#is there even a union of salvation crowd on here........

[plutorine]

prince trubetskoy rkgk

[archduchessofnowhere]

“A portent of the catastrophe in the making”: on sources and misquotations regarding Rudolf’s last Christmas

In my post about Rudolf’s last present to his mother I told you I had a second post about the Christmas of 1888, which turned out to be the last Christmas of Rudolf’s life. This post is, however, a little different to the Heine one, since this time I’ll be talking about the sources themselves. Please bear with me because this will be long, and probably also kinda dull.

To be honest I was not planning to write this post. But when I was preparing the Christmas posts I shared the 24, I came across a quote from Greg King and Penny Wilson’s Twilight of Empire I had shared previously on this blog two years ago:

Three aromatic blue fir trees, branches alight with wax candles and bedecked with gilded ornaments, stood over tables crowded with gifts when the imperial family gathered at the Hofburg to celebrate Christmas. Rudolf had bought toys for his young daughter at Vienna’s traditional Christkindlmarkt, or Christmas market; for his mother he had purchased some original letters written by her favorite poet, Heinrich Heine—a thoughtful gift that the empress all but ignored [71]. Indeed, Elisabeth seemed most taken with showing off her latest, unlikely acquisition: Much to her husband’s horror, she’d had her shoulder tattooed with an anchor [72].

Smiles and gifts couldn’t conceal the undercurrent of tension. Something was so obviously wrong with Rudolf that Elisabeth pulled Marie Valerie aside and again warned her of her brother’s malicious behavior. Then she turned to her son. After making him promise that he would be kind to Marie Valerie, Elisabeth embraced Rudolf and said that she loved him. Hearing this, Rudolf collapsed into agonized sobs; his mother, he cried, hadn’t said those words “for a long time.” [73] Franz Josef and Elisabeth were embarrassed at the display; neither recognized their son’s emotional breakdown as a last, dramatic cry for help as Rudolf slipped ever closer to the edge of an abyss. (2017, 98)

And I realized that there is a huge misquotation here. King and Wilson explicitly cite “73. Marie Valerie, diary entry of December 24, 1888, in Schad and Schad, 164-65” as the source of Rudolf telling his mother that she hadn’t sad to him that she loved him “for a long time”. But I have the very same edition of Valerie’s diary, and this is what she actually wrote down (on January 3, recounting the events of Christmas Eve):

Rudolf and Stephanie left with the King [?] before seven o’clock and Mama promised to come over with us as soon as it was done. When the three of us were now in Mama’s toilet room, Papa said he was surprised that Stephanie didn’t find it offensive that Rudolf had been taken into confidence [regarding the engagement] before her… they should get him. Mama hugged him and said with sisterly tenderness: “I love you so much.” I can’t say how happy that made me, because it made him feel so good, he hugged her and asked with great emotion: “No, really? It hasn’t been for a long time.” Excited as I was, I immediately began to cry and yet I was doubly happy that it was Franz [Salvator, Archduke of Austria-Tuscany]’s and my bond of pure young love that had brought my parents this sacred and beautiful hour of union.

Like, she clearly is talking about Elisabeth telling Franz Josef she loved him, and is he who replies that she hadn’t say that “for a long time”. Rudolf had already left when this happened, and Valerie explicitly states she is talking about her parents (“that had brought my parents this sacred and beautiful hour of union”). I couldn’t understand how this error even happened; they are literally citing Valerie’s published diary, the mistake is just baffling. Could they really have read the diary so badly? What was going on?

Since just one mistake in citation is enough to make you doubt an entire book, I started to double check the other two sources King and Wilson cite for this passage:

71. Hamann, Reluctant Empress, 339; Listowel, 207; Morton, Nervous, 177-79; Salvendy, 144-5. 72. Morton, Nervous, 179.

Hamann is obviously the source for Elisabeth ignoring the Heine letters (as I wrote in my post about the present). As for Listowel and Morton their books simply describe the Christmas trees and presents, mention Valerie’s engagement, and finally note that Rudolf “hugged his future brother-in-law. When he put his arms around his mother, there broke out of him a sudden sob” (Morton, 1980, 170) and  “solemnly promised [to look after his sister], but with such a sad expression that Valerie felt almost frightened” (Listowel, 1986, 207). No source cited by neither of them.

Not a great start for my misquotation hunt. But my luck changed when I looked up John Salvendy’s work. The book that King and Wilson cited is Royal Rebel: A Psychological Portrait of Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria-Hungary, published in 1988. Sadly this book isn’t on the archive but after a lot of perseverance I was able to get a peak at pages 144-45 through Google Books. And guess what I found out:

Rudolf’s last Christmas, that in 1888, had a crucial effect on his assessment of his mother’s inclination towards him. Valerie described what happened following Rudolf renewed reassurance to Elisabeth of his benevolence toward his younger sister and her future husband: “Mama embraced him and told him affectionately how much she loved him… he was so moved and said that he had not heard it for long time”. [54] (144)

Reading this passage felt like being a school teacher that catches a student cheating on a test because they copied the same mistake as their seat neighbor. Now, I’m not saying that Greg and Wilson never read Valerie’s diary, but they absolutely were quoting Salvendy instead of the published edition of the diary when writing the Christmas Eve passage of their book and forgot to double check it. This however opened a second mystery, and one that will remain open for the time being: how did Salvendy make this mistake? Because he also cites Valerie’s December 24 entry as the source:

Which is just wrong. Google books didn’t let me see the bibliography page so I don’t know where did Salvendy got Valerie’s diary, because by the 1980s the original manuscript wasn’t available to the public anymore. But until I can see the bibliography the mystery will remain open; as of know, I’ll consider him the sole responsible of the misquotation.

By this point in my journey of double checking sources I started to wonder which are the sources for Rudolf’s alleged breakdown on his last Christmas, because at no point in the whole entry of December 24 Valerie mentions such thing (you can read it fully here). The only thing that she wrote about her brother was “Rudolf was watching her [Empress Elisabeth], then me, and was very friendly”, and again, after she got engaged “It may have been 8 o’clock when we went over to Rudolf’s, Papa and Mama in front, Franz [Salvator] and I behind - arm in arm. He gave us a very friendly welcome and even kissed Franz” (1998, 164, 166). No word of the supposed breakdown.

So does this mean it didn’t happen? Not necessarily. Brigitte Hamann, in her 1978 biography of Rudolf, quotes a second account of the Christmas Eve of 1888: that of Countess Marie Festetics, lady-in-waiting of Empress Elisabeth. In 1909, Festetics was interviewed by historian Heinrich Friedjung, who wrote of their talk:

However, the Empress knew about the Crown Prince’s shattered health from the scene at Christmas before he died.… On Christmas Eve, the Empress led Crown Prince Rudolf to his sister, the bride, and told him that she hoped that he would always look after his sister with kindness after the parents had passed away. At this point, the Crown Prince flung his arms around her neck and burst into lengthy, uncontrollable sobbing, which alarmed her greatly. This was a portent of the catastrophe in the making. The Empress and the Emperor, too, burst into tears. Immediately after this scene, Countess Marie and the adjutants were called to the Christmas tree and found the members of the Imperial family still tear-stained and emotional. One did not give his remarks that he was nearing his end the importance they deserved, remembering them only later. (2017)

Festetics account seems to be the main (and so far, also only that I could find) source for Rudolf crying in front of his family on December 24 of 1888. But how can we reconcile this statement with Valerie’s diary? Whose words weight more, Festetics recounting an event twenty years after it happened, with the hindsight of knowing that Rudolf took his own life less than a month later? Or Valerie’s account, written a few days after the event but biased by the happiness of her engagement?

A possible answer to this dilemma may be found on a previous entry from Valerie’s diary, dated December 16:

After dessert, Mama asked Papa to entertain Stephanie while she called Rudolf into her toilet room with me to “tell him a secret.” He seemed excited, even frightened, by this and I don’t think he was pleased. But he wasn’t unfriendly at all and so I felt encouraged to throw my arms around his neck for the first time in my life… Poor brother, he also has a warm heart in need of love - for he embraced and kissed me with all the intimacy of true brotherly love - and again and again he drew me to his heart, you could feel that it did him good that I showed him the love that had been almost suffocated by fear and shyness for so long. Mama asked him to always be good for me, for us, once we were dependent on him, and he swore and affirmed it simply and warmly. Then she put the cross on his forehead and said that God would bless him for it (and it would bring him luck) - she assured him of her love and he kissed her hand fiercely and was deeply moved. I thanked him and embraced Mama and him in a hug, saying almost unconsciously, “We should always be like this!” (1998, 157)

Doesn’t this sound almost identical to the scene Festetics described? Couldn’t it be that she is actually misremembering the scene that took place December 16 as happening on Christmas Eve?

I’m reaching to the end of the post and I don’t really have an answer. This started simply as a “double checking King and Wilson because they misquoted something” then it turned into “tracking down accounts by people that saw Rudolf the Christmas Eve of 1888” and finally into “contrasting the only two accounts of said day, which actively contradict each other”. And even after all that, I still can’t tell you for sure whether Rudolf actually cried or no in front of his whole family on December 24. Personally I feel more inclined to believe that Festetics misremembered the dates, but who knows, maybe Valerie actively decided to omit any unrest that happened during the day on her recount, remembering only the happiness that she thought her “pure young love” brought to her family.

Writing this post made me reflect a lot not only on the importance of sources, but also of the importance of sources in its original context. Because neither of the two accounts that we have now come from the hands of Marie Festetics and Valerie themselves: we have what Friedjung wrote down of his conversations with Festetics, and we have the copies made by Corti and Sexau of Valerie’s diary, not her original manuscript. Which opens a lot of more options as to why the two testimonies don’t match. Either way, is disappointing that almost no book about Rudolf and Mayerling notice this contradiction, and instead inadvertently (or not) repeat the same information, sometimes with the same mistakes.

Sources:

Hamann, Brigitte (2017). Rudolf. Crown Prince and Rebel (translation by Edith Borchardt)

King, Greg and Wilson, Penny (2017). Twilight of empire: the tragedy at Mayerling and the end of the Habsburgs

Listowel, Judith (1986). A Habsburg tragedy: Crown Prince Rudolf

Morton, Frederic (1980). A nervous splendor: Vienna, 1888/1889

Schad, Martha and Schad, Horst [ed.] (1998). Das Tagebuch der Lieblings Tochter von Kaiserin Elisabeth. 1878-1899

[macgyvermedical]

@macgyvermedical what kinda collaps? Economic collapse? Health System Collapse or Energy Collaps or All together?

I'd say basically all forms to some degree over the next 20-30 years.

I apologize that most of this is US-centric. It is happening many places throughout the globe, but most of the data I have is US-specific. But rest assured it could be happening to you too, if you live outside the US, though possibly at a different pace than we're seeing here.

We are currently in a situation where there are a number of factors coming together that support a societal collapse. In some places, we've already seen significant collapse, including a lack of available hospital beds, safety net programs, charities, and basic human rights.

Factor 1 is the fierce political division. It could have been anything, but it just happened to be Trump and Trump supporters (including the "thin blue line" and "three percent" crowds) on one side and everyone else on the other. The more divided a society is, the more energy goes into protecting oneself from our opponents and less that goes into actually solving existing and growing problems, and the higher risk of civil conflict.

Factor 2 is a loss of resources. The US grew in power due to a weird confluence of political climate and physical resources that we'll never see again. These included available and cheap access to fossil fuels (which made things like cars, synthetic fertilizers, and plastics affordable for the masses), WWII and lack of worker protections (terrible for people but great for industry) that lead to an extremely well-funded and well-staffed "patriotic" growth in industry during and after the war. This lead to a shift in consumer culture (fueled by ad campaigns in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s) that pushed everyone from a great depression "fix it, use it up, wear it out" into a materialistic "keeping up with the joneses" mentality that caused people to buy, buy, buy, even if they didn't need or want something.

We are now at a point where the culture that all those created is no longer sustainable because of the current loss of the fossil fuels, wages, training, staffing, and political resources (like unions) that supported it.

Factor 2.5 is that one of those resources, money, is being hoarded in places where it completely fails to benefit most of society. Since the 1970s, worker productivity in the US (fueled by a concept called "taylorism" and later "techno taylorism", essentially creating technologies that track and punish workers automatically if they fall below stated levels of productivity, especially in low-wage work) has far, far outstripped hourly pay.

We also have a problem with the distribution of wealth, where the top 1% in terms of "net worth" (assets - debts = net worth) own about 40% of the wealth available, while the bottom 90% own a mere 20%. Basically, the owners and investors of the most massive corporations fail to allow the revenue from their enterprise to "trickle down" to their workers in the form of wage increases and greater social resources like libraries, schools, parks, and safety net programs, so the "tide" that was supposed to raise all ships never rises at all, while low-wage earners are continually exploited for more productivity for less pay.

People who are struggling to afford basics like food, housing, utilities, and medical care (like those who are earning anything below "cost of living" in their area) aren't contributing to taxes, but neither are the highest earners or corporations because of tax loopholes or laws specifically designed to carve out their contributions (which would otherwise fund those libraries, etc.. mentioned above). Struggling people are also less able to donate to charity, meaning even social backup programs like charities have to be more selective of their clientele, further exacerbating the problem- especially for those who aren't "ideal" candidates for help (look up salvation army or Christian-run free clinics and their stances on LGBTQ individuals seeking help, for example). This in turn further widens political disputes.

Factor 3 is that we keep seeing shocks to the system. There has been a 5x increase in natural and man-made disasters world-wide in the last 50 years, the majority of which have occurred in the last 10. Many of these are due at least in part to a changing climate. As we used up the fossil fuels, we also dumped much of that sequestered carbon into the atmosphere, which leads to climate change, which leads to increasing rates of disasters. As disasters increase, there is not only less money/help available for those impacted, but the locations where people can safely live or grow food shrinks. Not only does this cause difficulties in food but it also exacerbates problems where people need to relocate, but where both wages and government aid is no longer sufficient to facilitate the move. In return, people either starve, die, or are killed in disasters because they are unable to restart somewhere else.

The lack of resources has also seen a decrease in the ability to maintain public utilities systems. Water, sewer, transportation, and electricity infrastructure 50 years beyond its official replacement date still in use leads to water main breaks, increasing outages, and poor quality drinking water containing lead and other serious contaminates. If the resources don't exist (or aren't being used because they're needed elsewhere) to fix these things, eventually the power will go out, or the sewer will break and not be fixed, or...

We also start seeing pandemics. Look at the difference between how we handled H1N1 (quickly, effectively, limiting the number of deaths in the US) and COVID-19 (disinformation and lack of resources, leading to an inability to contain it effectively in the US). Pandemics strain healthcare systems.

Over a third of all patients at my hospital system are there for COVID right now, most of them unvaccinated (December 2021, over a year after the availability of a free, safe, and effective vaccine), which means fewer people can be admitted for other things, meaning the acuity of who gets admitted goes up, the staff are increasingly strained and quit to preserve their mental health, and more people are sent home who should have been admitted, causing increase in death and suffering because of lack of resources to care for them.

Conclusion: All of these together play into each other. We are starting to see a process called "catabolic collapse" where the system begins to burn resources for immediate needs/threats that are already earmarked for something else. If government aide no longer exists (for you specifically or in general), you turn to private aid. If that no longer exists (for you specifically or just in general) you turn to neighbors. But if they have nothing because they're in the same situation, or they won't give it to you because of political division, you all starve. Or freeze, or dehydrate, or die of illness or injury, or whatever your situation happens to be.

Similarly, if a water main or sewer breaks, you have to get water and dispose of waste somehow, so you get it from a river, bury it, or burn it, all of which can cause disease, which further stresses healthcare systems, which....

And everything ends up in a similar situation. Which is collapse.

[elizabeth-mitchells]

Journeys end in lovers meeting - Sam/Deena - Bly Manor AU

Chapters: 5/? Fandom: Fear Street Trilogy (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Fraser/Deena Johnson, Sarah Fier/Hannah Miller (Fear Street), Christine "Ziggy" Berman/Nick Goode, Samantha "Sam" Fraser & Deena Johnson Characters: Samantha "Sam" Fraser (Fear Street), Deena Johnson, Kate Schmidt (Fear Street), Simon Kalivoda, Josh Johnson (Fear Street), Constance (Fear Street Part 3: 1666), Christine "Ziggy" Berman, Nick Goode (Fear Street), Alice (Fear Street Part 2: 1978), Sarah Fier (Fear Street), Hannah Miller (Fear Street), Solomon Goode (Fear Street) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, The Haunting of Bly Manor AU, Not Canon Compliant, Haunted Houses, Ghosts, Character Death, Minor Character Death, Canon Lesbian Relationship, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, Happy Ending, Au Pair Sam, Gardener Deena, Housekeeper Kate, Cook Simon, Josh and Constance as troubled kids, Ziggy and Nick in an unhealthy relationship, minor Cindy/Alice, Martin cameos, special appearances of all the Shadyside killers as ghosts, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Rest Is Confetti Summary: The year is 1994. Samantha Fraser recently moved to Shadyside, and she desperately needs a job that will help her leave her troubled past behind. She starts working as au pair at Shadyside Manor, where she is not the only one tortured by ghosts. Grief, regrets, guilt, innocent victims, and an ancient curse. At the center of all of it... love.

Chapter 5: 

When Peter Brody died, all of Sunnyvale mourned. As a teenager, he had been the star of the football team and in a town like that, it meant he was a celebrity. He was loved, known, seen by everyone. Sam, on the other hand, had always lived under his shadow, where she had been cold and lonely but also stuck beyond salvation, she thought. Nobody knew her, nobody saw her. They all saw a small blonde-haired woman that men made fun of and women judged and Peter never really loved, did he? Had any of it been love?  

During Peter’s funeral, luckily, all eyes were still on him, on the closed coffin that is. The truck that hit him hadn’t exactly been forgiving. Sam didn’t mind. She preferred to go unnoticed most of the time but especially on the day she was dealing with the most conflicting emotions of her life. Peter was dead. Did she kill him? He could have killed her. Was this her fault? Her biggest source of pain was gone forever. Should it be her in that coffin? She could be free now. Why wasn’t she feeling sadness, pain, and grief? Why wasn’t the relief hitting either? She was just numb.

She was numb until the moment they were lowering his coffin to the ground. Everyone around her was crying and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from that awful hole on the ground. That is why she noticed, clear as day, the moment a hand, gray and dirty and stained with blood, reached out from the ground and out toward her. She stifled a small gasp and jumped in place, but nobody paid her any mind. Sam closed her eyes tightly and tried to convince herself it was just her mind playing tricks on her. She’d lived in fear of Peter’s hand for so long, it was reasonable that she couldn’t put it down in a matter of days.

So, Sam excused herself from the crowd, knowing nobody would care about her absence. Her mother was crying more than she cried at her ex-husband’s funeral, and more than she’d be crying if it was Sam in the coffin. At least, that’s what Sam thought. She walked away briskly until she could lean against a big tree in the middle of the Sunnyvale cemetery. She took breaths and tried to control her racing heart. This full-body panic wasn’t rare. She was just used to locking herself in the bathroom of the house she used to share with the deceased man.

This time, however, she was in public. She had to get a hold of herself quickly. That was what she had spent a lifetime learning to do. So she pulled out a small mirror from her clutch, knowing she better check her make-up before returning to her mother’s side. She was expected to cry but keep perfect make-up somehow. But, as soon as she saw her reflection in the mirror, Sam realized she had bigger problems. This time she really screamed. She screamed in terror and dropped the mirror and quickly turned around, but he was gone. The image of Peter, just an impossibly black shadow, lifeless and furious and with a bloodstained hand wrapped around Sam’s throat… he was gone. Quickly, Sam picked up the mirror again and didn’t see him. But she skipped the rest of the funeral, she ran all the way home, and in the living room’s mirror, he was right there, waiting for her. In the Sunnyvale school bathroom mirror, he was there. In the cars’ windows, in the stores’ fronts, everywhere she went, he was right there, haunting her all the way to Shadyside Manor.

Away from the house though, surrounded by nothing but damp grass and green trees and nothing showing her reflection back to her, Sam let her guard down. She was sitting around an impressive bonfire in the company of Deena, Kate, and Simon, along with a few bottles of wine they got from the Berman’s old reserve. “It’s not like they’ll be drinking it,” Simon had said.

The last addition to their small gathering was Tommy Slater. Uninvited. Unnoticed. At least, surrounded by those trees he looked a little more at home, with his red plaid shirt and the axe on his hand. He shifted from one foot to the other, as if considering taking a stroll around the gardens he used to love so much. But that wasn’t the case. He’d been there too long. He didn’t move purposefully anymore, he didn’t make any choices, he didn’t even have many thoughts anymore. He simply stood there in the background, in the shadows, in that property he couldn’t escape from.

Around the bonfire, with lively eyes, blushing cheeks and playful smiles, the employees of the Manor looked much more alive. Kate exchanged a knowing look with Simon and then turned her head toward the other two women sitting close by.

“Deena. Don’t you have some story you'd like to share with us?” Kate asked.

She had startled the gardener, who had been a little lost in thought looking at Sam. “Huh? What?” Deena shook her head, but a second later and aided by an exasperated look from Kate, she understood. “Oh, right. Um, actually, yeah,” Deena cleared her throat and then looked at Sam, regaining her usual confidence. “Hey, Sunnyvale, do you want to hear a ghost story?”

“Sure,” Sam shrugged. She was really cold, and still a little put off by the unpleasant memories that had been roaming her mind the entire day. But she smiled nonetheless. “But I think I told you I’m not scared of ghost stories,” she said. How could she be? Although he was a sincerely upsetting company to carry with her everywhere she went, Peter hadn’t hurt her after he died nearly as much as he had while being alive.

“Ah, but what if you found yourself inside of one of those stories?” Deena asked.

“Okay, humor me.”

“Look up,” Deena nodded her head and the four of them looked up at the big tree next to them with branches that reached above their heads. “This is the hanging tree,” Deena said. “Back in the day, before there was Shadyside and Sunnyvale, and junk food and pretty au pairs, there was the settlement of Union. A pretty crappy place run by religious hysteria. They had the bad habit of accusing women of witchcraft. This is the place where they used to hang their witches. Right here, on this same tree.”

A cold breeze passed by, making the sudden silence even more noticeable. Sam shivered and her teeth clattered. “That’s not supernatural though,” she said. “That’s just cruelty, and ignorance.”

“And that’s without mentioning the ones they burned alive,” Simon added, taking a big swing of his wine bottle.

“Simon!” Kate chastised him, slapping his arm.

“What?! It’s true!” he laughed.

At least it proved they could come and go seamlessly from serious and lighthearted moods.

“Hey, they had their reasons,” Deena said, taking the others by surprise. “They used to say that burning a witch was the only way to guarantee she wouldn’t come back to haunt you afterward.”

A bitter chuckle came from Kate. “I know I got a few names I’d like to burn down,” she said.

“Care to share?” Deen tilted her head, intrigued.

Kate’s face had grown serious very suddenly, and she stood up from her seat.

“For Christine Berman,” She said, and everyone listened intently. “Not that I want to burn her memory, not that I don't wish she’d come back… This is in her honor. A brilliant, courageous, simply incomparable woman… with just one stupid fucking weakness. She deserved better than that man. I won’t even say his name. That disgusting man that consumed her away… Now that’s someone I wish I could burn alive.”

“Cheers!” Simon raised his bottle, and everyone followed suit.

Deena stood up next. “For the Bermans. Those good, stupidly kind people,” she said. “For Cindy, especially. And everything she could have been… For as long as she could she was a really, really great mother. More than that, too. She was the heart of this entire place, and she was there for everyone, not just her family or, well, she made all of us family, really. And… Anyway, I think she would be happy to have Sam Fraser join us. This sweet, Sunnyvale weirdo. Cindy would be happy she’s looking after her daughter.”

After she finished, Deena let herself fall back heavily on her chair. While everyone drank for the dearly missed couple, she managed to regain her composure. When she looked at Sam again, her usual easy smile was back in place.

“What about you, Sunnyvale? Anything you want to burn?”

“Me?” Sam said. Through her mind flashed the small group of people that had affected her most throughout her life. What could she talk about? The dead father she barely remembers and still misses? The living mother angry at her that she’s still avoiding? Or the dead ex-fiance she feels responsible for and she’s still scared of? “No, thank you. I’m okay,” Sam shook her head.

Maybe they didn’t need more of an excuse to drink. Maybe her silence was more than enough. Still, when Deena, Kate, and Simon, despite her silence, raised their wine bottles to their lips to drink. Sam felt the comfort of genuine solidarity and understanding like she had never experienced before.

Before the silence could stretch for too long, Simon stood up. “Are you sure?” Kate whispered, reaching out to hold his hand. He squeezed her hand once, then let go and took a step forward.

“So… my mom. She’s, uh, not someone I’d wish to burn alive, obviously,” Simon said, and added a feeble chuckle, but he went on. “But fuck, she deserved to rest already. She lived a long life, and not an easy one. But she was stronger than this entire town, and sweeter than any drug, funnier than me, if you can believe it, and beautiful as an angel until the very last day.” He stopped briefly, and his smile wavered. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging a little harder than necessary, and after a deep breath, he managed to continue. “Her mind, well, it was stopped working as it should a while ago, you know? I was her son, her brother, her father, and sometimes I was a complete stranger… but she was still my mom, always. So… here’s to everything she was, and everyone I had to be for her.”

--

After Peter died, Sam considered moving back in with her mother. It sounded like a nightmare, but a reasonable choice to make, she thought. However, her mother never did or said anything to suggest Sam would be even remotely welcome in her home. So, Sam stayed in that picture-perfect Sunnyvale house. A faultless home except for the fact that Peter was dead and Sam would soon follow suit if he didn’t stop showing up behind her reflection in every mirror she glanced at.

Sam felt hopeless, not free as she had wished to be for so long. She felt terrified, not much more than when Peter was alive, but certainly not any less. She had been starting to worry about what the rest of her life was going to look like. She had been hoping for a miracle, an act of kindness from anybody. And that was when Peter’s mother had knocked on her door. For a moment, Sam had let herself dream of a scenario where that woman showed up with worry in her gentle eyes, a dinner invitation, and a much-needed hug. But that wasn’t Peter’s mother.

Mrs. Brody was, if anything, Sam’s biggest nightmare. A particularly cruel mixture of Peter and Sam’s own mother. Her eyes were cold, she probably would have tried to poison Sam, and they had never hugged for longer than a second. That woman had spent roughly twenty years accusing Sam of taking her son away from her. When Peter’s mother showed up at Sam’s door, it wasn’t to offer any kindness, it was to request Sam start packing her stuff and looking for a place to live, because Peter was dead, they never got married, and that house was no longer hers.

A week later, Sam was living in a Shadyside hostel.

A few months later, Sam was in the middle of the dark and beautiful gardens of Shadyside Manor, walking away from a bonfire and two of her coworkers, her friends .

Most importantly, Sam was walking away with Deena by her side. “Are they going to be okay?” Sam asked the gardener.

“Oh yeah,” Deena nodded confidently. “Getting wasted and reminiscing about the past is part of their daily routine actually.”

Sam smiled, but then Deena met her eyes and matched her smile and Sam had to remind herself to breathe. So she turned away briskly and continued to walk. Deena was kind enough not to laugh at her.

A couple of minutes later the two women had arrived at the greenhouse. It was clearly the place Deena felt most at home in. There were plants on every surface, plants of all kinds and in many different states of health. There wasn’t a lack of personal touches though. There was more than one stray jacket left behind, occasional snack wrappers, books, cups, and more. It looked like Deena spent more time there than at the house in her own room. Then there was the bench where she invited Sam to sit. The closest thing to a couch that could stand the conditions of the greenhouse. It had comfortable cushions on top, a blanket, and Sam caught sight of a sweater that Deena quickly tried to tuck away. The image of Deena taking naps in there to avoid life at the manor was enough to make Sam smile.

“This is nice,” Sam said. “It feels like you have a little bit of everything here.”

Deena shrugged. “I’d add … a drum kit, if I could,” she confessed.

“Really?” Sam wondered, getting a little more comfortable in her seat. “You play drums?”

“For a while, when I was a teen,” Deena replied. She was thoughtful for a moment but, looking at Sam’s face, she seemed to make an important decision. “One of the foster homes where I lived in had a drumkit. It was a good outlet for when life was shit but… I haven’t played since then. I was never able to afford one myself and, anyway, it doesn’t bring up the best memories.”

“Oh,” Sam mumbled, staring at her lap. Suddenly she missed the bottle of wine she had been carrying with her. She couldn’t even remember where she left it. She only wanted to find something good to say, but Deena beat her to it.

“Now’s your turn.”

“What?” Sam finally looked at her.

“Tell me something real, if you want,” Deena smiled at her. “I’d recommend starting with what’s bothering you so much that you finished a wine bottle but you’re still pale as if you’d just come back from the dead.”

Sam laughed, closed her eyes, and leaned against the back of the seat. Of course she had finished that bottle. Of course those memories did nothing but hurt her. Of course Deena would notice, and of course Deena could find a way to ask an impossible question and still make Sam want to speak up her impossible answer.

“The windows,” Sam finally replied and opened her eyes.

“What?” Deena frowned. She was as drunk as Sam, but that answer didn’t explain anything at all.

“All kinds of mirrors really,” Sam continued. “I, uh, sometimes I… I see things… that aren’t there. But they feel, um, they are real, to me. I think. I mean, I know they are. Even if it sounds crazy.”

“What kind of things do you see?” Deena asked her.

Sam blinked. She wasn’t expecting Deena to go along with it, and she wasn’t prepared or sober enough to come up with a lie. “My dead ex-boyfriend,” she said, and didn’t give Deena much time to process that information. “He wasn’t a good guy, he… He wasn’t good… at all. But we, I mean, I tried or, I guess I did, I… I broke up… with him. It was, um, right before he… died.”

“Jesus, Sam, the same day?” Deena wondered.

“Yeah,” the blonde nodded sadly. “But I guess he hasn’t let me go yet.”

Deena bit her lip and tried her hardest to find the right thing to say. There was a lot she wanted to ask, but there were more important things at the moment. “That sounds typical,” Deena said.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, sounding genuinely tired, but more and more relieved with each passing second.

“I mean… only a Sunnyvale jerk wouldn’t get what a breakup is,” Deena said. She had been holding her breath, but when she saw Sam smile a little, she relaxed. “Like, get over it dude! She’s Shadyside property now,” Deena added, looking around the greenhouse with her best menacing tone.

Sam couldn’t contain her chuckle, but she was back to looking down at her lap. “You’re not making fun of me, are you?” She inquired.

“Sam,” Deena called her name, and waited until Sam was staring into her eyes to continue. “I’ve lived with that hanging tree over my head for years. Ghosts are… complicated, I guess, but nothing to joke about, are they?” She was worried she wasn’t making much sense, but she was genuinely trying her best. Sam shook her head softly, agreeing with her, but her eyes weren’t all that focused on ghosts, and loss, and the past anymore. “I think it’s a matter of understanding-”

All at once, Sam was kissing Deena. She had just leaned in, connected their lips, interrupted Deena with a kiss they had been dying for. At first, Deena’s shock didn’t allow her to do much, but when she caught up, when she made sense of the sweet taste of Sam, the warm press of her lips, the reality of a dream coming true right before her, she reacted. Her hands moved carefully to Sam’s face, as if afraid to break her, but she slowly pushed back. She saw the moment Sam’s blue eyes fluttered open again, and that sight alone was more than enough to steal Deena’s heart.

“Are you sure?” Deena asked her.

Sam couldn’t fight the need to glance around them, just to make sure there weren’t unwanted shadows staring at her from a corner, but there was nothing. They were alone. This moment was completely hers. “Yes,” she replied with a smile, and whatever Deena had tried to say aftward, Sam interrupted her with a kiss, but Deena didn’t seem to mind at all.

They kissed with perfect excitement, their lips were eager, and they tasted of wine, and the first touch of Deena’s tongue on her bottom lip stole a whimper from Sam. They moved closer together, and their restless hands gained confidence. Everything was happening at once, they were in a hurry, they were taking their time, they had only a second, they had all the time in the world. Sam's hand was on Deena’s shoulder, grabbing a fistful of her green jacket, pulling her closer. Deena’s hand was getting lost in Sam’s blonde ponytail, holding her in place, driving her crazy. Every second their kisses renewed and grew in passion, with Deena’s tongue pulling shivers out of Sam, and Sam’s teeth biting down on Deena’s bottom lip, overjoyed to take the other woman by surprise.

It was an accident, though. Sam didn’t really mean to open her eyes when she did. But by the time she realized what had happened, it was too late and the damage was done. She opened her eyes and right there behind Deena, with his monstrous head almost on her shoulder, was Peter. Peter the shadow, the ghost, the darkness, the demon, the ruin of Sam’s entire life.

She gasped and jumped back and away from Deena as if she’d received some kind of lethal shock.

“Fuck,” the two of them said. They were breathless, confused, and hurt. There was a sudden and unbreachable distance between. They were completely alone in the greenhouse.

--

Less than an hour later, and wearing her pajamas, Sam was storming out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the manor. Her thoughts were messier than ever, and only half of it was because of the wine. There was a lot going on in her mind, a lot she couldn’t erase, understand, or even acknowledge. There was a lifetime of expectations and lies that she had endured for too long. There was a kiss from a captivating gardener that wasn’t supposed to be so sweet. There was Deena standing up, apologizing, apologizing as if anything would have possibly been her fault, and walking away from Sam without once looking back. There was a pair of teenagers that jumped out of their beds at that ungodly hour just to make her waste five minutes in the hallway, listening to them explain some genuinely unsettling dreams until they agreed to let her go. Underneath it all, there was one thought standing out from the rest though. Unfair. That’s what Sam thought of it all. It wasn’t fair that she had to deal with that much, since she was a little girl. It wasn’t fair that even after dying Peter still controlled her. It wasn’t fair that she’d found the most incredible person and potentially ruined it all because of her fear.

But, at last, Sam had made it back to the hanging tree, back to the dying embers of the bonfire, which she hoped were strong enough to burn one last memory. She wasn’t alone, of course. Behind her, Ryan Torrest had observed her walk past him. He could barely change his expression anymore, but he looked as concerned as he was capable of. He raised his right hand in front of him to study the knife he still carried. He almost wished he could pass it to the clearly distressed woman, but there was no use. He couldn’t do anything, his knife wasn’t really capable of causing harm to ghosts, no matter how many times he had tested it before on himself. Besides, that woman had to face her ghosts by herself, and this one was a different kind of ghost than the manor's habitants.

A few feet in front of Sam, Peter’s ghost stood. He was just his shadow, just pure darkness resembling his shape, with just enough details for Sam to be able to see the hatred in his eyes. “ I can’t marry you, Peter, ” she had said. “ I don’t love you, I can’t, not you, not any man ,” she had added in an impulsive attempt to appease his already explosive anger. “ I’m sorry! I didn’t ask for this, Peter! Don’t hurt me, please, ” was the last she said to him. Before he raised his arm, before he took a step backward, before the truck hit him.

“What the hell, Peter?” Sam said, facing the silent ghost under the hanging tree.

There was no answer.

“What the fuck do you want from me, huh?” Sam insisted.

The ghost didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t react.

“You don’t scare me anymore, Peter,” Sam said, not yelling anymore.

The dark, human-shaped mass only stood there, ominous but immobile.

“You can’t take anything else from me, you know?” Sam sighed.

The woman was just so tired, and the ghost couldn’t do anything, could he?

“If you think you can still hurt me then go for it. Do it, Peter, I don’t care anymore. Kill me, if that’s what you want, but get it over with. Because I’m done! Did you hear me? I’m done… I’m done… I’m not scared anymore. I’m not scared of you anymore.”

The embers left from the bonfire suddenly sparked back to life, burning away what had been left behind.

[lawrenceop]

HOMILY for 6th Sun after Pentecost (Dominican rite)

Rom 6:3-11; Mark 8:1-9

“In those days when there was again a great crowd without anything to eat”. This is how today’s Gospel passage begins. That word in the Greek text of St Mark’s Gospel, palin, meaning ‘again’ reminds us that this is not the first time that Christ and his disciples have been in this situation. For only a couple of chapters before this eighth chapter of St Mark’s Gospel, Christ has been in a deserted place, an uninhabited place in a Jewish region, and five thousand people had gathered around him, and we’re told that, having sat them down on the green grass, he fed them all with five loaves and two fish, and there were twelve baskets leftover (cf Mk 6:30-44). Now, Christ is again in a desolate place, but in a Gentile region, and here four thousand have gathered around him, and, having sat them down on the ground, he feeds them with seven loaves “and a few small fish”, and when all had eaten their fill there were seven large sacks leftover.

Notice in both accounts Christ takes the bread, gives thanks or blesses them, and then gives them to the people. The pattern established here by our Lord, therefore, is the same pattern we find in the Holy Mass: First Christ gathers people around him, taking us away from our busy lives, taking us to a holy place where we can be with him. There, he teaches us as he still does through the Scripture readings and Homily of the Mass. And then, Christ, working in the person of his priest, takes the bread in the Offertory, blesses the bread in the Eucharistic Prayer, and then distributes it to us in Holy Communion. The miraculous feedings that we read of in St Mark’s Gospel thus becomes a reality in our own lives today, through the miracle of the Mass. For it is here that the Lord fills the deepest hungers of the human person, which is for truth, for goodness, for communion with God and one another, for Love.

Through these two miraculous feedings in the Gospel, Christ also reveals that he has come to bring salvation to all nations, all peoples, and gather all humanity into one; into communion with the one God.

In the first instance, the fact that the miraculous feeding of the five thousand takes place in a Jewish region, and the fact that twelve baskets are leftover are signs that Christ has come first to save the people of Israel and to call them to himself. For Christ is the Messiah promised to the Jews, God’s chosen people, and the number twelve reminds us of the twelve tribes of Israel. However, although Christ states that “he was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel” (cf Mt 15:24), nevertheless, in the episode immediately before the Gospel passage we’ve just read today, Christ encounters a Syro-Phoenician woman, a Gentile. She begs for salvation from the Lord, for the crumbs that fall from the table of the Jews, and she even refers to herself (and thus to all us Gentiles) as mere house dogs, puppies, who can yet still benefit from the overflow of salvation, as it were, that flows from Israel. For as the Lord declares in St John’s Gospel: “salvation comes from the Jews” (cf Jn 4:22) and God’s election of Israel, and his call for them to come to salvation has never been revoked (cf Rom 11:28).

However, the salvation of Israel, the fulfilment of the Old Covenant, is now linked to the New Covenant, to the salvation of the Gentiles. For Christ has come to teach, and feed, and to save all peoples, Jew and Gentile alike. St Paul, writing to the Romans, put it like this: “I want you to understand this mystery, brethren: a hardening has come upon part of Israel, until the full number of the Gentiles come in, and so all Israel will be saved” (Rom 11:25f). He does not mean, I think, that all the Jewish people will be saved, but rather that the new Israel according to the Spirit, the new chosen People of God, is to encompass both Jews and Gentiles, who together shall come to faith in Christ and be saved. What is being stressed here is the extent of salvation in Christ, now extended beyond the borders of Israel to embrace all nations, all peoples, indeed, the whole of the created world.

Hence in the Gospel Christ feeds the four thousand, who come from the four corners of the known world. All peoples now flock to Christ, and they come to listen to him; to be taught by him; to receive divine Wisdom, the revelation of the way to salvation. They have been listening to the Lord for three days, which points to the three theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity which he imparts to humanity for these are necessary for salvation. The seven loaves with which he feeds us stand for the seven Sacraments of the Church, for these are the means of salvation for all peoples. And finally, the seven baskets indicate the seven days of creation, which is to say that just as the twelve baskets earlier in the Gospels indicated that Christ’s saving words and actions were for the twelve tribes of Israel, so now Christ’s salvation is for all peoples and creatures who were made by God in seven days.

All those who are seated on the ground and fed by Christ are now an ecclesia. This is the Greek term for those who have been called out and gathered together into a worshipping community. So, Christ has called the people out of the cities, out of their frenzied lives, out of the noisy norm into a quiet place, a holy place, where he can form them, and make them in the new Israel, into the community of the redeemed. This is why we come together as a church for divine worship, leaving behind our homes and our busy-ness and distracted and fragmented lives, and allowing God to gather us together to himself here in the Mass. Here he shall teach us, form us, and make us one Church in union with him. All who shall have salvation in Christ are thus called the Catholica, the many who pertain to the universal but who are now united as one ecclesia. For as St Paul says in today’s epistle, “all of us who have been baptised into Christ Jesus… have been united with him in a death like his.” (Cf Rom 6:3, 5)

Thus, having died to sin, we have been raised to new life, and Christ’s one holy Church is our Mother. Indeed, she is a Mother to all peoples, and her boundaries extend to the ends of the earth because Christ is the one universal King, and his salvation is universal in its application. So the diversity and expanse of the Church is being expressed in today’s Gospel by the four thousand Gentiles, and the seven baskets leftover, but the unity of the Church is expressed by the one miraculous feeding in which they have shared. For we are united as one holy Catholic and apostolic Church in the Mass, for here, in the Church and as a worshipping community, we are nourished by God’s Truth; here we confess one common Faith; and here we are fed on Christ’s own body and blood, which is the Sacrament of unity and of charity.

Hence St Maximus the Confessor said concerning the power of the Catholic Church to unite all in charity that “men, women, children, profoundly divided in nationality, race, language, walk of life, work, knowledge, rank or means… all these she re-creates in the Spirit. On all in the same measure she imprints a divine character. All receive of her a single nature which cannot be divided and by reason of which their many and deep differences can no longer be held in account. By it all are brought up and united in a truly Catholic manner… Christ is also all in all, for he encloses all in himself by his sole power, infinite and all-wise in its goodness, like the centre to which all lines converge, so that all the creatures of the one God should not be strangers or enemies to each other without common ground whereon to show their friendship and the peace between them.”

Therefore, today, on the feast of Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati, let me end with his wise words: “Each of you knows that the foundation of our faith is charity. Without it, our religion would crumble. We will never be truly Catholic unless we conform our entire lives to the two commandments that are the essence of the Catholic faith: to love the Lord, our God, with all our strength, and to love our neighbour as ourselves… With charity, we sow the seeds of that true peace which only our faith in Jesus Christ can give us by making us all brothers and sisters.”

[alottanothing]

Left to Ruin: Chapter Fourteen

Summary: Ahkmemrah prepares for his marriage to Nouke. A week after sending his brother to the cells, the pharaoh’s guilt sees him visiting Kah in search of salvation.  

Previous Chapters

Word Count: 2715

Warnings: just some good ole angst

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe​, @r-ahh-mi​, @theultraviolencefan​, @hah0106​, @rami-malek-trash​, @diasimar​, @sherlollydramoine​, @flipper-kisses​, @ivy-miranda-2390​, @txmel​, @sunkissedmikky​, @concentratedsassandcandy​, @babyalienfairy​, @edteche2 (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: This is one of the shortest chapters of this whole story, maybe the shortest. However, I feel like there’s still a great deal of importance to the scenes, especially the ones between Kah and Ahk. Also, thanks for all the love last chapter! The comments, and tags and like and reblogs are like candy to me! 🍬 ☺️Again, as a disclaimer, I am not an ancient Egyptian expert and google only knows so much. So yeah, I took so historical liberties while writing this to make my life easier, but tried to keep it as “authentic” as possible.

Over the course of several days, the pharaoh's daily routine was exceedingly more arduous than the one he was accustomed to. Those long hours were a blur of official greetings and ostentatious dinners meant to welcome the important dignitaries who had traveled from afar to partake in the union of their king and soon to be queen. Merenkahre insisted on a week to properly allow all the guest to make their journeys and get settled; then on the seventh day, all of Waset would honor their new queen.

Truthfully, when his father asked for a week's time to prepare for a grand festival, Ahkmenrah agreed readily, entirely too wrapped up in the notion of marrying Nouke to realize how long seven days would actually be. Those days moved so sluggishly. A week was absolutely too long to be away from her, but duty often eclipsed what his heart desired.

However, duty also lent him distraction from his yearning heart. Families began arriving two days after the pharaoh proclaimed his desire to wed the servant girl Anuksumn. Boats lined the shores of the Nile, crowding the market harbor as families��along with their entourage—made their way to the palace with enough fan fair to rival that of the pharaohs.’ Despite their raw pomposity, Ahkmenrah showered them each with unyielding kindness as he welcomed them to stay in his home—as was expected of a king.

The ruse of playing host grew old after only one evening of official dinners and introductions; proving to be all work and no play. The stories his guests told during their feasts lacked zeal. Mostly, everyone spoke of their own accomplishments and their supposed generosity to the cities they governed. A few guests were genuine—able to steer topics away from themselves. Apart from those cherished few, every man, woman and even child invited to celebrate the impending nuptials held themselves above all others. And while no one dared to speak outwardly with such hubris, Ahk could read each of them as clearly as the hieroglyphs scribed onto the walls.

Somehow, he mustered a smile and played his role perfectly all the while wishing to be miles from the noise of the palace, tangled together with Nouke under the stars.

After the second evening of myriad stories of uninspiring nature during dinner, Ahkmenrah snuck beyond the walls of his royal sanctuary and returned to Nouke’s farm with news he’d promised to bring.

“It is all very official and exhausting,” Ahk tutted with a mild scowl. Just thinking about what awaited him at the palace bled into the serenity of laying with Nouke in his arms, nestled among the cushions, their garments left in a forgotten heap nearby.

“Trust that I cannot wait to bring you home once and for all. However, I am also not ready to share you yet.” He smoothed the hair away from her face as she looked at him from where she laid on his chest. “I want to enjoy having you all to myself a while longer.”

Nouke smirked and kissed him softly.

“Mmm, I’ve never thought of you as a greedy man…” she teased as she traced the outline of his lips with her fingertips.

Ahk grinned and kissed the pad of each rough digit before speaking, “You will find that I am exceptionally greedy when it comes to you. I want you to be only mine, now and forever.”

“Now and forever,” she agreed with a breathy murmur.

Her eyes stayed fixated on his until she drew him into an affirming kiss that built lazily in a slow, sensuous expression of worship before passion swept them away for a second time.

What she gave, he took—her name a low hum tumbling from his lips. What he gave, she took—holding him close enough for their hearts to beat in perfect synchronization. They made love in a symphony of wanton expressions whispered into the night air with breathless praise until they reached that glorious peak together. And when morning came with the harsh break of day—golden light pulling them from the depths of their slumber—it was too soon.

He left his bride to be with a kiss and the promise it would only be a few more days until they could spend their lives together.

It was that night he’d spent tangled with the woman he loved—his best friend—that Ahkmenrah held in his mind the days that followed. He clung to images of Nouke like a valuable life source; granting him the energy to masquerade through every dinner and introduction that remained.

***

“I have made the arrangements for you to collect your bride tomorrow at mid-day,” Merenkahre said from his usual seat at the council table.

Ahkmenrah blinked out of his thoughts, suppressing a yawn, doing his best to fend off his exhaustion a while longer, and grinned.

“After which,” his father continued. “You and your desired bride will be wedded with an audience of your advisors and guests of your choosing. Festivities will then commence before twilight.”

The pharaoh's sudden influx of enthusiasm was difficult to keep from his features when he nodded, not wanting his excitement to mar his kingly composure.

“Perfect,” he said.

Idly, his eyes skirted around the table, mentally noting which of his advisors he wanted in attendance until his sweeping glance stopped on the empty chair reserved for the Consul of Montu. A pang of guilt bit into Ahkmenrah with enough potency to taint both his enthusiasm and his resolve the longer he stared at the barren spot.

The presence of the vacant seat was suddenly crushing with guilt, and a frown fought to twist onto his features. Almost a week had passed since banishing Kahmunrah to the cells with only his name and no titles. And not one of those days went by without Ahkmenrah brooding over the punishment he’d bestowed upon his brother.

Even with ample distractions at hand, his mind could not surrender how they parted. The scene in his memory stirred a sense of betrayal—his betrayal to Kahmunrah. Ahkmenrah never wanted to be a ruler who dealt with his problems by burying them in a cell to be forgotten. Or worse yet, a king who executed and silenced his problems. How Kah would have preferred I run things.

The council meeting finished quickly when the pharaoh could find no other topics to discuss suddenly too laden with grief to proceed effectively. With the men gone, the walls of the council chamber became a meditative space for him to ponder.

The day that would follow was to be one of the happiest of his life, and yet, Ahk felt that joy abruptly strangled; his guilt and the anger he held on to, like beasts he needed to slay.

The fury in his soul for what had been done to Nouke and Setshepsut remained deep and unsated, tormenting Ahkmenrah with unease. Wrath could devour a good man if it was left to fester. Already the infection was spreading. Ahk’s torrid heart wanted Kahmunrah to know punishment for the things he’d done, and still, the pharaoh’s mind screamed and begged for him to let the past be covered in sand—forgotten.

With right and wrong poised so precariously in his head; he wasn’t sure which side of the scale to leap onto.

Minutes passed, the oversaturated colors of sunset vanquished by the black of night when Ahkmenrah finally relinquished a slow, weighted breath. He rubbed his temples hoping the added pressure would deter the ache beginning to swell in his skull as his frenzying thoughts became too much to fathom.

Letting go of his anger and forgiving his brother was the only way to ensure growth could come from all that transpired. Holding onto resentment would only permit stagnation. Ahkmenrah had no choice but to face his brother.

***

Of all the buildings located on the palace grounds, the cellblock was not constructed with intricate detail or grandeur of any kind. The stone structure was far from the central palace, a narrow edifice with almost no windows and lit mostly by mounted torches along the length of the corridor. It had been years since the pharaoh found himself in the dismal confines of the cellblock. He’d visited last with his father during one of his lessons, and Ahkmenrah liked those walls even less now than he did then.

The sting of guilt surfaced again as he took in the bleak accommodation once more. How could I have condemned my brother to live in such squaller?

The man on guard, stationed just outside the doorway, greeted the pharaoh with a shocked expression and hasty bow.

“My king!” The man did his best to chase away his shock, but his confusion was still obvious in the glow of the torch he held. “What business brings his majesty here?”

“My brother,” Ahk stated cooly. “I wish to speak to him.”

The man nodded and directed him to which of the long line of cells housed his brother.

Ahkmenrah counted his steps as he went, focusing on the numbers to distract himself from the dismal interior and the shame it all provoked. In the darkness, his brother was only a silhouette, perched on the back half-wall of his cell, and Ahk could feel the tendrils of Kah’s bitterness reaching vengefully through the bars.

“And so, the mighty pharaoh descends from on high to look upon the lowly and condemned.” Kahmunrah’s voice was cold, dripping with resentment. “What do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Surely my sentencing is not through already.”

The urge to recant a snide comment—to fight fire with fire—swelled on the tip of Ahkmenrah’s tongue, but he swallowed it. He refused to let any word passed his lips without having thoroughly thought it over first.

“Or have you come to gloat?” Kah gibed when Ahk struggled to piece a rational sentence together. “I overheard the guards talking about your impending nuptials to that servant girl I exiled. Congratulations."

A frown worked onto the pharaoh’s face taking note of the unabashed hate in his brother’s tone—a knife in his belly.

“It pains me you think I would come and rub my good fortune in your face. Have you ever known me to be so arrogant?”

Kahmunrah stood and moved into the singular beam of torchlight flickering through the bars of his cell. Without his usual golden raiment and accessories, Ahkmenrah had difficulty recognizing the man before him. His threadbare garments were a stark contrast to gold and gems, and they caused another wave of guilt to beat against Ahk.

“No,” Kahmunrah finally responded, looking as though the truth was akin to poison on his tongue. “You are the golden son—kind and humble.”

Kah spat at his brother’s feet, “Weak. You are weak for a king.”

Ahkmenrah closed his eyes and let out a long meditative exhale to carry away the influx of anger. Venom soaked words would only kindle the flame of hate. Not acting on impulse was an arduous task, but Ahk had come to purge the contempt out of his system as calmly as he could.

“If you are attempting to provoke me, brother; I am sorry to disappoint you.”

Kah’s lips curled into a sneer, “Just as I said, weak.”

Ahk shook his head with disbelief, “Is it not tiring to hold onto all of that anger?”

The pharaoh’s own wrath was exhausting to carry day to day. How Kahmunrah managed to live all of his life in a perpetual state of ire was a feat to be admired, or respected at least.

“My anger is all I have thanks to you.”

Something cold and abject worked through Ahk with a chill. The truth of his brother’s words biting into him with such force, Ahkmenrah’s sure footing faltered and he leaned against the stone wall behind him for aid.

“Yes,” the pharaoh husked out. Even his whisper echoed eerily in the long corridor to haunt him.

It took him a minute or two to find his strength again, incrementally able to hold himself with the sturdy wall to brace against. Ahk’s focus was on his brother, looming threateningly just past the bars of his cage. Ahkmenrah found he could not look into his eyes—his guilt beginning to swallow him completely.

“I did not want this for you, my brother. Do you not know that? I gain no pleasure from seeing you like this. In fact, I have felt nothing but guilt for days.”

“Good.”

Ahkmenrah sighed and swallowed the lump in the back of his throat, and willed himself to meet Kahmunrah’s glower.

“I’m sorry..." Ahk said. “I am sorry you were denied what you thought was rightfully yours. I’m sorry for what I have done to you.”

He paused long enough to blink away the tears beginning to brim his eyes before he continued. “But…you left me with little choice. And for that too, I am sorry.”

Kahmunrah’s black eyes never turned away, nor did his expression of cold hatred ebb. It was staggering to see such emptiness behind living eyes, and their piercing leer did little to allay the lingering guilt. Still, Ahkmenrah continued.

“Do you want to know what else?" he sighed. “I forgive you…I must.”

Slowly, the heavy veil of the pharaoh’s anger started to slip away. The gravity of his words would be lost on Kahmunrah, but the salvation Ahk felt releasing years of tension almost made up for his brother’s apathy.

“I do not want to live my life as you have: harboring grudges and wishing ill upon others. And it is my hope, one day, you could do the same. I want that for you.”

Ahkmenrah half shrugged and his eyes dropped their focus to the shadowed void behind Kah as he considered his brother’s previous observation.

“Maybe that does make me weak…” The pharaoh’s voice faded as the remaining pieces of his anger crumbled and drifted away.

All at once, his mind was overrun with a thousand thoughts that made the ache in his head begin to pulse again. The silence that filled the narrow cell block was sullen and heavy, but Ahk used it to sift through the teeming thoughts in his head quietly.

Kahmunrah sulked back to the shadows of his cell, this time sitting on the ground, his back propped against the wall. Ahk sagged against the wall behind him as well, folding under the weight of his thoughts until he sat, mirroring his brother.

“I want so much for us to be brothers…” Ahk confessed softly.

A single, mirthless chuckle cracked Kah’s silence.

“Well,” he stated in a low voice, devoid of sympathy. “Take a lesson from someone who knows all about disappointment, little brother. And learn that we do not always get what we want.”

A sad smile ghosted over Ahk’s lips as a solitary tear spilled down his cheek. It was foolish to hope his brother would ever change, but Ahkmenrah would never give up.

With a deep breath to build his strength, Ahkmenrah stood feeling, more or less, lighter. All the poison was at last purged from his system, but a hint of disappointment remained as he realized how ruthlessly his brother continued to cling to the bitterness inside.

Sleep beckoned the pharaoh with a yawn, the promise of rest alluring for his frenzied mind. However, one thought dug its hooks too deep in the forefront of his mind to go without seeking an answer. The question alone made Ahk’s stomach churn, but he was much too exhausted to fight his curiosity.

“I dread thinking you may have had a hand in what happened all those years ago regarding the disappearance of my tablet. Framing Nouke’s family to be rid of them—to hurt me.”

He paused, feeling his stomach slosh again, “The assassin even….”

That night flashed so vividly in his mind; the man over him with a knife drawn ready to take his life. Ready to kill a boy of fifteen who’d known no enemies apart from one... Ahkmenrah glanced into the black of Kahmunrah’s cage. No response came from its depths, the deafening stillness causing a chill to prickle over the pharaoh’s skin. And as he left, Ahkmenrah could not decide if Kahmunrah’s silence filled him with more confirmation or fear.

Next Chapter-> Chapter Fifteen: Together Again

[chiseler]

TWO ALONE: A Noir Pastoral

It gets darker in the country than in the city.

Urban areas are thought to teem with crime and vice, but for city dwellers used to crowded, well-lit streets there’s a special terror about lonely rural roads at night. To the wary urbanite, the country—while it may be pretty for a Sunday outing—is a place of isolation, ignorance, backwardness and intolerance. This distrust feeds a strain of the rural gothic that trickles through Hollywood movies, always marginal and often subversive. Less common than the swampy, overripe Southern gothic, this genre of bucolic noir portrays farm life as mean, hard-bitten, joyless, and rife with exploitation—less salt-of-the-earth than salt-in-the-wounds.

F.W. Murnau’s City Girl (1929) set the template. Here Murnau inverted the pattern of Sunrise (1928), in which George O’Brien’s restless farmer is corrupted by an immoral city vixen and redeemed by a his wholesome, pure-hearted peasant wife. In City Girl, the eponymous heroine spends her days slinging hash in a Chicago lunch counter, sweating and footsore, batting away passes from endless hordes of male customers. At night she goes home to the roar of the El outside her cramped little room, blows the dust off her pitiful potted flower, listens to the chirping of a mechanical bird toy, and dreams of a better life outside the city. But when she marries a naive farm boy and goes home with him to the wheat fields, she’s briskly disillusioned. She has to contend with her harshly disapproving, bible-thumping father-in-law, who dominates her spineless husband; with a crowd of lecherous hired hands whose leering and pawing are worse than anything at the lunch counter; with thankless toil and her in-laws’ grim obsession with profit.

City Girl was caught in the changeover to sound, made as a silent but released in a mangled form with added musical and dialogue scenes. (The silent version has since been recovered and is now the only version available.) Among the changes that came with the adoption of sound was an intense urbanization of Hollywood’s output. The difficulty of location shooting and the influx of actors and writers from New York may have been the causes, but the whole tone of pre-Code movies is urban: wised-up, fast-paced, slangy.

Even when someone tried to make a film extolling the virtues of rural life, it seems they just couldn’t stop sneering and shuddering. The Purchase Price (1933), a total mis-fire by William Wellman, follows the basic trajectory of City Girl but is made with complete disregard for narrative logic or credibility. Barbara Stanwyck plays a nightclub singer so fed up with life on the Big Street, and with her seemingly amiable racketeer boyfriend, that she decides to flee to North Dakota as a mail-order bride. There she behaves like a brainwashed gulag inmate, cheerfully undergoing her re-education-through-labor: waking at dawn in a room so cold the water in her pitcher is frozen, and slogging through back-breaking toil in support of a churlish ingrate husband. (Played by the charmless George Brent, he pounces on her without preamble on their wedding night, and is so deeply offended by her rejection that he refuses ever to give her a second chance.) Of course, who would want to earn a cushy living warbling a song or two in a silver lamé gown when she could don an unflattering apron and a pair of galoshes and tote heavy pails of water along muddy paths while fending off cretinous rustics and suffering the scorn of a man with a chronic sniffle? Umm....

Somehow I imagine that the men who wrote The Purchase Price (the screenplay was by Warner Brothers regular Robert Lord, having an off day) were about as fond of clean country living as Oscar Levant, whose freak-out upon finding himself on the remote Neshobe Island is memorably recorded in Harpo Marx’s sublime autobiography, Harpo Speaks. He describes how Levant dissolved into panic when dragged off to this idyllic spot: “‘Birds!’ he wailed. ‘There are birds here! The sickest creatures on God’s earth! Trees! Even the trees are psychotic! Bugs! Don’t tell me there aren’t any insects here because I know there are!’ He grabbed my arm. ‘Harpo,’ he said, ‘What have you done to me? Take me away from here. Take me away from here!’”

Rural gothic films succeed where they avoid Purchase Price-style hypocrisy and are unapologetic in their antagonism. The completely unexpected Two Alone (1934) is such a triumph. It is unexpected both because this kind of dark, brooding, romantic, Borzagean tale was out of fashion in 1934, and because no one involved in the film had a distinguished record elsewhere. Director Elliott Nugent started as an unpreposessing actor (he’s the wimpy love interest in the talkie version of The Unholy Three, and had his best role as an emotionally damaged ex-pilot in The Last Flight) and as a director churned out mainly lightweight fare and earnest mediocrities like the 1949 Great Gatsby. The cast is headed by bland B leads—lovely Jean Parker, whose acting is rudimentary, and perennial kid-brother Tom Brown—and by a crew of usually predictable character actors. But nothing about this film is predictable.

It opens with barnyard footage that prepares you for a quaint rustic comedy (an expectation encouraged by the presence of ZaSu Pitts’s name in the credits). But the scenes of farmer Slag (Arthur Byron) rousting his family out of bed for another workday have a nasty edge: he’s a mean bastard, his wife (Beulah Bondi) is a sour-faced shrew, and their daughter is all one would expect from such a love match. The next shock is our first view of Mazie (Parker), bathing naked in a stream, her fully exposed rear ogled by Slag in a creepy Suzanna-and-the-Elders scene.

Mazie is an orphan and essentially a slave to her foster family, who exploit her powerlessness to the full. When the stingy, iron-fisted Slag growls self-righteously that “No one ever gave me anything,” one can hear the echo from today’s G.O.P. candidates. The protestant work ethic has drained this family of the last drop of humanity; they’re more miserly with compassion than with coin, and their flinty obsession with squeezing every penny from their workers and their land is related to Slag’s predatory lust and his wife’s barren prudishness. (When a hired man quits, Mrs. Slag confronts him with a shotgun and goes through his suitcase to make sure he didn’t steal any spoons; he jokes unkindly that she doesn’t need the shotgun to protect herself from him.) When Mazie falls in love with Adam (Brown), a reform school runaway who becomes another de facto slave, their romantic and sexual union is the ultimate threat to the Slags: a combined threat of rebellion, of idleness, of emotional warmth, of fertility, of freedom.

These themes are woven cleverly through the film. There is an ambiguous scene at the beginning where the middle-aged hired hand George Marshall (Willard Robertson) talks to Mazie by the well as she’s fetching water. Robertson was a character actor distinguished by his hard slitty eyes, and he usually played cops and sheriffs—the kind you know won’t believe your story. Here, he’s kind to Mazie, but his interest seems suspicious, especially when they talk about her unknown father, and Marshall opines that “no substitute has been found yet” for a biological father. It later turns out that Marshall is her father, that he has sought her ought and plans to rescue her. Hence the well, where Mazie looks at her reflection and imagines she is seeing her mother’s face, becomes a symbol of revelation—truth emerging from the well, as in the old adage. Yet it remains an ominous image too: in the end Mazie will throw herself into the well as Slag attacks Adam, who is now the father of her unborn child.

We first see Adam literally falling off the back of a truck, where he has been hitching a ride, and tumbling down a dusty slope. Tom Brown has a baby face that usually shone with gee-whiz, schoolboy cockiness under slicked-back hair. Here, with his hair tousled and a look of wary bitterness on his dirt-streaked face, he’s surprisingly attractive and forceful. Adam was sent to reform school after beating up his father, who abused his mother; Slag sees a chance to benefit by concealing Adam and blackmailing him into working for no wages.

Mazie and Adam bond first like brother and sister. Their awakening to something more comes in a dark, weirdly sexy scene that suggests anything but innocent pastoral romance. Left behind while the Slags are off at their daughter’s wedding, the young couple sits around a fire outdoors with Sandy (Charley Grapewin), a harmlessly demented dipsomaniac whose daughter (Pitts, in a very minor role) locks him in the shed to keep him out of trouble. Sandy starts telling them about the customs of Indian weddings, in which the groom has to chase down the bride. As he beats hypnotically on an upturned bowl to imitate the tom-toms, Adam and Mazie are unnerved and then possessed by the drumming; they run off into the dark woods and kiss.

Later, after they run away together, they succumb again in a field full of cloyingly sweet night flowers. But their sexual passion leads them into a love as pure and faithful as anything in Borzage. Their position as outcast waifs who find salvation in one another recalls Lucky Star—where crippled Charles Farrell and ragged farm girl Janet Gaynor develop an achingly delicate love in a bleak, slovenly rural gothic setting. The loveliest moment in Two Alone comes when Mazie, who has just realized she’s pregnant, faints and is carried into the house by Slag, who shoos Adam away. Ordered back to her chores as soon as she revives, Mazie goes to the porch for firewood. Through the window, we see Adam standing outside in the lashing rain, waiting to find out if she’s all right. It’s a beautifully framed and lit image that illustrates, without mawkishness, Adam’s devotion and the forlorn yearning of the young lovers kept apart.

Perhaps it’s unlikely that this story would end well, that the one good father would win out over all the bad fathers. George Marshall shows up in the nick of time after Adam has brawled with and been shot by Slag, and Mazie has thrown herself in the well. Adam still has to go back to reform school, but it’s a generally hopeful ending—and it comes as a great relief. It’s a tribute to the small film’s emotional power that we really don’t want to see the the luckless young lovers suffer any more.

Two Alone feels out of place at the tail end of the pre-Code era; it looks both backward to silent melodramas and forward to rural gothic noirs like Borzage’s Moonrise (1948), Jean Negulesco’s Deep Valley (1947), and Delmer Daves’ The Red House (1947). In Deep Valley, Ida Lupino is an isolated girl whose parents’ frosty, sick, mutually punishing relationship has reduced her to timid, stammering neurosis. She blossoms after meeting another wounded soul (Dane Clark), a convict escaped from a chain gang that is building a road through the remote woods; but he can’t free himself from his compulsively violent nature, and finds escape only in death. Clark had his finest hour in the gorgeous and haunting Moonrise, as a young man ostracized by his nasty Southern backwater town because his father was hanged for murder.

The past lingers longer in small towns and lonely farmsteads than in cities, where anonymity and change constantly wash around the inhabitants. This makes rural noir a more natural phenomenon than is commonly assumed, since the fatal grip of the past is a central noir theme. The Red House is a psychological haunted-house tale, and if one is not too distracted by the incongruity of Edward G. Robinson and Judith Anderson playing both siblings and farmers, it achieves a dense atmosphere of decay and blight. One-legged Pete Morgan (Robinson) relies on both spooky rumors and a hired redneck with a shotgun to keep people out of the woods around a ruined farmhouse that harbors the macabre secret of the woman he loved and killed. The woman’s daughter, ignorant of her past, is Morgan’s adopted daughter, and as his mind crumbles he begins to mistake her for his long-lost love, a disturbingly incestuous delusion. There’s a campfire-story creepiness about this film, you can almost hear the twigs snapping and see the light flickering, making the woods beyond blacker.

Bring a flashlight. It gets dark out there in the country.

by Imogen. Sara Smith

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

4th November >> Mass Readings (Except USA)     Wednesday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time

    or

Saint Charles Borromeo, Bishop.

Wednesday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time

 (Liturgical Colour: White)

     (Readings for the feria (Wednesday))

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Wednesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

    First Reading

Philippians 2:12-18

Work for your salvation, for God is working in you

My dear friends, continue to do as I tell you, as you always have; not only as you did when I was there with you, but even more now that I am no longer there; and work for your salvation ‘in fear and trembling.’ It is God, for his own loving purpose, who puts both the will and the action into you. Do all that has to be done without complaining or arguing and then you will be innocent and genuine, perfect children of God among a deceitful and underhand brood, and you will shine in the world like bright stars because you are offering it the word of life. This would give me something to be proud of for the Day of Christ, and would mean that I had not run in the race and exhausted myself for nothing. And then, if my blood has to be shed as part of your own sacrifice and offering – which is your faith – I shall still be happy and rejoice with all of you, and you must be just as happy and rejoice with me.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

    Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 26(27):1,4,13-14

 R/ The Lord is my light and my help.

The Lord is my light and my help;

 whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life;

 before whom shall I shrink?

R/ The Lord is my light and my help.

There is one thing I ask of the Lord,

 for this I long,

to live in the house of the Lord,

 all the days of my life,

to savour the sweetness of the Lord,

 to behold his temple.

R/ The Lord is my light and my help.

I am sure I shall see the Lord’s goodness

 in the land of the living.

Hope in him, hold firm and take heart.

 Hope in the Lord!

R/ The Lord is my light and my help.

    Gospel Acclamation

Psalm 118:88

Alleluia, alleluia!

Because of your love give me life,

and I will do your will.

Alleluia!

  Or:

1 Peter 4:14

Alleluia, alleluia!

It is a blessing for you

when they insult you for bearing the name of Christ,

for the Spirit of God rests on you.

Alleluia!

    Gospel

Luke 14:25-33

Anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple

Great crowds accompanied Jesus on his way and he turned and spoke to them. ‘If any man comes to me without hating his father, mother, wife, children, brothers, sisters, yes and his own life too, he cannot be my disciple. Anyone who does not carry his cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.

‘And indeed, which of you here, intending to build a tower, would not first sit down and work out the cost to see if he had enough to complete it? Otherwise, if he laid the foundation and then found himself unable to finish the work, the onlookers would all start making fun of him and saying, “Here is a man who started to build and was unable to finish.” Or again, what king marching to war against another king would not first sit down and consider whether with ten thousand men he could stand up to the other who advanced against him with twenty thousand? If not, then while the other king was still a long way off, he would send envoys to sue for peace. So in the same way, none of you can be my disciple unless he gives up all his possessions.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

 ——————————-

      Saint Charles Borromeo, Bishop 

  (Liturgical Colour: White)

     (Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Wednesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

    First Reading

Romans 12:3-13

Use the gifts you have been given

In the light of the grace I have received I want to urge each one among you not to exaggerate his real importance. Each of you must judge himself soberly by the standard of the faith God has given him. Just as each of our bodies has several parts and each part has a separate function, so all of us, in union with Christ, form one body, and as parts of it we belong to each other. Our gifts differ according to the grace given us. If your gift is prophecy, then use it as your faith suggests; if administration, then use it for administration; if teaching, then use it for teaching. Let the preachers deliver sermons, the almsgivers give freely, the officials be diligent, and those who do works of mercy do them cheerfully.

Do not let your love be a pretence, but sincerely prefer good to evil. Love each other as much as brothers should, and have a profound respect for each other. Work for the Lord with untiring effort and with great earnestness of spirit. If you have hope, this will make you cheerful. Do not give up if trials come; and keep on praying. If any of the saints are in need you must share with them; and you should make hospitality your special care.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

   Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 88(89):2-5,21-22,25,27

 R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord;

 through all ages my mouth will proclaim your truth.

Of this I am sure, that your love lasts for ever,

 that your truth is firmly established as the heavens.

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘I have made a covenant with my chosen one;

 I have sworn to David my servant:

I will establish your dynasty for ever

 and set up your throne through all ages.

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘I have found David my servant

 and with my holy oil anointed him.

My hand shall always be with him

 and my arm shall make him strong.

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘My truth and my love shall be with him;

 by my name his might shall be exalted.

He will say to me: “You are my father,

 my God, the rock who saves me.”’

R/ I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

    Gospel Acclamation

John 10:14

Alleluia, alleluia!

I am the good shepherd, says the Lord;

I know my own sheep and my own know me.

Alleluia!

    Gospel

John 10:11-16

The good shepherd is one who lays down his life for his sheep

Jesus said:

‘I am the good shepherd:

the good shepherd is one who lays down his life for his sheep.

The hired man, since he is not the shepherd

and the sheep do not belong to him,

abandons the sheep and runs away

as soon as he sees a wolf coming,

and then the wolf attacks and scatters the sheep;

this is because he is only a hired man

and has no concern for the sheep.

‘I am the good shepherd;

I know my own

and my own know me,

just as the Father knows me

and I know the Father;

and I lay down my life for my sheep.

And there are other sheep I have

that are not of this fold,

and these I have to lead as well.

They too will listen to my voice,

and there will be only one flock,

and one shepherd.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[yogastudioyoga]

Top Five Mudras of The Lord Buddha

What is a Mudra? Mudras are a non-verbal mode of communication and self-expression, consisting of hand gestures and finger-postures. They are a symbolic or ritual gesture in originating out of Hinduism and Buddhism. While some madras involve the entire body, most are performed with the hands and fingers. It is said they deal with subtle energies and can actually "teleport" teachings, information or messages through "intuition" or telepathy. In am more particle sense a Mudra does represent a specific "typographical symbolism" or teaching that has been passed down from the maters. It is these commonly know interpretations that we will discuss here for your enlightenment hridaya mudra in hindi 

1. We feel the most popular Mudra found in religious art today is "Bhumisparsha mudra" - The Earth Touching Mudra. Literally Bhumisparsha translates into 'touching the earth'. This mudra tells a beautiful story of The Buddha. Just before his Enlightenment The Buddha was attacked and tempted by the evil being Mara. The Buddha is sitting under the Bodhi tree in the Earth Touching posture, Calling the Earth to Witness, his victory over Mara's attacks. He sits with folded legs (right on top of the left). The left hand is held in his lap with the palm facing upward. The right hand extends over the right thigh, near the knee, with the fingers pointing towards the ground, palm inward. During meditation, Siddartha [ Buddha ] was subjected to many temptations but none as terrible as those posed by the evil Mara, who bombards him with his demon armies, monsters, beasts and violent storms and his three lascivious daughters. The Buddha remains steadfast. Then to testify to Mara of his meritorious past, he points to the earth with his hand and calls forth "Thorani," the beautiful earth goddess. She rises from the ground, declaring- "I will testify" and wrings the water from her long, black hair, which raises a torrential flood that drowns Mara and his army of demons.

2. Dharmachakra mudra- the 'Wheel of Dharma mudra. Though #2 on our list this is the of a most significant mudra because it represnts the time just after Lord Buddha's Enlightenment where he give his FIRST sermon / teachings of the DHARMA. [Dharma- simple put is: the ritual, ethical and Spiritual teachings for conduct and consciousness evolution.] In this mudra the thumb and index finger of both hands touch at their tips to form a circle. This circle represents the Wheel of Dharma, or in metaphysical terms, the union of method and wisdom. In this mudra, the hands are held in front of the heart, symbolizing that these teachings are straight from the Buddha's heart. As with most all Spiritual practices and meditations I have come across the opening and effectiveness of the Heart Chakra is of critical importance for inner peace and outer transformation.

3. I am just in love with and captivated by the "Varada mudra- The compassion, charity and fulfilled wish mudra." It is a gesture celebrating a persons fulfillment in being one who serves others unto salvation. This mudra is made with the left hand, and can be made with the arm hanging naturally at the side of the body, the palm of the open hand facing forward, and the fingers extended. The five extended fingers in this mudra symbolize the following five perfections: a. Generosity, b. Morality, c. Patience, d. Effort, e. Meditative Concentration. In a variant, the thumb and index finger of the downward extended hand touch one another. Frequently the "Abhaya mudra" and "Varada mudras" are combined: the right hand makes the gesture of fearlessness, the left that of wish granting.

4. How could a concept such as "perfection" rank number 4 on our list... but when one journeys along a spiritual path... the Dhyana mudra arrives in its own "perfect timing." The Dhyana mudra- the mudra of meditation, of concentration on the Good law, and of the attainment of spiritual perfection is said to have existed before time immortal. This gesture has been practiced by yogis and even the Buddha "before" enlightenment as its gift is to initiate the sangha because during their meditation and concentration exercises with this mudra it indicates the perfect balance of thought, rest of the senses, and tranquility. Simple put concentrating with this mudra assists mortals to dissolve the delusion of attachments to earthly things.

5. Abhaya Mudra- The Fearless mudra. Thus this mudra symbolizes protection, peace, and the dispelling of fear. It is made with the right hand raised to shoulder height, the arm crooked, the palm of the hand facing outward, and the fingers upright and joined. Whether you are mediating with this mudra or offering it across a crowded room as a greeting; what a beautiful sentiment and gift to commune with or communicate!

[orthodoxydaily]

HOMILY ON ST MARK OF EPHESUS ( fst.1/19)

By Archpriest Besil Rhodes

In the Name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Dear Ones, In this morning’s Gospel the crowd tells the blind man that all the excitement around him is due to the arrival of Jesus of Nazareth. The blind man cries out, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!” The crowd says “Jesus of Nazareth,” but the blind man, alone, cries out “Jesus, son of David!” The crowd only sees a man, a holy man, a prophet perhaps. The blind man is the only one who “sees” the Messiah, the son of God! It’s easy to get swept away with the opinion of the crowd. It’s very difficult to stand alone against the tide of popular opinion. Politics can be especially challenging for Christians. The very words “politics” is derived from the Greek word “polis” meaning “city.” Politics is about things pertaining to this world and is, by its very nature, worldly. But what does St Paul say about us, about Christians? “Here we have no continuing city, but we seek the one to come” (Hebrews 13:14). The Kingdom of Heaven is our true city. The climax of the book of Revelation is the vision of the Holy City, the heavenly Jerusalem, a jeweled city of light. This beautiful vision signifies the church, the called-out people of God, in all her eternal glory (Revelation 21:9-27). Today on the Church calendar we celebrate the memory of two wonderful saints. First we celebrate St. Macarius the Great of Egypt, a 4th century ascetic and a disciple of St. Anthony the Great. He wrote the book called 50 Spiritual Homilies. Have you read it? It’s a classic. Everyone should read it! But today I want to focus on the second saint of the day, St. Mark of Ephesus, a man whose earthly city betrayed him, a man who who stood alone against the crushing power of earthly politicians and ecclesiastical apostates. St. Mark of Ephesus – a pillar of Orthodoxy and a prophet for these end times. Let’s find out why. In the 1430’s, the once-glorious Eastern Roman Christian Empire (called “Byzantine Empire” by her detractors) was crumbling. Reduced to Constantinople and some surrounding territory, Greek diplomats were desperate to find a way to enlist Western powers to help battle against the common enemy of Christianity, Islam. The Turks would hear nothing of treaties. Their dream was to conquer the great Christian capital. For there to be any hope for rescue, the emperor, the politicians, the Patriarch of Constantinople all believed that it was necessary above all to make peace with the Vatican. So, “a Council was convened in 1437, which established a committee of Latin and Greek theologians with the Pope and the Byzantine Emperor acting as heads. The Pope, Eugenius IV, had a very exalted idea of the papacy and aimed at subjecting the Orthodox Church to himself. Prompted by the straitened circumstances of Byzantium, the Emperor pursued his aim: to conclude an agreement profitable for his country. Few gave thought to the spiritual consequences of such a union. Only one delegate, the Metropolitan of Ephesus, St. Mark, stood in firm opposition. In his address to the Pope at the opening of the Council, St. Mark explained how ardently he desired this union with the Latins- but a genuine union, he explained, based upon unity of faith and ancient Liturgical practice. He also informed the Pope that he and the other Orthodox bishops had come to the Council not to sign a capitulation, and not to sell Orthodoxy for the benefit of their government, but in order to confirm true and pure doctrine. Many of the Greek delegates, however, thought that the salvation of Byzantium could be attained only through union with Rome. More and more became willing to compromise the eternal Truth for the sake of preserving a temporal kingdom. Furthermore, the negotiations were of such unexpectedly long duration that the Greek delegates no longer had means to support themselves; they began to suffer from hunger and were anxious to return home. The Pope, however, refused to give them any support until a ‘Union’ had been concluded. Taking advantage of the Situation and realizing the futility of further debates, the Latins used their economic and political advantage to bring pressure on the Orthodox delegation, demanding that they capitulate to the Roman Church and accept all her doctrines and administrative control. St. Mark stood alone against the rising tide which threatened to overturn the ark of the true Church. He was pressured on all sides, not only by the Latins, but by his fellow Greeks and the Patriarch of Constantinople himself. Seeing his persistent and stouthearted refusal to sign any kind of accord with Rome under the given conditions, the Emperor dismissed him from all further debates with the Latins and placed him under house arrest. By this time St. Mark had fallen very ill (apparently suffering from cancer of the intestine). But this exhausted, fatally ill man, who found himself persecuted and in disgrace, represented in his person the Orthodox Church; he was a spiritual giant with whom there is none to compare. Events followed in rapid succession. The aged Patriarch Joseph of Constantinople died; a forged document of submission to Rome was produced; Emperor John Paleologos took the direction of the Church into his own hands, and the Orthodox were obliged. to renounce their Orthodoxy and to accept all of the Latin errors, novelties, and innovations on all counts, including complete acceptance of the Pope as having ‘a primacy over the whole earth.’ During a triumphant service following the signing of the Union on July 5, 1439, the Greek delegates solemnly kissed the Pope's knee. Orthodoxy had been sold, and not merely betrayed, for in return for submission, the Pope agreed to provide money and soldiers for the defense of Constantinople against the Turks. But one bishop still had not signed. When Pope Eugenius saw that St. Mark's signature was not on the Act of Union, he exclaimed, ‘And so, we have accomplished nothing!’ The delegates returned home ashamed of their submission to Rome. They admitted to the people: ‘We sold our faith; we bartered piety for impiety!’ As St. Mark wrote: ‘The night of Union encompassed the Church.’ He alone was accorded respect by the people who greeted him with universal enthusiasm when he was finally allowed to return to Constantinople in 1440. But even then the authorities continued to persecute him. At length he was arrested and imprisoned. But whatever his condition and circumstances, he continued to burn in spirit and to battle for the Church. Finally he was liberated and, following his example, the Eastern Patriarchs condemned the False Union and refused to recognize it. The triumph of the Church was accomplished-through a man exhausted by disease and harassed by the wiles of men, but strong in the knowledge of our Saviour's promise: ‘...I will build My Church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it’ (Matt. 16:18). St. Mark died on June 23, 1444, at the age of 52. This great pillar of the Church was a true ecumenist, for he did not fear to journey to Italy to talk with the Roman Catholics, but more importantly, neither did he fear to confess the fullness of the truth when the time came.” 1. Through the prayers of our father among saints, Mark of Ephesus, O Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us and save us! Amen. 1. Archimandrite Amvrossy (Pogodin)

[peridans]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌   —   a drabble for @pefensea

It is strange to think of a life you never had. The paths one has taken are few of thousands, all the choices sprawled out onto a tree of fate. Some are aware of their steps down life's cobblestones; others keep walking freely, perhaps fearful of what would happen if they looked back on all the wrong choices they have made. 

Choosing to stay in Archenland and marry a Lady of his father's choosing was most certainly the worst decision of Peridan's life.

Being alone in a culture he did not know, immersed in a language he barely spoke, thrust into the arms and bed of a woman he hadn't met until the day before their union, jolted the colt to stand on his own two legs — struggling tirelessly to understand how to function. Quite frankly, the mountains provide a suitable barrier between himself and the rest of the world. The snow haunts him for months at a time every year and sometimes, if he closes his eyes for long enough, it feels as if nothing had ever changed. In those quiet winter moments, he is safe… and not imprisoned by icicles, deadly, above his head.

(Confronting those awful Narnian memories seem too much to bear… too real to comprehend. How unbearable seeing Castle Blaenau would be! How quickly those nightmares would soon plague his mind!)

Staying away soon becomes an easy way to forget. 

Starting anew came with the fresh experience of wedding Lady Midith on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, upon which he was immediately raised from Prince of Nowhere to a Duke of the realm. That courtesy, of course, presides with marrying into Archen royalty — her ladyship being the King's cousin — alongside having royal Narnian blood himself. All has appeared exactly as standard in those years since, except for one thing: Peridan does not love Midith and she does not live him either. Peridan is fond of describing it as an unyielding loyalty, a fierce kinship — not romantic love. He must do his duty, she must do hers, and suddenly they function as efficiently as the clock mechanics of delicate Calormene birds. Whatever romantic love may have to do with their union, neither have come to regard it particularly highly. Enjoying one another’s company simply suffices. If eight years of marriage can prove anything, it is that.

“Does His Grace wish to convene with our Narnian visitor separately?” An Archen Lord asks during a council meeting with the King as the breach of summer glitters through dew-dropped window panes. Lord Domin raises his lips at a sharp angle as spectacles slide down his nose. “After all, it has been a while since you have met with one of your own, is it not?”

Peridan, adorned with rich, heavy clothing and a coronet quite befitting for a man of close regard to the King, only shifts on his chair. Talk of Narnia and Queens across the mountain border does not settle well; his brows furrow in feigned disinterest. Between the stern glances of elderly Lords and the meek glare of the young squire who scribbles down the minutes of each member’s drivel, every second confirms the skill of the eyes keen in unseating the foreign presence at their high table.

“I wouldn’t say it is a priority, my Lord.”

Another great Lord pipes in, “But what healthy young man would pass up such an opportunity? What I would give to herald a private audience with the most beautiful woman in all the known world!”

“You speak of a Queen, my Lord.”

And one more speaks, “A private audience? The woman rejects every suitor who falls at her feet. She’s as good as pure, my friends…! And perfectly ripe for His Grace to take a taste once all the formal business is pushed aside.”

“You forget I am a married man, my Lord.”

Eyes flit over to greet King Lune’s from across the table as a plea for salvation. One word of the mysteries of Narnia and Peridan is hounded like a limping fox in a grand hunt. Blue hues can only find solace in those tired eyes of the King. His heightened figure leans over the cusp of the table to dismiss the petty insinuations of his Lords, raising his voice in defence. With a smile, Peridan seems to be received, and a loud voice cuts through the short gossiping of his council of Dukes and Lords.

“Must I remind you all that we do not meet today to discuss the loss of a Queen’s maidenhood. You have all perused the final letter of Queen Susan and my correspondence,” the King announces, gesturing to a roll of parchment displayed as the centrepiece of the meeting table. “She wishes to visit and discuss the matter of Prince Corin’s temporary fostering, not to seek a suitor or request a man for a more carnal purpose. Though, in retrospect, I do believe Lord Domin’s suggestion to be one of remark. The Duke of Pire is Narnian by birth; it would seem fit for him to act as the chief liaison throughout the negotiations.”

“If it is to your request, then I shall perform the duty with little complaint, Your Majesty,” Peridan says, not looking up from the table as he spoke. A nod of his head sealed the agreement.

“Then you are dismissed, cousin.” The King’s lips shift into a smile of his own, a dip of his head nodding back in satisfaction. “Go and tend to your wife. She must require resolute attention if she is carrying your babe.”

———

“Do you believe the rumour, Peridan? That she is the most beautiful woman in the world?”

A month later and Peridan supports the light grasp of his wife’s at his side. A braid of golden hair brushes the side of his wrist as they wait in Anvard’s towering throne room, the lady's green dress simply accentuating the curve of her stomach. The Royal Physician told them the day before that Duchess Midith mustn’t stay patient for too long until the child is born. One can assume that the long-promised Pire heir is to arrive within weeks and Peridan has not dared to let his wife depart from his presence, rightfully so. He cannot risk losing someone else — not when there is the risk of losing two of his most precious family at once.

“Rumours only spread from truths, though most are often exaggerated.” Swallowing a breath, he tilts his head as lips part. “I suppose we must wait and see for ourselves.”

The very thought of Narnia holding a beautiful Queen within its land sends an unforgiving sense to his mind. Perhaps he does not want to believe it? To be lured into that world of fantasy and magic once again… only to then reap disastrous consequences? What would come of thinking of a Narnian Queen when the last he set his eyes upon was the end of all he had ever loved? Instead of grimacing alongside these treacherous thoughts, he sends his wife a small grin, paired with a squeeze of her hand.

Before long, the sharp pierce of a herald’s call hails through the marbled walls of the hall, a shrill sound met with a heavy sweep of doors five times the height of the tallest courtier. The small crowd pivots to meet the sight of their esteemed guest through the light of the doorway, flanked by half a dozen wolves, a selection of gryphons and a faun leading the assembly to the feet of stairs which pool below a grand throne. Treasured at the centre, as if she were as great as a deity, a tall woman enters. She holds her head high, lavishly designed black hair falling to the ground behind her feet. A ring of golden daisies lay upon her head and, even from the very outskirts of the crowd, all can easily see the deep hazel eyes which catch the sun. For a moment, Peridan convinces himself that the hall has fallen into a sullen silence.

Something dry catches in his throat while he watches the proceedings unfurl. King Lune is the first to greet the Narnian Queen, as expected, both faces alight with a fond smile whilst they converse. Next, the young prince, who fidgets with his fingers and bows with little restraint. Susan receives him with little more than a hand on the shoulder and a quaint smile; though, Peridan supposes this is apt for a formal setting. If the boy is to be fostered into the Royal Narnian household, then he can expect much more than that. The rumours of the arrangement being a product of her choice to dismiss previous requests for her hand are now more evident than ever. Peridan suspects that she is either here as a potential mother figure to the boy or to present herself as a mother to him entirely. Neither hypothesis is without support.

However, his time to speculate is cut short by the approaching presence of the royal family and their most esteemed guest. After a curt nod, he is met.

“The Duke and my cousin, the Duchess of Pire.” The King raises a reassuring glance toward him, his smile broader as he approaches with Queen Susan at his side. “His Grace is of Narnian blood, so I thought it suitable that he leads the negotiations alongside myself during your stay here.”

Susan quirks the curve of her lip. “Is that so?”

“I… Yes, Your Majesty,” Peridan responds, widening his eyes. “I was born and raised in Chippingford. Blaenau Castle was my family’s ancestral home.” Remembering a land that was only submerged in snow cannot be a good claim of remembering it at all. The river was forever frozen over, dewdrops melting on windows beside the hearth, and a thick layer of snow masked the world for as far as you could see. Before the Pevensie Monarchs, that country was a dark and dreary place — he cannot expect this beautiful Queen to think of her beautiful land quite the same way.

But a beautiful Queen must be crowned by her people as the Gentle for reasons other than outward allure alone. Peridan has always been privy to the news crossing the border, stories of the Queen and her siblings protecting the citizens of Narnia no matter the cost. He has not missed the way emissaries fawn over her kindness and charity towards the destitute, nor the efficiency in which she upholds and advances the Narnian coin. For now, he is able to train his eye past the glittering beauty she maintains. There is both a softness and a sternness beneath — most, he assumes, simply refuse to believe that it is there.

The tension falls from his jaw. His steady grip on his wife’s arm loosens. He lingers on the Queen’s gaze momentarily until a soft touch tugs at his elbow.

“Forgive me,” Midith mutters, turning her breath in the direction of her cousin. “The babe is… misbehaving today, I fear. I think it best if we returned to our quarters if their Majesties were to permit it.” Yet no groan passes her lips, nor a clutch to where the child often kicks. Instead, she trails a caress up to her husband’s shoulder, something insistent grasping onto a glare she sends to the two Narnians gracing the room.

“Of course,” Lune intercedes, offering a gentle hand to the Queen beside him. “You must rest if we are to see you at the dance tonight.”

                                   ———

Peridan’s face is red at the thought of her already. Where once he threw aside every thought of associating himself with any Monarch of Narnia, now he revels in the memory of her voice — her charm. Their visitors from the neighbouring land has spent merely three nights under the shelter of Anvard, high in the Archen mountains, and the Duke has barely spared a moment to think about the true matter at hand. Once all the courtesies and courtly manners have concluded, he will be expected to head the task of drawing up a plan for negotiations. Between attending to the Duchess and frequenting King Lune’s displays of international harmony, he has not written a jot of formal planning down.

And when the Queen arrives to hear the intricate details he has formulated…? What a fool he shall seem!

Languishing in his private drawing-room suddenly appears to be his only option for the evening which draws ahead. After all, he must attempt to write at some point unless he wishes to transform into the laughing stock of the council. A man’s reputation is all he has — wasting it on some sort of endless fascination presents too great a risk. Now his work is of the highest priority; rushing it while the sun recedes past the hilltops draws more energy out of him than expected.

Peridan fills a length of parchment with notes on trade and public relations before a sharp rap sounds at his door. He threads a hand through cascading hair and tucks away an overspilling inkpot. Delivering a call to the entrance after every last bit untidiness surrounding him is resolved comes swiftly after.

(The small splattering of ink running up the side of his neck goes unnoticed. The stressed flick of his quill that painted it during his fitful spell of hard work went unnoticed as well.)

“Your Majesty.” Standing so quickly from his desk almost causes an ornament to fly off out of his grasp. “I did not know you were coming. Please excuse the mess.”

“It’s alright,” Susan says. She smiles, and suddenly he feels at ease. “You weren’t to know.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“I believe it is awful that I haven’t spent some time with you as of yet, Peridan. You were born in Narnia — raised in Narnia. As a Queen, it is irresponsible of me to presume you do not wish for  news of your home.”

Observing the light elegance in her expression, Peridan sits and offers in a gesture for her to take the seat opposite. “My title, my wife… my child: I am afraid those things revoke my right to call myself Narnian, no matter my heritage.”

“And when will the child be born?”

She dodges the confession entirely and the fact nearly resorts him to display a shy smile. It has been a long time since anyone has labelled him anything but a foreigner in this country which is not his own. No matter how fiercely he commits himself to the culture, the people, the King, there is always a story behind his name. For the first time, he notices how the Queen gifts him with an identity, yet does not demand they speak of it. The warmth in his heart doubles.

“Soon. Though, I’m sure I will adore the child whenever it arrives,” he says in an afterthought.

“You speak as though it is an uncertainty.”

Suddenly, a flush of colour blooms upon his cheeks. “Not all marriages are blessed with love.” He cannot lie to her, not when there lies a pressure within his heart to avoid lying at all costs. She approaches him with honesty; why should he treat her with any less? Admitting it takes a while, but relieves a weight upon his chest he did not know he held. A second or two gives time to pause. “It is the path I took, but not the one I chose.”

She shifts on her seat, raising an eyebrow. “And what would you have chosen? If you had the liberty to pick whichever you wished, whatever you could imagine?”

“I would have returned to Narnia the minute I heard the battle had been fought and won. I would have fought in the battle if I could.” Just for a brief moment, he pulls an earnest gaze up to her own — the colour of her eyes his window into a world which could have been. “I would go home.”

[jamesvehrlinger]

The Pit Past The Stars

As a child, I spent so many nights staring up at the stars. I traced their lines and their movements, so much so that as the years went by, I began to predict them. Every night, creeping away and out onto the roof to watch them again. In those years, I wanted nothing more than to visit them. No, even one would be more than enough. I wanted to touch the shell of the heavens that encased the Earth, and shatter it with a closed fist. 

No one could have predicted the infinity drive’s invention. Born of a freak accident, the union of nine particules, creating an infinitely scaling wealth of energy. With it, humanity could sling themselves across the cosmos in a fraction of the time thought possible, accelerate toward the heavens unrestrained. 

But our fantasies were all for naught. As soon as my dream had finally come into grasp, red tape encircled me on all sides. Bound by laws and agreements and treaties and cordons, inch by inch they drew me from what I lived for. Instead, the drives were mass produced for war, disallowed for civilian use. The men in suits stood behind their podiums and in front of their crowds, preaching about the expansion of man into space, but only from behind the barrel of the gun. I watched as the stars people used to look at with wonder become distant terrors, looming on the horizon. The heavens were finally within the reach of human hands, and there wasn’t a soul brave enough to reach out and touch it. 

But nevertheless, I continued my excursions onto the roof. Every night I brimmed with frustration- impotent rage against the ties that bound me to the ground. I felt so angry, I began to yell, scream into the sky. Night by night, I spoke out to the stars of my desire to meet them, my wish to walk among the heavens, the frustration that boiled in me at the loss of such an opportunity.  

As these nights continued, I began to search for answers, responses. I spoke to every star, remembering their names, orbits, sisters and brothers. For years I begged the cosmos to acknowledge me.

And soon enough, it did.

When I heard the voice, it was but a whisper. It tickled my eardrums when my screams reached their peak, always just too subtle to make out their message. And so I continued. For days, I yelled into the cosmos. As the voice became louder, I could not discern its origin. It appeared to be coming from everywhere, but at the same time, no where. It was on the night that I finally received the message that I understood.

“Paradiso”.

This was not a message from any one star, not even a star at all. This message came from the black that hung behind them. 

From that night onward, the black spoke to me. It told me things, guided me on my ascension to the heavens. I toiled and toiled, following their directions, until the day I achieved my dream. From the moment I entered the facility, to my boarding of the craft, is extremely hazy. What I do know is that I followed it’s directions. When it told me to walk, I walked. When it told me to wait, I waited. When it told me to kill, I did not hesitate. Rarely, I glanced into the rooms I passed, and what I saw I choose not to remember. Every sight reminded my why I was here, why I must reach salvation. 

The craft sat derelict in the center of an expansive hanged. It’s cockpit, barely large enough for an adult male, was a comfortable fit for me. With the last of my belongings between my legs, I ignited the drive, and felt the craft lurch forward.

This time, again, is hazy. Another period of following directions, evading, fleeing, killing. I chose not to acknowledge the things I did then, it was all to reach salvation. 

When I came to, I had breached the blockade around Earth. The farther I traveled, the more I accelerated, and one by one the pursuing ships dropped away. As I tore through the solar system, I observed the other planets that called it home. I cast a wayward glance toward the neighbors I’d fawned over, and set my sights into the beyond. 

The first star I passed called to me. It’s voice a mere whisper to the dark’s beckoning call. I felt a piece of the child within me reach out to it, but I turned away. As I accelerated more and more, the whispers became fainter and fainter, until all that remained was the dark,

I do not know for how long I traveled, but eventually I stopped passing stars. I had long since run out of fuel for the accelerator, and was using fumes to keep myself on track. At some point, I entered the threshold. It swirled me in it’s chaos, the heat and tenacity of a newly born existence. It was when I crossed it that I knew I was drawing near. 

When I came upon it, I did not know what to do. Behind me, creation gave way to endless night, an eternal wave crashing into the immaterium. I paused for a moment, and felt the full weight of the dark bear onto me. 

“Climb”.

With what little fuel I had conserved, I forced the accelerator as high as it went. The craft rocketed into the dark, and holding my outstretched fist, I smashed a hole in the shell of the heavens. 

As soon as I crossed, I began to decelerate. I had hit into something, but it was far too dark to tell. It was not long before I grinded to a halt. Looking behind me, I saw the tear I had created in the wave, Space from within it expanded, but the tear did not move towards me. Turning forward again, the dark made itself known. From all directions, it spoke to me, its pure volume shaking me to the core. It congratulated me on my long journey, and thanked me for my obedience, now because of the part I played, all that was dark could return to the dark. Millions of creatures began to rove across the cockpit of the vessel, their bodies smacking against it, leaving streaks of an infinitely dark, viscous material. I followed their movements with my eyes, and watched them funnel out into the universe from behind. Over their silhouettes, I watched as the space beyond began to contract. Slow at first, but like the vessel, gained in speed with every passing moment. 

I do not know how long it has been since I arrived here, I have stopped looking back to see when the dark reclaims the Earth. Perhaps it already has. In any case, I have spent the time here musing on my life, my actions. I realize now from where the dark crept in. The smallest fracture, the most minor chink in the armor. Desperation. The black preyed on my desperation to reach something higher. To be something more. I thought escape would make more so much, I thought escape would make me God.

But here I am, a refugee, stranded in the pit past the stars, with only the dark to keep me company.

[serpentqueenz]

Just Wanna Be Yours | Ch. 4

Jughead Jones x Veronica Lodge

Summary: She points to the entrance of the clubhouse, where Archie Andrews stands nursing a warm beer and looking a hell of a lot like he’s just seen a ghost, cheeks gaunt, eyes dark. “Don’t start, Jughead.” Veronica moves Jughead’s face to look at her. “Hey, you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he lies, snatching a bottle of whiskey off the ground by his feet. “I just wish you were with me all the time.”

She sighs and pats his cheek as he takes a swig. “I wish we were together all the time too, Jug.”

He’s like a sinner searching for a baptism when he watches her walk away.

Warnings: slight smut, angsty af dark!Juggie

Author’s Note: again, a flashback of sorts. The root of their forbidden love 😈

XXXXX

It’s two punches in a row, a heart-beat-moment, cracking-split knuckles. Jughead Jones hears the sipping of whiskey straight from the bottle, alcohol sloshing and the cheer from the crowd.

He flexes his fingers and the middle knuckle splits upon flexion. Four more slaps, the groan of Fangs to his right who’s glistening in a purple-soft-tinged sunset. Five more smacks and a cry of pride comes from Fangs, spit flying from is mouth when he cries out for his the new kid.

The new kid who’s from Greendale and is trying to make a name for himself in Southside stands before him. Jughead centers himself.

This is it, he knows it. The one that will make or break the new kid. He can smell the fear in the air, and even behind the new kid’s bruised eyes, Jughead looks in them and he rolls his own when he notices tears.

Jughead rubs his split knuckles, cracks his hands back before spitting on the ground by his feet and kicking the dirt. “What’s the first law again?” Jughead drawls pulling back his fist.

The new kid stumbles from foot to foot; Jughead finds satisfaction in this;, he was sixteen only a couple years ago and he remembers the beaten-induced high and the adrenaline pulsating through his body, keeping him up. He’s got pride in the new kid; at least he’s still standing.

As long as you’re still standing, Jughead knows, you’ll be okay.

The new kid coughs blood onto the ground and wipes his mouth, he almost falls but his guts and passion keeps him up; Jughead remembers the feeling.

“You can do it, kid!” Fangs says, throwing his fist to the air. “Say it!” he calls to the newest serpent.

“A Serpent never shows cowardice,” he mumbles to his Leader.

Jughead nods and swings his right fist with the Southside ring on his index finger, and almost in slow motion, he sees the new kid’s jaw move inside his skin, purple hues on his bruised and bloodied face, teeth chattering against each other and Jughead’s fist makes it’s union, joints pushing back and tendons shaking.

Veronica’s heels sink into the earth as she makes her way across the grass, jacket in hand with the Snake glowing under set sun. She gives Jughead a wink as she drapes the new kid’s new jacket on his shoulders.

Jughead looks around at his club, Sweet Pea stands shoulder to shoulder with his own father; FP wears pride in his eyes and Sweet Pea’s half-filled bottle of whiskey is held in the air. Jughead knows he’s living up to the legacy, climbing mountains here in Southside.

Fangs carries the new kid on his shoulders back to the Whyte Wyrm, smile contrasted against his red right fist created by punching the new kid himself.

Veronica continues to sink with sharp heels on as she walks up to Jughead, inspecting his beat up hand with the too many scars and dislocated fingers. “You’re just like them,” she tells him, eyes shooting up to FP who was looking down on the newest members of their gang. “The bad part of Riverdale, huh?”

He sighs and looks down to the ground. “That was a hard one, Veronica,” he says out of breath. “I don’t know how many punches I could have thrown.”

“Will it ever get easier though?” she laughs. “You can stay here in the bad part of Riverdale or you could come and join us Lodges in the shady part of Riverdale, rub shoulders with the con artists,” she says with a wink. Jughead knows Veronica has her own demons, being her parents and their connection with the Serpents on the dirty business side of things.

He feels a sickness in his guts, a badness in his bones. Initiations were something his dad had promised would get easier but there’s been five now and they seem to get a little harder. “I’ll stay here,” he mumbles. “We better get inside before they start hunting down their Queen Serpent.”

Veronica laughs out loud and punches Jughead’s shoulder. “You’re the youngest King of Southside and already running the joint,” she says, trying to cheer him up. “But I’m not your Queen.”

“Hmm? I don’t believe that you’d let someone else wear that crown,” he sounds, checking out the state of his knuckles. “If not you, then who is it?”

She points to the entrance of the clubhouse, where Archie Andrews stands nursing a warm beer and looking a hell of a lot like he’s just seen a ghost, cheeks gaunt, eyes dark. “Don’t start, Jughead.” Veronica moves Jughead’s face to look at her. “Hey, you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he lies, snatching a bottle of whiskey off the ground by his feet. “I just wish you were with me all the time.”

She sighs and pats his cheek as he takes a swig. “I wish we were together all the time too, Jug.”

He’s like a sinner searching for a baptism when he watches her walk away.

XXXXXX

He watches her in the light of the club house. She still laughs like she’s part of everything that he is and Jughead can hear it acutely above every other noise in here. Above ACDC, above Smoke on the Water and Immigrant Song or Pink Floyd. He can hear her laugh and wonder why the fuck she’s laughing in the first place when she’s made it clear that she was here with Archie.  

He slams a glass on the counter-top which earns him a growl and scowl from Mika, “Sorry,” Jughead mutters. “Another whiskey.”

“Don’t give him another whiskey, Mika,” Archie argues. “He can come home and sleep it off with me.”

“I’m not sleeping with you, Arch,” Jughead groans, rubbing his temples and taking that fucking whiskey from Mika anyways.

“I’m not getting in between this,” Mika says, sauntering away.

Archie frowns and shakes his bottle of beer seriously. “You seemed okay not long ago, Juggie.”

He remembers Archie’s fingers on Veronica’s hip. “What?” Jughead snaps, “Is this a lovers quarrel or something?”

Archie shrugs. “Well I love you if that counts for anything…”

Jughead pauses and thinks on it. He loves his best friend, it’s been him, Archie, Betty and Veronica for a long time and he knows Archie’s love definitely counts for something. “Thanks.”

“What’s wrong?” Archie asks. “Initiating people into the Serpents starting to drain you?”

Jughead wants to tell his best friend the truth; he’s sucked dry, soul empty, fucking sick in the pit of his stomach and watching these guys faces contort in pain, almost begging for salvation has made him drip blood he shouldn’t have to lose. But this was the world he was born into, in the fucking snake pit. “Something like that?” he answers. But he wants to tell him that now that he’s almost in charge, initiations aren’t the worst thing he’s had to do.

He watches dark hair sway at the pool table, plump lips that smack together and then she bites them on the right side, a nervous twitch. He’s saved in the thought that she hasn’t changed. “You’re looking for Betty, aren’t you?” Archie replies quietly. “I asked her why she wasn’t coming back here but-” Jughead cuts him off.

“But then you probably figured that she didn’t want to be part of this?” Jughead drawls. “But then I guess she’s never really been in with the Serpents, has she?”

Jughead regrets snapping at Archie, but he also knows that Archie’s kindness was his weakness and if there’s something that shouldn’t be given out freely around here’s, it’s kindness. Jughead knows what kindness gets you and it’s a bite in the neck. “Just because you guys are going through some stuff doesn’t mean anything, Jug. You’re still part of our family….” A fucked up family, Jughead thinks.

Jughead respects Archie’s way of thinking, but Archie hasn’t been part of his zone in a long time. Brothers-turned-strangers is something that hangs on to the tip of Jughead’s tongue. “Speaking of family…” Jughead presses, changing the subject. “How’s your dad?”

Archie huffs as he notices Jughead’s change. “Happy because he gets me to do his book work…” Archie explains. “Legit work.”

“But yet you still have enough time to spare us people who aren’t so legit, what are you, a Robin Hood or something?”

“I don’t know what you mean…”

“I mean you’re offering we peasants your time, Arch, and that to me is a lot.”

Jughead feels Archie’s eyes on him and a sigh. He lights a cigarette and watches the ease of fluidity in front of him, the way Veronica still suits leather even if it doesn’t have a snake on the back, hoop earrings swinging when she throws her head back, the way her small hands smack Sweet Pea’s chest. “Go and see her, Jug. She hasn’t changed. She’s still Betty.”

Jughead inhales his cigarette, letting the stress wash out and flicks the ash in the ashtray. He knows she’s not the same Betty. And she hasn’t been for a long time. She hasn’t been since she decided she was too good for this place, but maybe she is, he thinks. Maybe she’s too good for this place, she was so much better than him. Because all he is, is a fucked up darkness who stays in his pit. He’s paid the price of Southside, and he thinks he might have paid the price in losing her too. He never lost her though, did he? The slow-steady-disconnect started when he knew they didn’t have anything in common. The way touches seem so light-as-air and foreign. It had been two years of descent.  “Have you seen Cheryl?” Jughead asks.

Archie shakes his head. “Nah, why?”

He wants to erase the sound of Veronica’s laugh above the music and the exact smell of her fucking hair.

Jughead takes another drink of his whiskey and stubs out his cigarette, blowing smoke right in Archie’s face, making him cough. “I just need to get out, maybe I could hang with Cheryl and T tonight.”

Archie cringes. “What about Betty?”

“You’re right,” he mumbles. “What about her?”

He knows he’s fucking disgusting. He’s always known. But the soul he’s searching for was the one who had pretended to be connected with his best friend for the last two years.

XXXXX

Cheryl brushed him off and decided she was too busy tonight so instead he had found himself in the back room of the Whyte Wyrm puffing a cloud of smoke from a blunt he had rolled; anything to make a quick escape.

He leans back on the wall as he sits on a chest of drawers and closes his eyes. “Still the same place as always, huh?”

The voice is acid-trip like when it rings through his ears and even though he can barely comprehend what she’s saying, missing every word, he takes another hit as he keeps the sound of her voice in his mind. “You found me, huh?” he sniggers. “Must have been super hard to find me in here,” he adds sarcastically,.

Veronica rolls her eyes and kicks her feet along the floor when she makes her way to the chest of drawers. She balances on her palms and lifts herself on top with a jump. He doesn’t want to, but he smells her, mint and menthols with minty-fresh chewing gum. Her hair brushes on his hand and he offers her the blunt which she takes from him. “Hey baby,” she says with a draw in. Love inhales with her whole heart.

She holds in the smoke and hands the blunt back, he laughs deeply to himself. “Archie lets you smoke?” he chuckles, knowing he doesn’t. “Oh Love, since when did you let anyone rule you?”

She shakes her head and lets go. “He doesn’t know I’m here,” she answers.

They sit in silence, two quiet minutes in which he feels like the moment is a prayer. He prays for a lot of things, Veronica included. Metaphorical hands and knees. Lost-love-touches.  “Why did you come back then?” he asks her.

He looks down at his hands, bloodied and bruised and giving the gift of Southside Serpents to the new kid. But he feels Veronica’s eyes on his hands too. “I missed you,” she whispers.

“Then come back to me?” he asks with a scoff. “It’s not hard.”

“It’s not hard?” she snaps, flicking the tops of his knuckles with sharp nails. “How can you say that? You’re out here smoking a blunt with a fucked up hand because you just joined up some poor kid, Jughead. Don’t tell me this isn’t fucking hard!”

She shakes a little next to him with her nails scratching the top of the wooden drawers but he ignores looking at her, he doesn’t have to.

He remembers the beauty of her, the smoothness of her skin, her nose, her swollen lips and the taste of them. The taste of her, the feeling of his tongue on her fucking skin. He remembers, but in his memory, she only tastes like poison and sadness. A drug. He needs another fucking hit. Dark-stolen-love, he knows.

“It isn’t hard,” he argues feebly.

She laughs with malice laced in it. “It’s hard watching you like this when I know you could be more. But you’ve always taken the easy way out and this is it,” she says, raising her hands to the room. “Southside is fucked up and you and I are still right here in the thick of it.”

Veronica makes Jughead feel like she was a black-sunrise in his heart, harsh kisses, scratched back as she whispers sweet words. She’s a fucking punch to his jaw as she mentions Archie. She’s in his zone and that’s the only thing that keeps him here. Sporadic moments that they can share.  

Jughead’s nothing but dark blood. Split knuckles. But he’s everything he’s ever wished to be when Veronica is around.

He kicks off the top of the drawers and stands in front of her. His flannel hangs from gaunt hips and his shirt is discarded on the floor along with Southside. He’s bare, hat off, pride in the dirt where the new kid almost fell to pieces. “This is me, love!” he almost shouts, smacking his hand to his chest. “This is it! Me in the flesh! You know that, you’ve known that as long as we’ve known each other!” he calls. “Betty is draining me, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t without you!”

Veronica doesn’t flinch like other people may have. She doesn’t shed tears like Betty does when they talk. He almost thinks she’s going to spit at his feet but instead she stands up too, pride in her eyes, he can see it even when she doesn’t reach his shoulder. She looks up, fire-burnt irises. She doesn’t stand down to a snake, she especially doesn’t stand down to him. “I know who you are, Jughead,” she spits, “You don’t have to remind me!”

He groans in frustration, gripping on to his head, squeezing his eyes shut but he feels her hands on his face, smoothing over cheekbones. He falls straight into her, lips crashing on hers and she doesn’t fight, she lets him in with her tongue battling with his and her moan stopping only in his throat, he swallows it down as he shoves her jacket off her shoulders.

He sucks in the flesh of her neck, moves long hair to the side so he can bite down. Veronica unbuckles his belt and snaps it hard, letting the sound ring and ring through the room, she slams it against the wooden drawers, making Jughead flinch as he unclasps her bra.

Veronica’s hands are quick, letting Jughead’s denim fall to the ground and they get bunched up around his boots, but Jughead is starving; two souls starving. She rips her stockings down, moving her plaid skirt up around her hips, shirt ripped to the side but she’s ready.

He spins her around, locks wrists on the drawer in front of her with his hands handcuffing her. Her low pitched groan as he pumps and slides into her from behind sings familiar; a song that’s taken him higher than anything he’s ever taken before, he’s higher than high right now, but he’s home.

Jughead’s head falls back and heavy on his shoulders, he moves unceremoniously, without rhythm but almost as if they’re in tune. Love takes me with my whole heart, he knows.

But at some point, he notices they’re in a dark, smoky room of the clubhouse with his denim jeans bunched on his legs and he’s sinking himself further into a girl who was definitely not his as a sweat bead rolls off his forehead. It’s messy, it’s stolen and the sound the drawer makes as it smacks against the wall and his wet skin slapping against her wet skin sounds desperate. She leans back to kiss him. His chest tighten, his throat needs clearing.

He hasn’t felt so good in three weeks since he last saw her and slammed her against the wall of her apartment.

He knows he’s not better than who he is inside. But he knows she doesn’t try to change him and that was something Betty couldn’t ever give him.

But if he’s fucked up then she’s still that everything that he wants to have forever.

He’s fucking trapped under her.

Jughead says Veronica’s name as he feels so fucking good inside her. He hates himself.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Gospel Reading , Commentary and Homily for Thursday, January 24, 2019 - Roman Catholic - Mark 3: 7 -12

7. But Jesus withdrew Himself with His disciples to the sea: and a great multitude from Galilee followed Him, and from Judaea, [p. 57]

8. And from Jerusalem, and from Idumaea, and from beyond Jordan; and they about Tyre and Sidon, a great multitude, when they had heard what great things He did, came unto Him.

9. And He spake to His disciples, that a small ship should wait on Him, because of the multitude, lest they should throng Him.

10. For He had healed many; insomuch that they pressed upon Him for to touch Him, as many as had plagues.

11. And unclean spirits, when they saw Him, fell down before Him, and cried, saying, “Thou art the Son of God.”

12. And He straitly charged them that they should not make Him known.

Bede, in Marc., 1, 15: The Pharisees, thinking it a crime that at the word of the Lord the hand which was diseased was restored to a sound state, agreed to make a pretext of the words spoken by our Saviour.

Wherefore it is said, “And the Pharisees went forth, and straightway took counsel with the Herodians against Him, how they might destroy Him.”

As if every one amongst them did not greater things on the sabbath day, carrying food, reaching forth a cup, and whatever else is necessary for meals. Neither could He, Who said and it was done, be convicted of toiling on the sabbath day.

Theophylact: But the soldiers of Herod the king are called Herodians, because a certain new heresy had sprung up, which asserted that Herod was the Christ. For the prophecy of Jacob intimated that when the princes of Judah failed then Christ should come; because therefore in the time of Herod none of the Jewish princes remained, and he, an alien, was the sole ruler, some thought that he was the Christ, and set on foot this heresy. These, therefore, were with the Pharisees trying to kill Christ.

Bede: Or else he calls Herodians the servants of Herod the Tetrarch, who on account of the hatred which their lord had for John, pursued with treachery and hate the Saviour also, Whom John preached. [p. 58]

It goes on, “But Jesus withdrew Himself with His disciples to the sea;” He fled from their treachery, because the hour of His passion had not yet come, and no place away from Jerusalem was proper for His Passion. By which also He gave an example to His disciples, when they suffer persecution in one city, to flee to another.

Theophylact: At the same time again, He goes away, that by quitting the ungrateful He might do good to more, “for many followed Him, and He healed them.”

For there follows, “And a great multitude from Galilee, &c.” Syrians and Sidonians, being foreigners, receive benefit from Christ; but His kindred the Jews persecute Him: thus there is no profit in relationship, if there be not a similarity in goodness.

Bede: For the strangers followed Him, because they saw the works of His powers, and in order to hear the words of His teaching. But the Jews, induced solely by their opinion of His powers, in a vast multitude come to hear Him, and to beg for His aiding health.

Wherefore there follows, “And He spake to His disciples, that they should wait, &c.”

Theophylact: Consider then how He hid His glory, for He begs for a little ship, lest the crowd should hurt Him, so that entering into it, He might remain unharmed.

It follows, “As many as had scourges, &c.”

But he means by scourges, diseases, for God scourges us, as a father does His children.

Bede: Both therefore fell down before the Lord, those who had the plagues of bodily diseases, and those who were vexed by unclean spirits. The sick did this simply with the intention of obtaining health, but the demoniacs, or rather the devils within them, because under the mastery of a fear of God they were compelled not only to fall down before Him but also to praise His majesty.

Wherefore it goes on, “And they cried out, saying, Thou art the Son of God.”

And here we must wonder at the blindness of the Arians, who, after the glory of His resurrection, deny the Son of God, Whom the devils confess to be the Son of God, though still clothed with human flesh.

There follows, “And He straitly charged them, that they should not make Him known.”

For God said to the sinner, “Why does thou preach my laws?” [Ps 50:16] A sinner is forbidden to preach the Lord, lest any one listening to his preaching should follow him in his error, for the devil is an evil master, who always mingles false things [p. 59] with true, that the semblance of truth may cover the witness of fraud.

But not only devils, but persons healed by Christ, and even Apostles, are ordered to be silent concerning Him before the Passion, lest by the preaching of the majesty of His Divinity, the economy of His Passion should be retarded. But allegorically, in the Lord’s coming out of the synagogue, and then retiring to the sea, He prefigured the salvation of the Gentiles, to whom He deigned to come through their faith, having quitted the Jews on account of their perfidy.

For the nations, driven about in divers by-paths of error, are fitly compared to the unstable sea. [ed. note: see Cyprian, Ep. 63, also Augustine, City of God, Book 20, 16]

Again, a great crowd from various provinces followed Him, because He has received with kindness many nations, who came to Him through the preaching of the Apostles. But the ship waiting upon the Lord in the sea is the Church, collected from amongst the nations; and He goes into it lest the crowd should throng Him, because flying from the troubled minds of carnal persons, He delights to come to those who despise the glory of this world, and to dwell within them.

Further, there is a difference between thronging the Lord, and touching Him; for they throng Him, when by carnal thoughts and deeds they trouble peace, in which truth dwells; but he touches Him, who by faith and love has received Him into his heart; wherefore those who touched Him are said to have been saved.

Theophylact: Morally again, the Herodians, that is, persons who love the lusts of the flesh, wish to slay Christ. For the meaning of Herod is, ‘of skin’ [ed. note: pelliceus, see Hier. de Nom. Hebr.]. But those who quit their country, that is, a carnal mode of living, follow Christ, and their plagues are healed, that is, the sins which wound their conscience. But Jesus in us is our reason, which commands that our vessel, that is, our body, should serve Him, lest the troubles of worldly affairs should press upon our reason. __________

Homily:

Today, the baptism by John in the Jordan still recent, we should all remember the kind of conversion of our baptism. We have all been baptized into one Lord, into one only faith, «For we were all baptized by one Spirit into one body» (1Co 12:13). Here we have the ideal of unity: to form a single body, to be a single unity in Christ, so that the world may believe.

In today's Gospel we see that «A large crowd from Galilee followed him» and also «a great number of people» coming from other places (cf. Mk 3:7-8) are surrounding the Lord. And He paid heed to all procuring, without exception, their good. We have to keep this in mind during the Octave of Prayer for Christian Unity.

Let us realize how, throughout centuries, we Christians have divided ourselves into Catholics, Orthodox, Anglicans, Lutherans and a long etc. of Christian confessions. A historic sin against one of the essential points of our Church: its unity.

But, let us face today's eclesial reality. Our bishopric's, our parish's, our Christian group's. Are we really one only thing? Is our type of unity really a motive for conversion of those away from the Church? «that all of them may be one, … so that the world may believe» (Jn 17:21), pleaded Jesus to the Father. This is our challenge. That pagans all over may see a group of believers relate one another, gathering by the Holy Spirit, under the Church of Christ: all the believers were one in heart and mind. (cf. Acts 4:32-34).

Let us remember that, as a fruit of the Eucharist, the unity of the Assembly is to manifest itself along with the union with Jesus of each one of us, as we are fed by the same Bread to be a one and only body. Therefore, what the sacraments stand for, and the grace therein instilled, demand from us gestures of communion towards all others. Our conversion is to the Trinity unit (which is a gift coming from Heaven) and our sanctified task cannot avert the gestures of communion, of understanding, of welcome and forgiveness towards our brothers.

From: www.pamphletstoinspire.com

[destinyimage]

THIS Prayer Draws the Holy Spirit Closer

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If ever you are to truly pray in the Spirit, you must discover this same oneness with the Holy Spirit. All true prayer proceeds from the depths of oneness with God.

Oneness, as I am describing it here, is that flow of the Spirit that is so natural that you don’t even know you’re flowing. Its obedience inspired from such depth that you’re not even aware that you’re obeying. In moments like those, there is no gap of time between when the Spirit speaks and you respond. It just is.

Move your hand. Shift your eyes. Tilt your head. It’s so very natural. There is no thought given, no mechanics to be forced.

It’s just like that. When you realize oneness with the Spirit, it’s as though you are a member of a great body, and the Spirit is the mind that controls even the most subtle of movements. Your movement becomes His movement. Your intent dissolves in God’s will. Your presence and His presence become indistinguishable from one another. Indeed, you are joined with the Lord. And in that union, you find the beginning of true prayer.

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You don’t pray to connect with God; you pray from connection with God.

Desires of the Spirit

From your connection with God comes the desire to pray. In fact, both the desire to pray and the power to pray come from the Holy Spirit within you. All spiritual desires come from the Holy Spirit. Your desire to be like the Lord, your desire to grow in patience, your desire to overcome sin, your desire to know the Word and to pray, your desire to be united with Christ—all of your godly desires come from the Holy Spirit within you.

The sinful nature wants to do evil, which is just the opposite of what the Spirit wants. And the Spirit gives us desires that are the opposite of what the sinful nature desires. These two forces are constantly fighting each other, so you are not free to carry out your good intentions (Galatians 5:17).

The Holy Spirit has desires and intentions. To pray in the Spirit is to agree, in attitude and action, with the Holy Spirit’s desires. To pray in the Spirit is to declare what the Holy Spirit is declaring while sincerely wanting what the Holy Spirit wants. True prayer, in its purest form, is a manifestation of the Holy Spirit’s desire in us. The Holy Spirit desires His desires through us, in us, and for us. He desires on our behalf. This is not the forcing of His will upon us, for we must still choose to act upon His desiring through us.

This is why I love the prayers in the book of Psalms.

Incline my heart unto thy testimonies, and not to covetousness (Psalm 119:36, KJV).

Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and make me willing to obey you (Psalm 51:12).

Bend me to your will, Lord. Incline my heart to your testimonies. Make me willing to obey you. That’s praying in the Spirit. That’s praying the Holy Spirit’s deepest desire. When you pray in the Holy Spirit, agreeing with His prayers for you, transformation takes place. When you pray, you become an agent of the Holy Spirit’s will.

Jesus traveled through all the towns and villages of that area, teaching in the synagogues and announcing the Good News about the Kingdom. And he healed every kind of disease and illness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them because they were confused and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. He said to his disciples, “The harvest is great, but the workers are few. So pray to the Lord who is in charge of the harvest; ask him to send more workers into his fields” (Matthew 9:35-38).

Jesus instructed the disciples to pray for God to send workers into the ministry. Jesus told them to pray for more workers precisely because it was God’s will to send more workers. Jesus stressed that the harvest of souls was ready. The need was urgent. Pressing His disciples to pray, Jesus set them up to become the answer. At the beginning of the very next chapter of Matthew, the Bible says this:

Jesus called his twelve disciples together and gave them authority to cast out evil spirits and to heal every kind of disease and illness. Jesus sent out the twelve apostles with these instructions: “Don’t go to the Gentiles or the Samaritans, but only to the people of Israel—God’s lost sheep. Go and announce to them that the Kingdom of Heaven is near. Heal the sick, raise the dead, cure those with leprosy, and cast out demons. Give as freely as you have received!” (Matthew 10:1, 5-8)

Notice the sequence. The disciples prayed for God to send workers, and then they became the workers God sent. The prayers they prayed caused them to become the answer they requested.

Prayer is not all about receiving; it’s more about becoming. The prayer of the disciples didn’t change the situation, it changed them.

Caught up in the overlap of Heaven and earth, you will find yourself being transformed by your contact with the heavenly dimension. It will change the substance of who you are—nature and character. For every moment you are praying, you are changing, whether you see the immediate evidence of that or not. That’s the power of praying in the Holy Spirit.

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[dfroza]

God our Creator is Love.

and Love is illuminated in the sacred truth of the Scriptures:

“You embraced it not as the fabrication of men but as the word of God. And the word continues to be an energizing force in you who believe.”

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 2nd chapter of the Letter of First Thessalonians:

My dear brothers and sisters, it’s obvious that our ministry among you has proven to be fruitful. And though we had already suffered greatly in Philippi, where we were shamefully mistreated, we were emboldened by faith in our God to fearlessly preach his wonderful gospel to you in spite of incredible opposition.

Our coming alongside you to encourage you was not out of some delusion, or impure motive, or an intention to mislead you, but we have been approved by God to be those who preach the gospel. So our motivation to preach is not pleasing people but pleasing God, who thoroughly examines our hearts. God is our witness that when we came to encourage you, we never once used cunning compliments as a pretext for greed, nor did we crave the praises of men, whether you or others. Even though we could have imposed upon you our demands as apostles of Christ, instead we showed you kindness and were gentle among you. We cared for you in the same way a nursing mother cares for her own children. With a mother’s love and affectionate attachment to you, we were very happy to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our lives—because you had become so dear to us.

Beloved brothers and sisters, surely you remember how hard we labored among you. We worked night and day so that we would not become a burden to you while we preached the wonderful gospel of God. With God as our witness you saw how we lived among you—in holiness, in godly relationships, and without fault. And you know how affectionately we treated each one of you, like a loving father cares for his own children. We comforted and encouraged you and challenged you to adopt a lifestyle worthy of God, who invites you into his kingdom and glory.

This is why we continually thank God for your lives, because you received our message wholeheartedly. You embraced it not as the fabrication of men but as the word of God. And the word continues to be an energizing force in you who believe.

My dear brothers and sisters, the same thing happened to you as happened to God’s churches in Christ Jesus that are in Judea. For you received the same kind of mistreatment from your fellow countrymen as they did from theirs, the Jews who killed both the Lord Jesus and the prophets and ran us out of town. They are offending God and hostile to everyone else by hindering us from speaking to the unbelievers so that they might be saved. By so doing they are constantly filling up to the brim the measure of their guilt, and punishment has come upon them at last!

Beloved friends, we may have been torn away from you physically for a season, but never in our hearts. For we have had intense longings and have endeavored to come and see in your faces the reflection of this great love. We miss you badly, and I personally wanted to come to you, trying again and again, but our adversary, Satan, blocked our way. For what will be our confident hope, our exhilarating joy, or our wonderful trophy that we will boast in before our Lord Jesus at his appearing? It is you! Yes, you are our glorious pride and joy!

The Letter of First Thessalonians, Chapter 2 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 20th chapter of the book of Jeremiah where Jeremiah was wrongfully punished for sharing the words that burned inside that declared God’s Judgment of sin and lies:

When the priest Pashhur (son of Immer, chief officer of the temple guard) heard what Jeremiah was prophesying, he had the prophet beaten and put in the stocks at the upper Benjamin gate near the temple, a place where everyone in the city could see this painful and embarrassing spectacle. The next morning, Pashhur released him from the stocks, hoping Jeremiah had learned his lesson. Instead, this is what he heard from the prophet:

Jeremiah: The Eternal no longer knows you by the name Pashhur. He has renamed you Magor-missabib, which means “terror on every side.” And these are the words the Eternal has spoken of you: “Certainly I am going to make you a symbol of terror—to yourself and to all your loved ones. You will see those close to you die in battle against the enemy. I will give all of Judah over to the king of Babylon, who will make them either casualties of war or prisoners of war. I will also give the wealth of Jerusalem over as plunder to this enemy. The resources and treasures of this city and Judah’s kings will be taken and carted off to Babylon. And you Pashhur, along with your entire household, will be taken to Babylon and become exiles. You and your friends who have heard your lies will never see home again; you will all die in exile in Babylon and be buried there.”

O Eternal, You deceived me into being Your prophet,

and I went along and allowed it to happen!

Your strength is too much for me,

and so You win; I speak Your words.

Just look at what I have become: a laughingstock;

all day long people mock me.

The only words coming out of my mouth

are loud cries of “Violence and destruction!”

It is the Eternal’s words—Your words—

that bring me insults and jokes all day long.

But when I tell myself, I’ll never mention Your name

or speak for You again, it’s no use.

The word of God burns in my heart; it is like fire in my bones.

I try to hold it all in, but I cannot.

I hear the crowds whispering behind my back and mocking my prophecies:

“‘Terror is everywhere we turn,’ he says. Let’s report him for breaking some law.”

Even my trusted friends are waiting for me to make a mistake:

“Maybe he will be deceived,

and then we’ll win, take control, and have our revenge on him.”

But I am not alone. The Eternal is here with me.

He stands beside me, as a dreaded warrior.

That is why my tormentors will fail so miserably. They cannot win.

Their humiliation and permanent dishonor will be remembered for all time.

Eternal, Commander of heavenly armies, You test the righteous;

You see my deepest thoughts; You know my heart.

Let me see Your vengeance exacted against these people.

for I am trusting my cause, my future to You.

Sing to the Eternal God!

Praise the Eternal now for what He will soon do.

For a troubled soul is snatched from the hands of the wicked.

Cursed be the day I was born—

cursed, not blessed is the day my mother gave birth to me.

Cursed be the man who told my overjoyed father,

“You have a son.”

May he be as cursed as the towns of Sodom and Gomorrah,

which the Eternal decimated without a care.

Let him hear cries for help in the morning.

Let him recoil at the shouts of war at noon,

For he did not kill me before I was born

so my mother’s womb would become my grave—

my mother’s womb forever enlarged.

Why was I ever born? To watch such tragedy?

To feel such sorrow? To live my days in utter shame?

The Book of Jeremiah, Chapter 20 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Thursday, September 2 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about being children of our heavenly Father:

"Because you are his children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, crying, "Abba! Father!" (Gal. 4:6). Note here the Spirit does not cry out using “esoteric” or abstruse names for God, nor does the Spirit refer to one of God's many titles based on the divine attributes, but instead uses a term of intimacy and profound trust. After all, the word "abba" (אַבָּא) is not so much a name for God as it is a claim about who you are -- it is a confession that you belong to the Lord as his beloved child... It has been noted that throughout his ministry Yeshua referred to the LORD simply as his "Father" though he used the intensive address "Abba, Father" (Ἀββᾶ, ὁ πατήρ) just before his arrest and crucifixion, that is, during his intercession at Gethsamane (גַּת שְׁמָנִים), near the olive oil press on the Mount of Olives where the anointing oil for the Temple (שֶׁמֶן הַמִּשְׁחָה) was made, and therefore he called upon “Abba, Father” while in deep suffering and tribulation of heart (Mark 14:36). “Take this cup away from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will..." The mixed dialect of Hebrew and Greek here (i.e., Ἀββᾶ, ὁ πατήρ) may indicate identification with both the Jewish people and the Gentiles who would be united in his passion, as it says, shalom shalom la'rachok vela'karov: "Peace, peace, to him who is far off and to him who is near," says the LORD; "and I will heal him" (Isa. 57:19, Eph. 2:15). Knowing God as your "father" is a matter of the heart, an inner cry or groan coming from the miracle of spiritual rebirth. "The Spirit himself bears witness to our spirit that we are God's children" (Rom. 8:16). [Hebrew for Christians]

and another about grace and being connected to the True Vine:

Yeshua said: "I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever lives in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5). We cannot create the new birth by means of moral reformation, since the divine life is a miracle from above and not the result of human agency or aspiration (John 1:13; John 3:6). If we "live in" Yeshua we will bear fruit - our spiritual connection or "union" with him is sufficient for every good work, but only fruit that derives from the life of Messiah will abide (1 John 2:17). Good works are a necessary consequence of regeneration in Messiah, but by themselves they are insufficient and something more is needed (Matt. 7:21-23). Therefore the Scriptures point to the salvation of God and his grace as the efficient cause for the miracle of newness of life: "Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved us..." (Titus 3:5); "for by grace are you saved through faith, and that not of yourselves (τοῦτο οὐκ ἐξ ὑμῶν), it is the gift of God" (Eph. 2:8); "so if it is by grace, it is no longer on the basis of works; otherwise grace would no longer be grace" (Rom. 11:6).

Grace and human effort are mutually exclusive when it comes to life from above: "It is the Spirit that gives life (τὸ πνεῦμά ἐστιν τὸ ζῳοποιοῦν); the flesh (i.e., human nature) is no help at all" (John 6:63). There is a new “center” of identity within the heart: "I is no longer I who live..." (Gal. 2:19-20). We do not appeal to God for mercy based on our best efforts, but like father Abraham we believe that God brings life to the dead. In short we believe that "salvation is of the LORD" (יְשׁוּעָתָה לַיהוָה), that is, that God justifies the ungodly and performs the inner work of salvation on our behalf and for our healing (see Rom. 4:1-5:2). As C.S. Lewis once said in this connection: “The Christian is in a different position from other people who are trying to be good. They hope, by being good, to please God if there is one; or -- if they think there is not -- at least they hope to deserve approval from good men. But the Christian thinks any good he does comes from the Christ-life inside him. He does not think God will love us because we are good, but that God will make us good because He loves us; just as the roof of a greenhouse does not attract the sun because it is bright, but becomes bright because the sun shines on it” (Mere Christianity). However we must not confuse cause and effect. The work of God is to believe in Yeshua (John 6:29) and we then learn to "work out" what God has "worked in" to our hearts by faith, as it says, "work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure" (Phil. 2:12-13). God who has performed a good work in you will "confirm you to the end blameless in the Day of our Messiah Yeshua" (1 Cor. 1:8; Jude 1:24-25). [Hebrew for Christians]

9.1.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

September 2, 2021

My Every Prayer

“I thank my God upon every remembrance of you, Always in every prayer of mine for you all making request with joy.” (Philippians 1:3-4)

The letter to the Philippian church stands as perhaps the most personal of the epistles, with Paul’s love for the believers being obvious. He expressed his love with heartfelt prayer for them every time he thought of them.

These prayers are constant in the sense that the Philippian believers were never far from his thoughts. Often Paul resorted to prayer for their personal needs and their relationship to God. His prayers are described by at least two Greek words of interest to us. First, he tells that he “thanked [his] God” (Greek eucharisteo) each time they came to mind. To another church he similarly wrote, “I thank my God always on your behalf, for the grace of God which is given you by Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 1:4). The word implies a sincere statement of genuine gratitude for their fellowship in being with him in serving God and partnership in the ministry.

Likewise, he used the word “supplication” (Greek deesei), an expression of gratefulness for his needs having been supplied. Paul’s needs were often provided for by those to whom he ministered, and he was profoundly grateful. The Christian minister is enjoined to remember his followers with “joy.” Paul remembered them in thankfulness to God for them and to them for their response.

We should strive to arrive at a balance between our ministry goals in evangelism and ongoing care for believers’ Christian growth and steadfast doctrinal purity. What is the state of our harmony among church members, as well as our prayers for them? JDM

A tweet by illumiNations:

@IlluminationsBT: Meet one of our illumiNations partners - United Bible Societies. Learn more at: unitedbiblesocieties.org

Come back tomorrow to see our upcoming post to learn more about what they're working on in Asia!

9.2.21 • 12:01pm • Twitter