take everything I say with a grain of salt (other than my recommendations, they're good).

Using a read-more b/c this is gonna be a long-ass post.

So a lot of my kind of ambient poetry education came through reading stuff that I purchased from bookstores, hearing folks at open mics, and most especially from listening to spoken word stuff on Youtube (shoutouts to Button Poetry for keeping my creative spirit alive from 2014-2022 before I returned to school). I was often derisive towards established meter and verse like iambic pentameter because I carried the foolish belief that this limited what a poet could write about and keep a poet from writing "real poetry" not that I had a coherent conception of what "real poetry" even would be.

Anyways I'm over that. Something my current mentor has been trying to nail into my head is that there are three major types of form when it comes to poetry: Received Form, Created Form, and Found Form. Received Form is any already established or created form that comes to a poet and will be the most common source of established schemes for meter, rhyme, syllable count, line length, etc... (Sidenote: part of the reason that I was derisive towards Received Form is because I am kind of metrically blind & deaf, and really struggle to identify it let alone use it) Created Form could not have any of these, or could have just a few, or no restrictions on all. It's just a form that you have fashioned for yourself and didn't exist before you started in it. A lot of stuff that could be considered "Free Verse" will fall into this category. Then there's Found Form which is like, a journal entry as a poem, or a grocery store receipt as a poem, or a spelling bee as a poem. They're things that you find in the world that you change and adapt into a poem, and there's some incredible fucking poetry written in Found Form.

Quick side note: Free Verse kind of came around with modernist literature and poets. It mostly just means poetry that lacks established meter, rhyme, or other limitations. But as my mentor has often said "All poetry has forms. It might just be less traditional or take more expansive language to describe."

Anywho, I'm just gonna y'all with a TL;DR of the recced poets then I'll go into recommending specific works and why I think the poets are great for this form. We've got

Sarah Kay

Jun Jordan

Mary Oliver

TS Eliot

Hanif Abdurraqib

So let's dig in:

Sarah Kay

Free verse is interesting in that sometimes when a poem is in some sort of received form like an iambic pentametered sonnet or a haiku these forms aren’t readily apparent when spoken aloud. Sarah Kay’s work is often freely available to the public only through audio. She does a lot of readings, if you want to read the text of her poetry you typically have to purchase a collection. I’ve linked some examples of her work here. She does take on a little of “the voice” that spoken word poets sometimes get made fun of for. Her poetry is typically wildly and powerfully earnest which I think helps dispel some reservations folks might otherwise have for that. From what I understand her work right now is very focused on educating folks on poetry and finding ways to connect students to poetry through spoken word poetry. It’s an approach that will often ignore or totally drop more classical verse as it finds ways to meet new poets and poetry appreciators where they’re at.

https://poets.org/poem/house-no-doors

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OemkJy0y0b0

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qdLmHCwciCY

June Jordan

June Jordan has many great examples of work that exists outside of received form. If you’re looking for a poet who built on the vibrant traditions of the Harlem Renaissance, a poet whose poetry and work was activism and advocacy then June Jordan is a great place to start. Jordan was also a huge proponent for using Black/African American English in poetry.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/161359/poem-for-siddhartha-gautama-of-the-shakyas-the-original-buddha

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/161358/resolution-1003

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/161360/you-came-with-shells

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/161357/poem-about-my-rights-651df23f84683 (CW for frank and heavy discussion of sexual violence in this piece)

Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver is having a bit of a moment in pop culture. “Wild Geese” gets TikTok edits and readings of it are set to joyous montages of peoples’ lives. Which is fair, the poem is just that good. It straight up changed the way I think about and approach my identity and paved the way for me to crack my egg and transition.

Her poetry is very often devoid of received form, and is notable for almost always consisting of heavy imagery from nature. She took frequent walks in nature and drew on this for her work. I’d argue that she wrote so frequently and heavily with nature imagery that once you read enough of her work you can start to parse the images and metaphors as not usually being about the presented subject itself, but as a vehicle for discussing personal or social issues and phenomena. Which isn’t a very bold claim, but Oliver wrote a lot and when you read enough of her work you really can start to read and understand subjects that are very far from the nature she portrays.

I have a collection of her works that I keep on my nightstand, and when I don’t have other readings I’m working through I try to read a couple poems from it. I’m gonna be honest that experience of reading her poetry by lamplight is an almost religious one for me. I cannot sing Oliver’s praises highly enough.

T.S. Eliot

I can’t speak to too much of Eliot’s work. I know he’s often regarded as part of the first wave of “Free-Verse” poetry. The Wasteland is definitely worth reading on vibes alone, but especially knowing that you’re looking for poetry outside of established meter, rhythm, and rhyme schemes, if you wanted to start with one of the first, most famous, and classical examples then The Wasteland can be a great place for that.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land

Hanif Abdurraqib

The poem here linked at muzzlemagazine is a great example of how the form of a poem might not be easily available to listeners. The way a poem is spoken is often transformative, and an adaptation even on the part of the poet between the written piece and the spoken piece. The link here has both Abdurraqib’s audio and his written poem so you can see and hear some of the differences between the two.

https://www.muzzlemagazine.com/hanif-abdurraqib.html

Abdurraqib has been hugely influential on my work. His work is titanic in scope and thought, and honestly I think after he’s gone the poets and historians of tomorrow are gonna struggle to understand just how awesome and powerful his poetry is.

A lot of ink’s been spilled (especially by Abdurraqib himself) over the importance of importance of Carly Rae Jepsen and the Minnesota Timberwolves to Abdurraqib. I think he writes honestly and with a powerful dignity about topics that other poets and writers might fear to explore or worse: topics that other writers might feel are beneath them.

https://poetrysociety.org/poems-essays/in-their-own-words/hanif-willis-abdurraqib-on-ode-to-kanye-west-in-two-parts-ending-in-a-chain-of-mothers-rising-from-the-river

https://www.splitthisrock.org/poetry-database/poem/i-dont-know-any-longer-why-the-flags-are-at-half-staff

I’m gonna give a special shout out to Abdurraqib’s “And What Good Will Your Vanity Be When The Rapture Comes.” When I speak about poetry that changed me, this one is it. I listened to this piece and said “Fuck I want to write half as good as this” and it kept me writing and reading poetry through some of the hardest points in my life. A lot of Abdurraqib’s work, I feel, is transcendental. Its work that through image, metaphor, and content becomes surreal and transformative.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZxsRiKJje8

Honestly if you get one takeaway from this essay please let it be “Read Abdurraqib, no one is doing it like him.”

[p0orbaby]

Made this for you in inspiration of your latest fic, the whole sourdough thing made me laugh a lot.

—

Leah’s quirks had always been part of what made her… well, Leah. She could be intense on the pitch, but off it, she had this almost childlike enthusiasm for the most random things. You’d learned to roll with it because, in the grand scheme of things, it was all part of the package. But every now and then, she’d dive into something so bizarre that you couldn’t help but wonder if she was just messing with you.

The sourdough starter was just the latest in a long line of her weird obsessions. You didn’t want to get too involved, partly because you didn’t understand it, and partly because you were afraid that if you started asking questions, you’d somehow end up elbow-deep in dough next to her. So, you kept your distance, nodding politely when she babbled about fermentation and hydration levels.

But then there were the other things. Like the time she became convinced that she could train a pigeon to deliver notes between the two of you. You’d come home one day to find her on the balcony, holding out a scrap of paper to a very unimpressed pigeon perched on the railing.

“What are you doing?” you’d asked, genuinely bewildered.

“Training Reginald,” she said, as if that explained anything.

You decided not to ask who Reginald was or why she thought this particular pigeon would be interested in carrying notes. You just nodded, backed away slowly, and closed the door behind you.

Or the time she decided that she needed to learn Morse code, convinced that it was a skill everyone should have in case of emergencies. For weeks, she would tap out messages on random surfaces, then stare at you expectantly, as if you were supposed to know what she was saying. You’d smile, maybe tap back some nonsense, and then go about your day.

You never really got involved in these things, preferring to let Leah ride out her weirdness on her own. It wasn’t that you didn’t care—of course you did—but you also valued your sanity. And sometimes, Leah’s ideas were so out there that the only way to cope was to pretend they weren’t happening.

Take the time she decided that the two of you should communicate using only rhymes for a day. You’d woken up to her cheerfully announcing, “Good morning, my dear, I’m so glad you’re here!” and spent the next several hours trying to come up with anything that rhymed with “toast” while also trying not to strangle her. By lunchtime, you’d resorted to just nodding and humming in response, hoping she’d get bored. She didn’t.

But no matter how strange things got, you always knew it was just Leah being Leah. And deep down, you appreciated that she felt comfortable enough with you to let her freak flag fly, even if it meant enduring some truly bizarre moments. You’d never admit it, but sometimes, her weirdness was kind of endearing. Like when she’d come to you, eyes wide and excited, with some new project or hobby that she was absolutely convinced would change your lives.

So, when you walked into the kitchen one evening to find Leah using a flashlight to “check the bubbles” on Gertrude the sourdough starter, you just sighed and shook your head, making a mental note to clear some space on the counter for whatever madness was coming next. Because this was Leah, after all—really, really weird at times, but somehow, that was exactly how you loved her.

excuse me, miss ma’am, this is amazing

i love it !

also why can i picture leah doing every single one of these 💀

[barovianfinewines]

Barovian Folk Tales & Rhymes

“The Vampire Song”

(after “Snow Beast,” by Leslie Fish)

Note: “Snow Beast” is from the Mercedes Lackey filk album Oathbound, arranged and performed by Cecilia Eng, a recording of which can be heard here.

I'm DMing Curse of Strahd and I love trickling out setting information to my players through stories and poems. This was too perfect not to adapt. Kids gotta learn that you can't just let strangers willy-nilly into your house, or they may eat you and everyone you know!!

Children playing in the wood Farther than they know they should Saw a stranger walking near Never stopped to think nor fear Skin like ice, eyes that gleam Things aren't always what they seem Nails too sharp, teeth too long Look for what you know is wrong! “O my dears,” the woman plead “I'm all alone and chilled near dead These woods aren't safe for one to roam Won't you take me to your home?” Stands too still, moves too fast No shadow nor reflection cast Pointed ears, pointed grin Look before you let them in! Despite her cold, unblinking stare She seemed so nice, she spoke so fair Foolish children did not question They forgot a vital lesson Skin like ice, eyes that gleam Things aren't always what they seem Nails too sharp, teeth too long Look for what you know is wrong! They did not wait to find a guard They led her straight to their own yard They did not think to ask their kin They brought her home and let her in Stands too still, moves too fast No shadow nor reflection cast Pointed ears, pointed grin Look before you let them in! Once she was within, surprise! She cast away her human guise Fangs grew long, claws sprang free A ravenous vampire was she! Skin like ice, eyes that gleam Things aren't always what they seem Nails too sharp, teeth too long Look for what you know is wrong! All that night down every street She stalked and slaughtered all she'd meet When sun peeked o'er the ridge too late The town had met a grisly fate Stands too still, moves too fast No shadow nor reflection cast Pointed ears, pointed grin Look before you let them in! For pretty words and pretty wiles Pretty looks and pretty smiles Those folks were slain and scattered all Because they let their caution fall Skin like ice, eyes that gleam Things aren't always what they seem Nails too sharp, teeth too long Look for what you know is wrong! Stands too still, moves too fast No shadow nor reflection cast Pointed ears, pointed grin Look before you let them in!

Note: The vampire "tells" listed in this rhyme are mostly taken directly from 2nd edition Ravenloft sources. In my game, they are mostly allusions to true, valid tells, though reality is of course more complex than the song would make it seem.

In the novel I, Strahd, Strahd disguises his nature by either wearing gloves or trimming down his long, sharp nails, and by combing his hair to cover the pointed tips of his ears, and doing literally nothing else. Yeah, he parts his hair differently and calls it a day. Fwiw at that point he's basically an infant (only in his 90s!) and gives precious few fucks. This is all in concordance with his writeup in Realm of Terror.

Van Richten's Guide to Vampires lists the most notable tells as cold, unnaturally pale/ashen skin (the color of which can be disguised by makeup or magic, or explained away by some rationalization such as chronic illness or an aversion to being out in the sun with the peasants) and the absence of a reflection (in any reflective surface, not just mirrors).

VRGtV takes great pains to note that vampires have teeth nearly identical to our own, perhaps to frustrate genre-savvy players. Realm of Terror, on the other hand, takes great pains to note that vampires (or, Strahd, at the very least) have ~retractable fangs~ which lengthen when "aroused or attacking." So, make of that what you will.

(In the interest of thoroughness, Realm of Terror also waxes quite poetic about Strahd's eyes: "dark and hypnotic, like deep pools with subtle reflections of red light, [which] when he is aroused or enraged... burn like red hot coals." So, make of that what you will. For better or for worse I've got a folder in my head for weird 90s vampire lore that's labeled "arousal.")