#it's hard to do the kind of delicate precise carving and color work that I like to do on little plates in that!

[chiropteracupola]

Hmmmm.... maybe some plates next time.....

[vohunara]

it's time for Kaveh's present.

without any prior warnings, Al-Haitham has decided to start working on something. it takes him a considerably short amount of time, particulary after borrowing a few blueprints from a scholar expert in these kind of machinations, and a few examples that he can study. then, from here, it's all smooth sailing.

there's plenty of wood that he bought, the delicate mechanism is put in place with a lens clinging to his eye for maximum precision and tweezers and little tools that work wonders for their purposes. little tools that he steals from Kaveh return to their place the evening when he's done, a few minutes before midnight strikes.

along with them, the scribe waltzes in without knocking. immensely rude, disrespectful, full of purpose-

-and with a little, exagonal box in his hands.

he doesn't speak even as he lays it over Kaveh's desk, right in front of the blond. he looks focused, and points at it to catch his housemate's attention pulls the little handle atop of it.

with a smooth motion, he pulls it up.

a double helix greets him, the thinly sliced, pale wood rising in a twirling motion that reveals little silouetthes of colorful dusk birds to follow it almost to the top of the box. their little wings flap until the motion stops, and when it's rewinded by slighty pushing the box down, everything goes in reverse as it flattens to shrink back into the box.

' the holes you see in the structure are to store your pens, brushes, or what you want to carry around. so it has both a purpose, and aesthetic. i thought you might like it- and tomorrow, we'll go get you a proper cake, together. '

he leaves the box open, looking at the structure again before he leans in- lips brush against Kaveh's temple for a moment, teal eyes softening.

' happy birthday, Kaveh. '

      What day is it? One easy to forget, easier to want to forget.

      Celebrating has long been crossed out of the to-do list, and Kaveh would remove it entirely from every calendar within a thousand kilometers radius from him if he could. It is another milestone he's reached that carries no meaning or substantial evidence that he has gotten anywhere in life.

      Forgetting is not a conscious choice so much as it has become a habit. Normalized. So he plunges into everyday activities, focus on deadlines and chores, snaps out of it only through intervention.

      Haitham's intrusion earns nothing more than a side glance that lasts for no longer than a second, his silence is the norm, with Kaveh's lips parting only when the threat of being disturbed becomes too real: ‘ I can't lose focus now, Haitham. ʼ And it's not a complaint more than it's a request that quickly dies at the sight of a box. A pretty container, custom made and interactive.

      It's hard to miss the hand-painted birds spinning and flapping their little wings, the careful carving of the wood and how fresh it still smells, as if just taken out of the workshop. It's not a style he's seen any artist in Sumeru use, yet... it's familiar.

      He pulls the box closer to himself, feeling the wood under his fingertips as he runs them along the box's edges. It's cradled, protected in his hold with the same care al-Haitham presses a kiss to his temple. It clicks, but only makes definite sense once the last words are spoken.

      The reminder rings gentle to him in a way that overturns the resentment marked on the calendar, any focus lost to the warmth of being seen — the architect employs no thought to the act of curling fingers around the edge of his roommate's shirt; it's impulsive, firm while tugging the man closer until he can rest the side of his head to the other's waist. ‘ ...Thank you. ʼ

[bapyess1r]

I Like You A Lot

WARNINGS: cursing and violence

Pairings: Chloe Frazer x Nadine Ross x OC

Tags: @desertvvitch, @courtenbae

A/N: I’m gonna put the “Read More” after work

Chapter 16

Sunny’s POV

“Gaaahh!!” I exclaimed, the girls laughing as I spat out the water that involuntarily splashed into my mouth as I climbed the spectacle of a ruin. Granted it was “clean”, you never really know. We’d finally come across Belur. It was beautiful. More beautiful than Halebidu in my opinion. A hidden underground city clearly fed by the aqueducts, water delicately falling over the cliffs; wild vines grew by the clean, misty air, almost a complete serenity at first glance. That was until a massive explosion sounded, disrupting the natural silence as it rang out through the massive cave. Annoyed, the three of us began to climb in that direction. To the very top. The longer the job went on, the more comfortable I began to get with heights again. Pretty soon, it would be no sweat at all.

I watched the two women climb up to the last platform, Nadine reaching out for me as I was the last to arrive. She pulled me up and patted me on the shoulder with a small smile and we made our way up a set of stairs. Smack dab in the middle was a gorgeous golden sculpture of Shiva, Nandi, and what Chloe thought might’ve been his eldest son. At the top of the stairs was the entrance to where we needed to go next but of course, it had been blown to bits. I cursed to myself and scratched my head in frustration.

“Damn...there’s got to be another way inside…” Chloe said, taking the words right out of my mouth as I looked around the small garden that bloomed in the middle of the area. She shook her head as she walked about, chewing her lip. “They’re trying to slow us down.” she grumbled.

“Well they fucked up. We’ll find a way. We always do…” I said with reassurance as I stared hard at a possible alternative solution to our problem at hand. Smoke was pouring out of a small window nearby. “I wonder….” I grumbled, walking over to it. I climbed up and looked inside. It was a bit hard to see from the smog but it seemed like a decent little tunnel inside. I crawled up and further inside to double check and stuck my head out. “This way, there’s a path here.” I told them and they followed me into the tunnel.

We took the tunnel into a room with a massive pool in the center. Across the way we’re two men, standing guard at the entrance to the next room. Dropping from the high exit, I spotted them. “Damn!” I heard Nadine swear as she and Chloe hopped down behind me. Immediately, I pulled out my .9mm and took aim, pulling the trigger without a second thought. Normally you know what happens when you do that… Which is why I wasn’t at all prepared for what would happen next. A sudden spark erupted from the man; a flash of fire and the loud bang of the explosion absolutely obliterated him, injuring his partner as he was sent head first into the nearby wall and collapsing the entryway in the process. The three of us exclaimed rather loudly, Chloe’s brows raised as Nadine clasped her hands over her mouth. I threw my arms over my head as my jaw dropped, taking a few steps back.

“Holy shit!” I gasped, looking at the crumbled scene.

“Must’ve had a deadman’s switch…”

“Well shit.” I huffed, staring at the pool of water before us. The longer I looked at it, the more I realized how dark the middle of it was. I wrinkled my brows and walked towards it. Another tunnel. I shook my head, blowing out a puff of irritated air. ‘Alright, Spurrs. Guess you’re Michael Phelps now.’ I thought as I dropped to the ground and dipped my legs into the cold fresh water. I shivered a little. We’d been drenched in water for hours and as much as it usually wouldn’t bother me, I was tired of being so pruney. “It’s deeper there in the middle. I’m thinkin’ there’s a passage?” I said. Chloe’s crazy ass… jumps in the water without even a moment of hesitation, swimming as deep as she could.

“Frazer!” Nadine exclaimed, rushing knee deep into the water to look where she’d gone.

“Oh Jesus…” I grumbled looking down after her as I stood. After a couple seconds, she appeared to the surface, gasping for air. She pushed her hair off of her face as she began to tread the water.

“You were right! There’s a light at the end. Looks like a bit of a swim though. Can your lungs handle that, love?” Chloe joked, splashing water at me playfully. Nadine giggled a little and I just nodded my head, fighting off a smile.

“You should be a comedian. This treasure hunter bullshit doesn’t suit you.” I said sarcastically as I joined her in the water.

Just like that, the three of us dove into the less than temperate waters. We swam down until I spotted the breach at the bottom. Nadine and I followed Chloe down the tunnel, pushing ourselves along by the slippery algae covered walls. When we reached the other side we began to swim to the surface. Half expecting Asav’s men, I pulled my gun immediately and pointed at the area before us. When I could tell the coast was clear, we climbed out of the cool waters; wringing out our clothes and hair, wiping off excess water from our faces. Behind the stairs before us was a beautiful stone and gold carving into the wall; women. I didn’t need any more information on that subject. I just felt in my spirit that they had important roles here. Like this was their city. We took the stairs into a shorter hallway. What we found in the next room seemed to take Chloe’s breath away. The ceilings were high and open, letting the sunlight fill the octagonally shaped room. It was light colored stone all around with gold trim, shelves lined around the room stacked tall with dusty artifacts. Moss and grass grew between cracks all over the place. My eyes widened as I looked around, marveled by everything in sight. I let out a loud whistle and picked up a ring that felt like it had been made from solid gold. It was certainly heavy enough to make the assumption...

“Boy, I betcha we could make a pretty penny offa all this….” I mumbled, admiring the green jewel sparkling in its golden bed. Suddenly, Chloe looked at me a moment and snorted.

“Oh God, you even sound like him.” She said, scrunching up her nose as she picked up a stack of thin pieces of wood, examining it briefly.

“Like who?” I asked, crinkling my brows.

“Like Sam.” She said simply. I scoffed in amusement.

“Minus that horrid accent he’s got.” Nadine interjected, snickering as she looked at a few items herself. The girls shared a laugh as I sucked my teeth and tried not to laugh myself, tucking the ring into my pocket before looking around again. There was a little bit of everything; jewelry, instruments, maps, documents, tools and pottery…. It was an interesting little stop n’ shop for me. I kept finding jewelry to take back to my friends and for myself even. I looked over. Chloe’s shoulder as she picked up a lovely piece of pottery. Small but well detailed.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I dunno… powder…? Maybe herbs.” She mumbled. I judged her in the side with my elbow gently, wiggling my brows mischievously.

“What kinda herbs?” I smirked. She put the pot down and shoved me away from her with a chuckle.

“Not those herbs, you pothead!” She said and I snorted as I went to explore more. I ran my fingers across the untuned, rusty strings of a veenar that stood in a corner as an unpleasantly untuned sound echoed in the space. I walked by to pass between the shelves and smack dab in the middle of the room was a beautiful gold and marble sculpture; almost a natural spotlight shone on it, magnifying its beauty even more. My eyes grew the size of plates as my feet seemed to gravitate towards it. Chloe and Nadine came in on the other side, also lost in its beauty. An army of strong golden men, their bodies and shields riddled with arrows as they carried a humongous white marble tusk on their backs.

“I think my new favorite thing is Hoysala art…” I commented. The detail was so exquisite! I’d never been moved by a piece of work until this. Everything we went through almost seemed worth the strife. I watched as Chloe crouched to its level to admire it on its pedestal.

“It’s an altar of some kind.” She commented.

“Looks like the king suffered dearly for his people.” Nadine noted. I nodded as I felt my brows meet in the middle. Chloe stared at it for a moment and as she turned to look at us, I could see the gears turning in her head again. Her bright eyes narrowed as she paced a bit.

“They weren’t just protecting the Tusk…” she began.

“What else would they go through all this fuckery for?” I found myself asking aloud.

“Historians believed it was a symbol of power and dominance but… I reckon they misunderstood…” she said simply, one of her hands began to fidget with a cuticle.

“As most do….” I murmured.

“This tusk…. It was a symbol of their people… a symbol of their culture…” she sighed. I could feel my face twist up as I thought about what these men must’ve gone through for their home.

“So…. ‘For Belur!’ I guess…” I mumbled.

“Precisely…” She said, kicking up dirt with her muddy boots. Nadine bent and placed her hands on her knees to get a closer look at it and blew off a bit of cobwebs and dust from the top of it. Along it we’re a few pieces in a straight line but one seemed to be missing. I narrowed my eyes as I strained them to catch the detailing on the pieces.

“What the…?” I mouthed to myself as Nadine seemed to notice it too. She leaned even closer before shouting out softly.

“Oi! Frazer… these look like that thing you’ve been fiddling with.” She said looking back at her with a look of shock. I huffed out some air in surprise, myself. Chloe frowned as she pulled the small golden figure of Ganesh from her pocket as stared at it sadly for a while. When she was ready, she took a deep breath and walked towards the altar to place it among the others with a shaky hand. I saw her struggling with it so I rose to my feet and placed a careful hand on her shoulder. She let it go and dropped it in its spot; then all of the others seemed to lock into place. A perfect fit. I gasped a little as Chloe let out a vulnerable and shaky sigh, lowering herself to its level. She stared at it intently for a moment then looked at us with a sad expression.

“My dad was here….” She said chuckling faintly, chewing on her lower lip as she tried to find the words that could explain all that she felt. “... ‘Something big’, alright…. God… why didn’t that stupid bastard tell me?” I could see the tears beginning to well up in her bright blue eyes as I squeezed her shoulder. She took a deep breath to gather herself but her voice cracked all the same.

“You said it yourself— He wanted to keep you safe.” Nadine said solemnly, pushing a lock of Chloe’s hair behind her ear. She turned her gaze back to the figures before her and shook her head in disbelief, sitting down on the ground with her back against the altar. Nadine and I took a few steps back to give her some space. She massaged a spot in her temple and chewed on her thumbnail as she wept silently, her hands shaking. Eventually, Nadine knelt down at her side and placed a rough but gentle hand on her forearm, stroking at her tanned and dirty skin. Chloe lifted her head and looked between us both.

“I can’t let Asav get that tusk.” She said to us in a weak voice, but it was brewing with determination. I could feel my brows crinkling again as I nodded, suddenly sharing that same determination. Nadine shook her head and looked her partner deep in her eyes.

“No. No, we can’t.” She said. A smile began to curl on her lips as she looked at her. It was small but grateful. I placed a hand on her knee and squeezed it gently in agreement.

“Thank you…” she whispered to us. Nadine seemed to shake herself off the trance from staring into her eyes for too long and chuckled.

“Thank us after we get out of this alive…” she smirked and Chloe laughed, herself.

“Fair point…” She sniffled, wiping away her tears on her dirty red shirt. With that, the both of us reached out a hand to help her up and she dusted herself off (pointlessly so).

“Don’t forget Ganesh.” I told her, knowing she’d probably want to keep it. Chloe’s brows shot up and she turned around to lift it from its slot. Just then, the wall in front of us dropped slowly, revealing a new entryway.

“Aha… glad I brought this then.” She said with a smile before tucking it away again.

We continued on, climbing, swinging, and swimming until we found ourselves emerging from a bit of clear blue water in front of a massive statue of Shiva. It seemed to be the only thing in the room. All the grandeur of Belur was beginning to hit me now. Everything was just breathtaking and beautifully built and constructed. This statue being another great example. It took awhile to figure it out but between the three of us, we found that all the arms set off channels of water, trailing down two of Shiva’s long arms. Speaking of arms… My arms were burning as I tiredly climbed the hourglass shaped drum. After setting off all the channels, we noticed a level above us that needed exploring. So with curiosity, we aimed to climb higher. The drum suddenly began to rise again to a platform at Shiva’s shoulder. Upon stepping onto the lush grass that grew there, a doorway opened up for us. Nothing seemed to surprise me about Belur anymore. That was until we took the stairs inside. The stairway took us up to a platform atop the statue’s head where a massive gold crank wheel sat.

“That looks promising.” Nadine mumbled as I began to spin the wheel. A rumble sounded and the hands of Shiva came together, pooling water into a gigantic bowl sat before him. Once it was full, a sudden stream of prismed light burst from its forehead. Shiva’s Third Eye. The light shone on a statue across from us as a chandelier began to drop from the high ceiling. “Christ, this is a lot.”

“The Hoysala sure don’t do shit halfway, eh?” I commented, inching myself to the edge of the platform to look down. ‘Fuck— why’d I do that for?’ I thought, taking a deep breath. “Lemme go first so I can get it over with.” I grunted. The girls smirked and stepped back as I pulled on my rope, swinging my wrist around as I aimed for the chandelier. I shook my head nervously, never taking my eye off of the spot I wanted. I let go of the rope and by the grace of god, the grapple hooked onto it. “Lit. Now… the scary part…” I said, tugging on the rope to make sure I wouldn’t fall. ‘Alley oop!’ I heard Sam’s voice say in my head and I shook my head, rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of it. I took a deep breath and stepped off the platform, never letting my grip loosen as my body swung across from the statue to the platform before me. I let go and grabbed onto the edge with a squeal, climbing up to solid ground as quickly as possible. I laid out on the floor and took a massive deep breath. When I looked over, the girls were dancing in place, clapping and cheering like proud parents. I threw a thumbs up and exhaled in exasperation.

“Go, Sunny!” Chloe cheered with a giggle as she readied herself to swing across. I chuckled and rolled over, rising to my feet to look around at the number of statues placed along the platform. I walked up to one, examining it, and noticed the pedestals they stood on were rotatable.

“Hmm…” I said aloud, placing my hands on my hips. I had barely noticed the girls had made it across already.

“What’s ‘hmm’?” I heard Nadine ask.

“If I turn this statue…. do y’all think I’ll die?” I asked stupidly as I turned to face them. They both made various but honest expressions.

“Well… if you did die… it’d make a bitchin’ story at your funeral.” Chloe replied with widened eyes, pursing her lips. I raised a brow and shrugged before stepping up to the pedestal.

“Shit, that’s all I ask.” I said, scrunching up my face as I began to turn the statue. Somehow, I didn’t seem all too worried about dying anymore. I turned it carefully and the colorful light split into two, bouncing off of the prism it held. I gasped suddenly knowing what I had to do. “Do all these statues have mirrors?” I asked.

“Looks that way, yeah.” Nadine replied. I looked at the chandelier we swung on and noticed another prism that sat inside it.

“What are you thinking, China?” Chloe asked.

“All of these beams? Need to meet there…” I gestured with a pointed finger. Chloe smiled and smacked my ass.

“Good work, Sunflower.” She winked at me. Feeling proud, I nodded as we began to split up and divide the work.

It didn’t take very long to do. Most of the statues were turned until it came to one of the last ones. The top half was broken. “Well dag nabbit… Now what?” I huffed. Without even thinking, Nadine climbed the pedestal and picked up the mirror, stone hands still attached to it. I chuckled as she raised the mirror above her head like the others.

“You make a phenomenal statue, Nadine.” Chloe commented as she leaned on the pedestal to admire her. Nadine blushed and averted her gaze to me.

“Hurry up and finish this. This thing’s heavy.” She said as Chloe stepped back to take a picture. “Really?” She huffed. I grinned, giggling a little as I ran over to the final statue. It had to be rolled to meet the beam and positioned just right. “Be careful, Spurrs! That ledge doesn’t look sturdy.” She told me. And she was right. It was already leaning down a little too much for my liking. But I sucked it up and stepped onto it slowly, holding my breath like it was going to magically make me weightless or something. As soon as the statue was positioned properly, another rumble sounded.

“Well that did somethin’...?” I said, not really quite sure if something indeed happened.

“So I can put this down now?” Nadine asked.

“Um…. yes?” I answered, making a face. That thing must’ve been heavier than it looked.

“Wait! Not yet!” Chloe shouted, running over to my side to see what was going to happen.

“What’s happening? I can’t see from here!” Nadine asked as the two of us watched all the beams strike the prism in the chandelier and form one singular beam that pointed towards the bowl of water before Shiva. I shook my head in confusion, placing my hands on my hips as I looked to Chloe for the answers.

“All this water… It’s a cleansing ritual.” She mumbled. Luckily I was close enough to hear her.

“What’s happening?!” Nadine asked again.

“Oh! You can put the mirror down now—”

“SHIT THEY’VE FOUND US!” Nadine exclaimed as I heard a door by the ledge across the room open up.

Acting quickly, the two of us ran off of the platform. But before I could step off of the ledge to follow her, I heard a loud whistle coming my way. I stopped to turn and see a ball of fire flying towards me. “SHIT!” I exclaimed, pushing my legs as fast as I could but the warhead hit the ground I stood on and began to lean. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I swore as the ground began to slip from beneath me. Chloe reached out for me but I’d already slipped and began to roll. The statue rolled the same direction I did and right off of the ledge. I was headed the same way. Soon as my body began to fall, I felt Chloe’s hand grab hold of my wrist. She pulled me up as fast as she could and I followed her across the breaking ledge to “safety”. I could hear Nadine’s gunfire and I immediately took cover behind a wall, pulling on my gun. I lifted my head and closed my eyes to give myself half a second before jumping out to shoot the men accosting us, powering through without stopping. The three of us took them out one by one, heading for the door they’d just come out of. We could get out that way. For a moment, I was sure we’d made it home free until another warhead hit and the ledge beneath our feet crumbled. Chloe hung off the edge and I held Nadine’s arm as she reached out for her partner.

“HURRY! TAKE MY HAND!” She shouted.

“I’M TRYING!” Chloe cried out, her voice straining as she stretched her arm as far as she could. She was almost there, their fingertips brushing against each other’s. I leaned forward a bit to give Nadine a little more leeway when the ledge broke off completely. The three of us screaming for dear life as we all came crashing down. The water hit my skin like hot fire as I fell in. My skin stung and my body ached, yet I still had no time to think. I had to swim around the dark waters to avoid the falling debris. When I popped my head to the surface, I began to look around for the girls, swimming to land. I could hear faint splashes behind me and painful groans. Suddenly, I wasn’t panicking so much. I crawled onto solid ground, my body feeling heavy as I coughed and heaved, dragging my body along. I wiped the excess water from my eyes and opened them to be met with a couple pairs of dirty heavy boots. I sighed dramatically as I felt a pair of hands grab me by my sore arms and cuff my wrists. When I looked up, the girls were being cuffed as well and Asav stood before the three of us with an amused smirk.

“Well that was quite the fall. You had me worried!” He smiled sarcastically. That smile faded rather quickly as he tucked away his gun. “Come. It’s time for a reunion.” He said and his goons dragged us away, following him to the bowl before Shiva. Already sitting there, tied up and pitiful (but safe), was Samuel Drake. His long arms cuffed behind him as well. His bright blue shirt now wet and soiled with dirt just like us but tenfold. “He wouldn’t give you up— despite my efforts to persuade him.” Asav grumbled as the man who held me tossed me to the ground next to him. I fell on the wet surface as he lifted his big old head to face me, revealing a ghastly swollen and bleeding black eye.

“Heeeey, sweetheart!” He said, weakly. And I sighed in exhaustion and relief. What was I going to do with this man?

[turquoisedays]

Grimscribe Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Grimscribe. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in general and brief mentions of blood, gore, nihilism, unreality, body horror, clowns, and insects.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Tagged by: Me, myself and I, because I’m ALWAYS A SLUG FOR THOMAS LIGOTTI.

Tagging: @choujin @mothersins @flowerytruth (You decide which muse! >:3c) @givealls (For Kazuma mayhap?) annnnnnnd my other blog.

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The Last Feast of Harlequin

A place behind the clownish mask / an enthusiastic urgency / sunny fields and farms / steeply roofed houses / a weird distortion of perspective / an album of old snapshots / a pointed hat jauntily askew / a billboard displaying a group of grinning vegetables / a neutral, bureaucratic voice / blue-green ink / a brilliant and profound circus of learning / a quotation from Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm” / a feeling of frigid numbness / dull, earth-colored scenery / the snowfalls of late autumn / black, ragged clumps of abandoned nests / the thin light of a winter afternoon / poles raveled with evergreen / holly wreaths / green lights / green streamers / peacock green floodlights / an eerie emerald haze / chthonic divinities / miniature candy canes / colored lights that bloom out of flower-shaped sockets / a chilling brilliance of manner and expression / sea-green lights / the face of an adept clown / a heart bathed in green / another coldness within the cold / warmly wrapped bodies and green-scarved necks / worried and guilt ridden glances / a wormy mass / the black void of winter / the brightness of an artificial spring / a great green rainbow / green gleaming streets / the dark immensity of a winter night / an effect of stricken horror and despair / an inhuman likeness more proper to something under the earth than above it / a festival within a festival / depressingly pallid clowns / the particular kind of hatred of resulting from some powerful and irrational memory / optimistic greenery in a period of gray dormancy / a kind of obnoxious intelligence / freezing atop an icy throne / commitment to a meaningful mania / bodiless invisibility / seeing without being seen / a sea of zigging and zagging celebrants / the darkness of narrow country roads / innocent normalcy / icy wind / trembling with cold / lanterns that beam with dazzling and frosty light / cadaverous clowns / the apex of darkness / a long snowy robe / moody malignancy / pure unlived lives / all the many shapes of death and dissolution / a dirge for existence / a sea of thin, bloodless faces / icy beauty / a moment of frozen trance / the death known to those whom the gods have first made mad / the welcoming glow of green / slow and silent and entrancing / a velvety white abyss / the paradise of the unborn

The Spectacles in the Drawer

A double-handled dagger with a single blade of polished stone / tall cabinets / ceiling-high shelves / tantalizing arcana / glistening fog / a tedious clarity / a cyclone of strange patterns and colors / spasms of sardonic hilarity / a pale-blue blade / stiff, crackling pages / a seeker of recondite knowledge / undying hope / a gutful of shame and regret / a small and silvery knife / a razor-sharp letter opener / a pair of old-fashioned wire-rimmed spectacles / everything that fascinates / the wish to look away / an infinite and overwhelming scene / the dazzling diffusion of all known universes / landscapes without end / landscapes that are themselves alive / a life unknown to mortal eyes / form and motion / design and dimension / cilia wriggling / mammoth shapes lurching in outline / an obscure oceanic niche / a mere fragment of all that there is to see and to know / labyrinthine astronomies / constant transformations of both appearance and essence / a witness to the most cryptic phenomena that exist or could ever exist / the ultimate thing waiting to be born / still greater visions / a cataclysm which will be both the beginning and the end / unbearable anticipation / ecstasy and dread / the ultimate source of all manifestation / the absolute and the wholly unknown / a revolution of all matter and energy / the visions remaining active inside you, deep in your blood / to be dazzled in the worst way / the total substance of things / an occultist auction / a disreputable quarter of a foreign city / a student of the Gnostics / artificial eyes / a malicious aim to undermine / a child’s awkward embrace / rusty scales / cockeyed bookcases / broken toys / standing ashtrays / desolate bazaars / the charm of disenchantment / a tilting mirror / a climate of dull horror / sinister whispers that make no sense yet seem filled with meaning / sensations of infinite expansiveness and ineffable meaning / astronomical emotions / a mutilated carcass / something of terrible rawness / a torn and flayed thing / microscopic precision / twitching and quivering like a gory heart / hellish giggling / a haunting, lifelong memory / unfathomable depths of feeling / to suffer over and over / a way to kill a dream / the sheltering shadows of one’s home / sobering shadows / a cold and stagnant peace / esoteric ecstasy / vulgar pain / a broad expanse of empty field / a mosaic of mirrors / a shocking galaxy / redundant reflections / dark stars on a silvery firmament / to see with countless eyes / a body ripped raw / a gallery of glass and gore

Flowers of the Abyss

The first rank scent of autumn / a glass of water / a thirsty walker of the woods / a pale flower amongst the dark summer trees / a ghostly flower of autumn / grayish planks / a pallid lily / a pulpy toadstool / a roof of rippling shingles shaped like scales from some great fish / sea-green and sparkling / attic gables with paned windows / the tip of a tear / hundreds of raindrops / light rain / an icy autumn storm / a fragrance damp and decayed / walking ahead of the clouds / the echo of hollow words / a long crooked arm / malodorous gardens of misshapen growths / an oval mirror in an ornate frame / cobwebbed corners / tilting books / something shapeless and nameless / something dampish and submerged / something swampy and abysmal / the pure cold of an autumn storm / a dusty green bottle / a sparkling glass / a world of frozen light / cool and limpid water / the hardness of a jewel / a small music box / stars of sound / twilight shadows and silence / infinitesimal flakes of light / barren decor of dead days / yellowish haze / silvery tones / a tenebrous expanse / unknown exploits / the madness of things / a vagabond of the universe / a drifter among spaces / a mess of hacked pieces / dark horizon meeting dark horizon / a universe of darkness / a convulsing tangle of shapes / the radiant entrails of hell / rain-softened soil / parted waters rushing to remerge / corrupt waters / sticky and pumping veins / slimy tendrils / aberrations of the abyss / a night-gowned figure / a crowd carrying lights / lamps and lanterns bobbing in darkness / clusters of flames / buried like a forgotten dream

Nethescurial

Delicate, crinkly script / greenish-black discoloration / dark waters / moonlit skies / earth mounds / mountain peaks / northern leaf and southern flower / each star and the voids between them / blood and bone / watchful winds / murky waters below / contorted rock formations / pointed pines and spruces of gigantic stature / sea-facing cliffs / stagnant fog / an omnipresent evil / a sleeping sense of doom awakened into full vigour / evil, beloved and menacing evil / sunshine and flowers / darkness and dead leaves / some shaping force of demonic temperament / wartlike hills / tumorous trees / oil lamps scattered about / a sacral glow / a degree of mutual ease / the verdigris of centuries / decomposing jade / pandemonism / cold gray waters / a mere mask for the foulest evil / an absolute evil whose reality is mitigated only by our blindness to it / the universe as a dream / the feverish nightmare of a demonic demiurge / an abstract monster of metaphysics / an altar of coarse stone / skinny shadows / to be actually bound in blackness / white-faced shadows / luminous smoke / glowing, ectoplasmic haze / something thick and oily and strangely colored / an ancient anonymity / spirits beyond all hope or consolation except in the evil to which they would abandon themselves / a ceremony of the chosen / an ancient, darkened mould / petrified lichen / wrought iron tracery / great overgrown gardens of writhing coral / a chaos of little carvings / a world of demonic faces and forms / oneiric visions / inkish waters / an infinitely extensive body of evil / the gods of the ordinary world / dream-induced illusions / visionary intrusions / a banquet of fear / what is squirming beneath every surface / penetrating the usual armor of objects / dark and greenish / garbled whisperings / an island of grass and trees in the middle of the city / globes of light balanced on slim metal poles / a glowing orb / set in the great blackness above  / trees swishing overhead / muddied green / walking some indefinite time along some indefinite route / strings of colored lights / a tall, illuminated booth / clownish creatures / expressionless faces and dead puppet eyes / slow, monotonous phrases mingling like the sequences of a fugue / the faces of the living and the dead / wind-blown trees / the greenish darkness of the night / mold-colored smoke / a squirming, creeping, smearing shape / a great deformed crab / the black oceans of infinity / the island of the moon / the cancerous totality of all creatures / oozing ichor / dying in a nightmare

The Dreaming in Nortown

A solitary perdition / a mind to remember the stages of their downfall / a mirror to multiply their abject glory / a memoir of dreams / peculiar powers of sympathy / a decaying and spacious apartment / an ill-mapped world of dreams / a slightly infernal aroma / an acrid combination of tobacco and autumn nights / a small red glow / a long threadbare overcoat / many pungent Octobers / the remote heights or depths of an artificial paradise / the stumbling words of a returning explorer / a stuporous and awed voice / midnight assemblies / in the grip of strange mystical ecstasies / long red hair / esoteric development / a general tenor of chaos / a quality which may or may not make for good company but which always offers promise of the extraordinary / a contrived noisiness / a strange catalogue of sounds / low moans emanating from the most shadowy chasms of dream / sudden intakes of breath / the suction of a startled gasp / abrupt snarls and snorts of a bestial timbre / expressions of unknown turmoil / the calm darkness of the night / staccato groans / the entire audible spectrum of nightmare-inspired terror / mingling overtones of awe and ecstasy / a willing submission to some unknown ordeal / the deeper registers of somnolence / the smell of a freshly lit cigar / the dun colors of dawn / a flood of eidetic horrors / fleeting scenes of nightmare / a reverberating slam / a note scrawled upon a slip of paper / a disproportionate anxiety / the imagined threat of a reprimand / the frayed end of a disciplinary whip / colors twisting in blackness / a tentacled abyss / bone-colored stars / a dream-distorted voice / a spiral notebook with a cover of mock marble / mystical masochism / feats of occult daredevilry / glimpsing the inferno with eyes of ice / a doomed determinism / the striving for horrific dominion over horror itself / wobbling glitter / a field of venomous colors / the glistening inner skin of deadliest nightshade / the entrancing fragrance of fear / the city’s lurid glamor / cryptic badges whose significance is known only to the initiated / comic colors from an electric spectrum / a chilly autumn evening / engraved brass / dingy neon / a black autumn sky / scattering sparks across the sidewalk / flea-market antiquities / calling feline-voiced / colorful chaos / neon signs streaming across the night / clothed in flashing colors / a many-hued phantasmagoria / a flickering and disorderly rainbow of dreams / a multitude of indecisive thoughts and impulses / a brick and neon landscape / a frigid and fragrant October night / darkness and a voice / a coarse scream / a pulsing opalescent aura / a delirious blend of images derived from nightmare / an ominous sunrise over a dark horizon / a field of fear / a painfully lush iridescence / a burnt-out patch of earth / newspapers mutilated by time / two fresh cigars / a thin book-like box / a scene from some Boschian hell / a hideous series of transfigurations / the screaming mass of a damned soul / an abyss of nightmares / explorations in a hell of one’s own choosing

The Mystics of Muelenburg

Trees made of poster board / houses built of colored foam / mud and dust and ashes / a nightmare of nonsense / fantasy, that misty domain of pure meaning / dim and empty storage space / an ancient armchair / reposing far beneath crumbling rafters / surveying remote worlds / a burst of fireworks / buzzing like flies in the blackness / glow worms flitting in the blinding sun / to keep the sun in the sky / to keep the dead in the earth / a universal vice / a parasite of chaos / a maggot of vice / the prospect of absolute terror / men in the mouths of demons / withholding heaven’s light / the pointed shadows of peaked roofs and jutting gables / faded artifacts of a dead town / high castle turrets / grayness undisturbed / ashen twilight / the yellow light of lamps / sumptuous chambers / humble rooms / the lost luxury of shadows / an infinite vault of glowing dust / a deception by demons / old deities formerly driven from the earth / shadows streaming horribly / the twitching light of a thousand candles / prismatic jewels / a greyish whirlpool / indefinite twilight / the blackness which is the domain of death / necromantic learning / drunken dialogues / unparalleled credulity / fluidity, always fluidity / an ornamented void / the stars and moon / the legions of the dead

In the Shadow of Another World

Walking down streets at twilight / watered lawns / the edges of leaves / pale specters within a fog / the infinite sky itself / gently stirring trees / old silent houses / strange cities disguised as clouds / the depths of a vast, echoing abyss / a blurry little window with a crack in it / a tree-lined street / a pale sky at dusk / peaks and porches / worn wooden steps / dreams and vapor posing as solid matter / a fabulous overlap of properties / petrified flesh / gigantic bones from great beasts of old / chimneys and shingles / a shadow on the horizon / a thing of nightmarish beauty / impossible hopes / a kind of ceremonious desolation / translucent festivals / the faraway sounds of mad carnivals / an instinct for mystification / dubious spectacles / trumped-up histrionics / immaculate to the point of being suspect / a plush and well-tended mausoleum / where the dead are truly at rest / oppressive awareness of other times / secret conspiracies with departed spirits / the unnatural mood of twilight / sinister echoes / dark, polished floors / lofty, uncobwebbed ceilings / a malign presence in the cellar / an insane shadow in the attic / thaumaturgic curios / a hermetic chant of the heavens / no hint of hauntedness / an innocent ambiance / a spiritual wasteland / spiritually antiseptic surroundings / a twisting and tenuous stairway / shattered panes of glass / misshapen glyphs / the shadowy nuances of clouds / a twisted kaleidoscope of colors / the aura of stained-glass cathedral / some obscure desecration / prismatic lenses / that of the dead or the demonic / an eclipse of this world’s vision / a quivering translucence / iridescent sterility / the aftermath of a strange exorcism / neither hallowed nor unholy / a pristine laboratory / a science of nightmares / a small, lamplit library / night’s darkness / a voice that’s accustomed to speaking of miracles / mystical freakshows / a grave sincerity / dissonant overtones of fear / the shadows of another world / forms of specter or demon / the eyes of the flesh / a luminous hell / psychic survival / hopelessly dreaming / terror recollected in tranquility / mazy trauma / the sensations of the soul / a monstrous mystery / a theoretician of nightmares / crude and cryptic designs / a remote and shadowy stage / an adept of pasteboard visions / mucilage and gauze / pulling the strings of light and shadow / shadows gathering / a strange radiance / phosphorescent panes / superlunary light / some cosmic tapestry / a haunted world / the marriage of insanity and metaphysics / a spectral ontogeny / a pageant of nightmares / sunlit bazaars in exotic cities / transparent masks / insectoid countenances / moonlit streets in antique towns / a strange-eyed slithering / dim galleries of empty museums / a ghostly mold / the sullen hues of old paintings / sticky luxuriance / pulpy warmth / an uncanny flux of sounds / cadaverous generations / sculptures of human coral / bodies heaped and unwhole / limbs projecting without order / eyes scattered and searching the darkness / a monument to Terror / a maze of interconnecting doors / spectral monstrosities / the cover of masks / the concealment of stones / feverish properties and intentions / a framed phantasmagoria / grotesque transfigurations / a systemless cosmogony / the caprice of the immaterial / weirdly lucent rooms / chaotic fantasies / narrow, spiraling stairs / the gazing eye of some god / a pyrotechnic craze of colors /  a vibrating echo of vocal utterance / swirling sights / a vacuum and a void / doubtful strategies / unknown and extravagant possibilities / occult theories / arcane analyses / the irreducible certainty of nightmare / great shadows in the stars / an infinite catastrophe / protective sigils / the full glare of starlight / stars and shadows / privileged arcana / the enchantments of hell / cold sunlight / the visionary time of twilight

The Cocoons

A gloved hand twitching / a rather unapologetic tone / egg-shaped pills / a half-glass of water / a soft grinding noise / a quietly urgent voice /  blotched vapors /  a growl of exasperation / unpeopled avenues / a mass of shadows / a landscape without pattern or substance / the moon shining / a doubtful glance / a devastated plain / an open field heaped with debris / bits of glass and scraps of metal / lunar spaciousness / a skeletal structure with all markings of identity scraped off its bones / a densely tangled nest of houses / the dull light of the moon / a yellowish swatch of illumination / high wooden fences / a ruined turret grazed by moonlight / a minor mania / a cobwebbed corner / a blank battered wall / warped floor moldings / a watery light / the quivering light of candles / an old-fashioned film projector / the whirring of a projector / a visual record of a scientific experiment / dark wiry appendages /  a pair of slender snapping pincers / tiny translucent wings / glistening but useless / malicious eyes / a dubious look / candles flickering like fire-flies / a cold swamp of shadows / a collection of bones / dazed silence / a clockwork world / sunrise schedules / lunar routines / a pandemonium of forces / a phantasmagoria of possibilities / the shadow of a laugh /  a curious hedonism that can’t be controlled / the vagaries of omnipotence / breeder of indulgence / languorous exhaustion / a psychic matter / unheard of habits / a clown’s oversized grin / bliss on the brink of apotheosis / a universal process of transfiguration / restless skittering / a pitiful delight / giddy pride / demoniac undercurrents / the grotesque ultimatums of creation

The Night School

A high, full moon shining among the spreading clouds / shadows singing with the clouds / a slowly flowing mass of mottled shapes / a kind of unclean outpouring / the black sewers of space / the wall of night /  smoke, dense and dirty, rising up to the sky / the spastic flames of a small fire / a slender gentleman / a dark suit / broken bones / the process of degeneration / the mulchy rot of autumn or early spring / yellowish light / dark scabby bricks / ruined factories / ravaged mausoleums / abandoned orphanages / a blossom of the cemetery or the cesspool / guttering candles / blurred remnants of past lessons / cloacal forces / time as a flow of sewage / drowning in the pools of night / a thousand molting autumns / the melting soil of spring / a pair of yellowish eyes / undiluted darkness / a darkness far greater than the night itself / consolidated darkness / the science of a spectral pathology / a philosophy of absolute disease / the metaphysics of things sinking into a common disintegration or rising together / dark rottenness /  filthy smoke from some smoldering source of expansive corruption / the scent of corruption / the nostalgic perfume of autumn decay / the feculent muskiness of a spring thaw / smoky blackness / the offal of worlds in decline / the dark compost of those about to be born / the primeval impurity In which all things are founded / native putridity / pieces of paper with strange symbols on them / the very face of a plague—pustulant, scabbed, and stinking terribly / a black fog / many voices crying and calling from total blackness / tightly packed earth in a grave / the disease of the night / bright flames / the noise of a fire and the wind / a full moon / shining bright and blurry / a luminous mold / the great sewers of night

The Glamour

A fine aura of fantasy / both blurred and brightened / a starless evening / diamonds of plate glass / old buildings of dark brick / the display window of a toy store / a chaotic tableau of preposterous excitation / mechanized monkeys / fated antics / tiny cymbals / the destined pirouettes of a music-box ballerina / a newly sprung jack-in-the-box / strangely picturesque / dreamily illuminated / sculptured frosting / a winter landscape of swirling, drifting whiteness / snowy rosettes / layers of icy glitter / a glacial kingdom / a brilliant arctic scene / a vitality of enterprise / a glossy light / the placidly enigmatic expressions of a different time / faded lighting / an old photograph / the kind of acute anticipation that a child might experience at a carnival / a possessing impulse without object / wretchedly aglow / a long, narrow corridor with a single light set far into its depths / a strange shade of purple, like that of a freshly exposed heart / a purple lamp / arterial light / a deep pink / a richly blooded brain / a beating heart / wispy shrouds / sparse hairs sticking to the scalp of an old corpse / purple-tinted glass / the darkness of a theater / a swarm of filaments / an elaborate chandelier / a sickly, liverish shade / an operating room where a torso lies open on the table / a palette of pinks and reds and purples / diseased viscera imitating all of the shades of sunset / headstones in a graveyard / endless filthy alleys / long desolate corridors in an old asylum / the dripping passages of a sewer / a dust-blinded window / a dark unvisited cellar / a mirror gone rheumy with age / facets of murky crystal / cobwebs / long pale threads / hazy purple light / the slow curling of thin smoke / a great rectangular web / the ever-mutating images of clouds / a surge of dark elation / a sudden chill announcing bad weather / a vibrant presence / an expression of avid malignance / inner webbings / swirling fibers / wild shocks of twisting hair / a portrait of atrocity / lust for sites and ceremonies of mayhem / writhing cobwebs / reaching tendrils / graveyards and alleyways / a joyous hysteria / a pale purple / sinister and seamy regions / spectral ambiance / all pervasive purple coloration / the labyrinth of a living anatomy / palest pink / a purple light / putrid chambers and cloisters / an infernal land / fleshy, gelatinous integuments / translucent tissue / the theater of a mad surgery / hair-thin sutures / unseen hands designing unnatural shapes and systems / weaving a nest in which possession would take place / the weaver and web-maker / an old puppet-master / setting a helpless creature with new strings / through eyes unknown / purple shadows / a type of degraded rapture / a seizure of debauched panic / webs of hair / great evil / an appeal for deliverance / eyes that would see what should not be seen / stray threads pulled from a sleeve or pocket / a paralytic silence / eyes gazing fierce and malignant / a purple glow / two shafts of the purest purple light / an old woman with glowing eyes

Father Sevich’s Visit

A manner at first vaguely troublesome and afterward rather attractive / the arrival of a priest / the very echoes of the air / mellow afternoon sunlight / dark wooden floors / pale contortions of ancient wall paper / invisible games / abstract dread and a bizarre sort of indebtedness / a thick maze of propositions / a well-made bed / a relentless failure / cloistral tunnels / vaulted penetralia / a single column-clutching hand / the necessary features of fear / a maddening task / a series of completely irrelevant expressions / misty-eyed wonder / cretinous bafflement / smiling in an almost amiable way at one one’s impending doom / the trap of expectation / a sleepy whisper / the sound of soft conversation / the world of good manners and polite talk / a look of incompleteness / some unfinished effigy in a toy maker’s workshop / something vital to expression / the purple-robed mysteries of priesthood / animated eyes / withered things reeking of medicine and prayer / a painfully delicate subject / varnished wood / salvation through suffering / sacred horrors / the divine destiny toward which the paths of anguish have always led / volumes of blessed agony / an attitude of prayerful pleading / torturing demons / a single squatted devil / bristling lashes that sprout like weeds / an explosion of miniature grotesquerie / a brief and calculated absence / a modest fund of moral energy / a macabre icon / profane lessons / a countenance of true terror / a ridiculously empty slate / an off-stage atrocity / a cycle of mute, incredible lore / anthropomorphic mist / an eerie lividity / unconscious hours of darkness / a chronicle of truly unspeakable things / the light of every constellation in the visible universe / the oppressive mysteries of the autumn season / thick orange crayons / black cats / black paper / a hopeless urge for innovation / a tiny white collar / dripping with fever / hat and cloak and walking stick / narrow, nocturnal streets / a fairy-tale vision / serpentine lanes / the distorted glow of street lamps / the thinnest blade of moon / a narrow niche / an unpaved lane / a small courtyard surrounded by high walls / the stars above / jaundiced lamplight / a stairway of cut stone / the earth and absolute blackness / tiny lights glimmering like stars / clouds of shadows / some golden metal / a caricature of serenity / a hand as white as the whitest glove / chaotic rays / underworld starlight / a certain expression of rarefied scorn or disgust / indignant shadows / black, ankle-high shoes / the natural nightlight of the moon / an infernal aura or an angelic halo / a planet revolving its unspeakable tonnage in the blackness of space / a small bottle of holy water / secret denial and privilege / a smile of deep contentment

Miss Plarr

Misty, drizzling days / sharp, urgent rappings at the front door / a world of darkening mist / mist-covered locks / listening with intense expectancy / the world’s chaos of faces / a seething luxuriance / dark battlements of clouds / a mute and sullen twilight / a stone-gray sky / those days all shackled in gloom / a fugue of noise / the livid radiance of moonlight / the wild shape of some night-blossom / some strange and cruel kingdom / an intimate dungeon cell reserved for the most exclusive captivity / constant, noisy marauding / sedentary or stealthy rituals / an abyss of unspoken reproaches and suspicions / some ancient seagoing vessel / an old oil lamp / a series of quite fascinating lectures / a kind of brutality and an air of exile / deliriums of earth and sky / fog-bound islands in polar seas / shadowed realms littered with dead cities / peaks lacerated by unceasing winds / a bluish slime / the proper way to behave / the great mists of spring / murky sheets of ice / a world of shadows bound in place / the sound of something that stings the air / the hissing of rainy afternoons / immense blades sweeping over vast spaces / expansive wings cutting through cold winds / long whips lashing in darkness / intangible sympathies / a dark mesh of nightmares / a foul nest in which one’s own suspicions are swarming / links to a strictly mundane order / a briskness that seems to be an effort / a heavy spring dampness / lost to the world of wholesome practicalities / a hypnotic and fateful determination / a child’s weakness for prospects of misadventure / a fog-smothered landscape / a pale, floating web / an immense and awful kingdom / a patternless conglomerate of crystals / a misty graveyard / angular and many-faced monuments / the mountainous and murky thunderheads of a rainy season / the very essence of a storm / a matter of suspicion and conjecture / atrocious potential / fogs and mists and gray heaping skies / a conspicuous stridency / a dour mystique / a gray mist / skies of hissing rain

The Shadow At the Bottom of the World

Some feverish intent / sheaves of cornstalks standing brownish and brittle in a newly harvested field / a sky of empty light / fiery leafage / something dark, something abysmal / small shadowy voices / sweet wine turning to vinegar / a hysteric brilliance / displays of thorn apple, sumac, and towering sunflowers / crooked roadside fences / a moonlit field / a bright round moon / nocturnal solitude / patched-up overalls / worn flannel / the withered leaves of cornstalks / moonlight spread across a dead field / a great idol in shabby disguise / a sacred avatar out of season / fidgeting bemusement / a leaden vault of clouds / pure sunlight / misty dreams of the past night / a vine-twisted stone wall / dormant vines / a strange network of dead veins / calculated grayness / radiant leaves / legions of local cicadas / a dark fungus / of the blackest earth / a rich loam / a bog of shadows / an abyss in the outline of a man / the feel of wind and water / a few shifting flames / flames of only the slightest warmth / black flames / the molten texture of spoiled fruit / a shriveled scarecrow / an armory of axes, shovels, and other implements / an eccentricity of the harvest / a viscous mire / innumerable insects laughing / sprouting blackness / a perverse reluctance / the great shadow of a moonless night / the dark rustling depths of the season / the glass globes of streetlamps / the dense leaves of elms and oaks and maples / blazing auras / the frigid aurora of dawn / frost-powdered earth / shadows and corn shocks / countless insects chattering unseen / the feverish life of the earth / the wrinkled grimace of decay / corrupted by vile impulses / a mound of soft dirt / the darkish grooves of ancient bark / the mottled complexion of old flesh / a multitude of crooked smiles / a freakish mask painted with russet, rashy colors / a virulent intensity / an autumn night when fields lay ragged in moonlight / moist and fertile shadows / a hollow-eyed howling malignity / the cold emptiness of space / the pale gaze of the moon / the depths of an extraordinary harvest / insecure hints and delvings / the luxuriant shadow of trees / the mocking plumage of a strange season / an array of whims and suspicions / scraps of lush color / gold and crimson hieroglyphs / deathless leaves / an ill-formed village / a hideous impersonation of a face / leprous masks / knotty shadows / a subterranean craze of roots and tendrils / an underworld riot of branching convolutions / gnarled ornamentations / autumnal decay / knives and axes and curving scythes / countless colored leaves / pronouncements of dire or delightful curiosity / a dull trance / a wild luminousness / a diamond-bright fever burning within / perennial strangeness / tenacious foliage / softly glowing against a black sky / an untimely nocturnal rainbow / a harvest of hues / peach gold / pumpkin orange / honey yellow / winy amber / apple red / plum violet / the pyrotechnics of a new autumn / a thousand glittering dreams / a rigid scarecrow / a patchwork of shadows / a quivering glow / a premature craving / an expertly whetted blade / a betrayal or deception on the part of creation itself / something buried deep within appearances / something that wears a mask to hide itself / holding a spatula like a weapon / moldering shadows / a dreamless sleep / a sudden rage of mortification / the remains of a dismantled scarecrow / an ashen autumn morning / the feeling of blood / a bottomless grave

[gold3nberry]

Dorian - Two Years Later

During the Exalted Council, if the Inquisitor speaks to Dorian, he sits in front of a chessboard. So, I headcanon that this happened (chess’ headcanons from here):

“I saw Demetra's hand, Cullen.” The silence felt heavy between the two of them.  They had met a couple of hours before, when the new Tevinter ambassador had smugly shooed away his colleagues that were chatting around the Commander. They both needed to speak and they both knew they gave their best if some chess game was involved. So, they played. Dorian spoke quietly again, tapping one finger on the luxurious chess board “Well, I admit I forced her to show me her hand. When you wrote me the first time I thought you were a bit paranoid. Now, I regret you didn't write me earlier.” The mage moved his pawn “Do not think I'm blaming you, of course. I'm furious with the stupid me.” The Commander opened his mouth, his eyes gentle, but Dorian shook one hand vehemently “Please, don't. I'm a Mage. And a very good one. I should have known that an ancient magic such as that damned Anchor is couldn't just stay quietly carved on her flesh forever. Visante kaffas, I have been so stupid!” “Nobody could foresee this, Dorian. Nobody. I'm sure Demetra told you the same.” “Actually she told me to stop being silly and give her another cup of tea.” Both the men forced a smile. “How is she doing, Cullen?” “She...” he stopped, staring at the chessboard. He couldn't say aloud again what she had said him not later than six weeks ago – six weeks and five days ago, most precisely. He couldn't. Dorian had the right to know, though. “She is fighting the Anchor, but she's not sure who will win.” Dorian sighed heavily, pinching his nose in a poor attempt to hide his reddened eyes “We'll save her, Cullen, even if I had to invent a spell myself bargaining with all the spirits in the Fade.” Cullen looked at him, his throat painfully clenched. “Thank you.” It was all he managed to say and it was insufficient to express his gratitude towards Dorian. Towards his friend. Dorian understood and nodded anyway. “I told her she shouldn't be here, wasting her time with this useless, ungrateful bunch of people.” the Mage hissed “She should take care of herself better.” “I told her the same” the Commander captured Dorian's Hero of Ferelden “But Demetra helped Thedas' people while they suspected her of destroying the Conclave, calling her an abomination. She's not going to act any different now that she carries the Inquisitor title.” “I bet she also doesn't want to put Leliana in a more precarious position.” “That, too.” “I warned her that nobody was going to thank her,” Dorian sighed conquering a position near Cullen's Divine “And I fucking hate being right. But this? An Exalted Council against the only person who stood up between Corypheus and the world? This is beyond ingratitude. It's monstrous.” A silent nod was all that Cullen could add. Cassandra had said something along that line, in a more colorful way. Varric, the same. Sera had already menaced to kill at least thirty nobles and twenty diplomats. The Iron Bull and Thom Ranier hadn't spoken very much, but they escorted their Inquisitor silently daring people to say something wrong, as Demetra greeted people here and there. Vivienne had been kind enough to keep away from the Inquisitor the most problematic guests, while Josephine took care of being the first to talk with the ones who would like very much spat their venom in the Inquisitor's face. Cole had asked Maryden to sing Demetra's favorite song and Leliana, though bounded to her role, had sent in her bedroom fresh flowers, trustworthy servants, useful information about the ones who still sided with the Inquisition and a giant box of the finest Orlesian chocolate. Demetra had wept in Cullen's arms “I'm so lucky to have all of you. As long as you still trust me, I'm alright.” Dorian cleared his throat “Speaking about messy things, I heard there was quite a problem with the bedrooms when the Inquisition arrived.” The Commander couldn't stop the blush, but Dorian's grin was full of pride “Well done, Cullen!” “So everybody knows about my change of quarters?” “Are you kidding me? The Commander of the Inquisition army that takes his luggage, ignores the outraged Chamberlain and marches in the Inquisitor's quarters declaring that he will stay there, messing with thousands of years of protocol? My friend, you are a legend.” Cullen shrugged “Demetra agreed and I'm not going to leave her alone just because a useless etiquette told me so.” “Of course! I can already hear the minstrels singing about the Lion of the Inquisition who marched in his beloved Inquisitor room and took her in his strapping arms before kissing...” “Yes, thank you, Dorian, I get the concept.” Cullen shivered, making him laugh. A sincere one. “And I didn't kiss her in front of everybody! I just told them to go to bother someone else.” “So no kisses? Not even a little one?” Dorian pouted. Cullen tried to not grin “I didn't say that.” Dorian winked at him “Your admirers will be heartbroken to have the ultimate confirmation that you're not available.” Cullen smiled “Finally! Maybe they'll stop to send crows asking me to marry this countess or that noble.” Dorian tipped his head on the side “Since we're speaking about this, let me ask you a thing: are you going to ask her to marry you?” “Yes.” No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just fierce firm belief. “Good. Soon?” “Yes.” “Do you have a plan?” “Not anymore. I had one, but now I suppose I need another one.” “Do you have a ring?” “I was going in Denerim to buy one when all of this happened.” Dorian nodded again, stopping their match, and fishing something out of his pocket. Cullen took the delicate box from his hands with a perplexed frown. When he opened it, he couldn't hold back a surprised sound: laying against soft velvet, a couple of golden rings glittered under the afternoon sun. Inside the biggest one, it was carved “Demetra & Cullen”. In the other one, he read “Cullen & Demetra”. A line of minuscule arabesques in the external part made them two little masterpieces of gold-working. Before he could speak, Dorian smiled, quiet and sincere “In my Country, it's the best friend of a bride or a groom that buys the wedding bands. Now, since you don't have a lot of friends that can  be better than me and I'm quite sure Demetra loves me as much as I love her, allow me to follow one of the few traditions that I'm still proud to.” Cullen's thanks were too full of emotion to be as much eloquent as he wished, but they were sincere in every bit. And Dorian winked at him “One last thing: I won't tell you to take care of her. I have no doubt you will because she's lovely and you don't want that an angry Magister sets your ass on fire.” Cullen smiled, but he knew Dorian was deadly serious. His friend continued “What I want you to promise me is that the two of you will do the impossible to be happy together. That you will treasure what you two have and you will fight to keep it alive. Life can be hard even for people who love each other as you two do, but you have something precious. Treasure it.” “I will. We will, I promise on my life.” “Good. And now, let's finish this game. I want to take back some Tevinter pride and kick that awesome Fereldan ass of your.” Cullen chuckled, putting the precious box with the rings safely in his pocket “Good luck with that. And... thank you, Dorian.”

Every reblog, comment and tag are deeply treasured and yes, I read them all!!!!! 

[gakupoid2m]

Title: Anniversaries are meant to be forgotten

word count: 1,521

Fandom: Gintama

Pairing: Gintsu

Summary:  Gintoki and Tsukuyo celebrate their first anniversary as a married couple.

 For @ykchahine: HAPPY  (belated) BIRTHDAY!! I was gonna post this earlier but stuff happened and now I’m late but I hope you’ll like this!! Have a great year ahead! ( Bonus points if you notice what I tried to incorporate in this fic? HINT: HCs )

Tsukuyo rushed forward with a set of kunai in her hands, piercing gaze set on her opponent A.k.a the Shiroyasha. With swift movements she launched herself into the air and threw the blades with precision at him but Gintoki was tad bit faster and shot them down with one swing of his bokuto.

Tsukuyo landed on her feet and squared up for hand-to-hand combat.

"Oi, Oi you still wanna continue? Are you that hell-bent on killing me? I'm your husband you know, have some mercy." Gintoki sighed and placed his bokuto back inside his belt.

"Who said I was trying to kill you? You moron! You're the one who suggested that we should train together." The ninja replied a little flustered.

She went to pick up the kunai that had fallen to the ground, "Let's stop now then." She paused for awhile before looking at the clock, "I have some stuff to do…"

It was their anniversary that day and she had decided to give him a surprise but she needed to get some preparations done before that.

"Sounds suspicious. Are you gonna hang out with some young hot guys?" Gintoki raised his eyebrow comically at the woman before getting hit in the head with a familiar black weapon.

"Sorry Tsukki…" he apologized before dislodging the kunai from his head, making a fountain of blood rain down his face.

"Just get out of the house." Tsukuyo said as she started shoving him outside much to his surprise.

"Wait, so you really are gonna hang out with other guys aren't you?! Is that why you want me out of the house? Oi, Tsukuyo, don't close the door!" Gintoki shouted from outside the door while banging on it but his wife ignored him.

After awhile he gave up and turned away, "Well then, I better get to work as well…" He scratched the back of his head before making his way down the busy streets of Kabukicho.

"Yes, yes, welcome! We've got lots of good merch here." A short man spoke up from behind the counter as Gintoki entered the shop. The shelve were laden with wooden goods ranging from cooking utensils to decoration pieces. It was an old shop just down the street that was famous for its selection of wooden antiques.

"Ah, yes… I'm looking for a smoking pipe. Preferably made by the brand 'B.I.T.C.H'." Gintoki replied as looked around the shop.

The shopkeeper placed a hand on his chin and squinted his eyes, "You don't really look like you smoke?" He asked Gintoki.

"It's for my wife. An anniversary gift." The silver-haired samurai replied shortly, still eyeing the goods, trying to find where the smoking pipes were kept.

The man eyes lit up at his response and he pointed towards a shelve at the back of the room, "We have some pretty ones back there. I'm sure you'll find something she'll like."

Gintoki thanked the man and made his way over to the said shelve. The smoking pipes were arranged in neat rows and each on had a different design carved on it. Just like the man said they were all pretty. Gintoki browsed around for a while before finally making a decision. He picked up a dark brown pipe that had flower petals carved on it at the end and made his way back to the counter.

Seeing that the shop keeper was busy with an another customer he placed the pipe on the counter and looked at brightly colored the keychains hanging from a stand and though that he should buy one for Kagura and Shinpachi each.

"Yup, I think I'll take this flute then…" the girl standing at the counter said and took out her purse. After paying for her item she made her way out of the shop.

"Ah, sorry to keep you waiting. I'll pack this up right away." The shopkeeper turned to Gintoki and placed the pipe in a pink paper bag.

"Thanks." Gintoki placed some money on the counter and left the shop as well.

Once at home, He slowly knocked on the door a few times before sliding it open and going in.

Everything seemed pretty normal but the living room was decorated with balloons and paper chains and table had been laid out with desserts of various kinds.

Suddenly, Tsukuyo came out from behind one couch with a party popper in her hand and made a failed attempt at popping it, "H-happy anniversary Gintoki."

The silver-haired samurai made a fake surprised expression when he saw his wife. Truth be told, the samurai had already caught on to her plans a day or two before and found it really cute how she had hidden away all the decorations behind the cupboard so that he wouldn't see them.

"You remembered?" he asked her in order to tease her.

"Ofcourse I did, you idiot!" She scowled and retorted with a whisk in her hand. She was wearing her pink apron and her hair was sticking out of the bandana on her head. There was flour and chocolate icing all over her clothes.

"Did you make all of this for me?" Gintoki pointed towards himself and made his over to the table, looking at wonder with all the sweets.

"Well, most of them…" her voice grew quiet as she avoided eye-contact with him and fiddled with her fingers, "to be honest, I just made the strawberry parfait…"

Her revelation threw Gintoki off his feet and he looked at her dumb-founded, "You look like you survived a war! How hard is it to make a parfait?! " he said gesturing towards her appearance.

"I told you I was bad at cooking! The only thing I know how to make is hot-pot." A small blush made its way on to her face as she replied to his retort. She looked like a mess but kitchen was in an even worse condition and she feared to think what Gintoki would say when he saw it . Cooking wasn't really her forte and desserts were out of the questions, but she had made up her mind to atleast make a parfait for him.

"A-anyways! Sit down and eat all of this." She pushed Gintoki towards the couch as if threatening him and grabbed him the nearest spoon she could find, "Here."

Gintoki sighed as he took the spoon from her hand. He looked over at the table and then took a big bite out of the parfait she had made, making sure to get a little bit of everything.

A sweat drop trickled down Tsukuyo's forehead as she waited for him to swallow it. But the anxiousness on her face was nothing compared to the horror on Gintoki's.

"Tsukuyo, did you put salt in this?" He said with a sour expression on his face as he swallowed the bite with difficulty.

"Eh? salt?" Tsukuyo looked at the parfait with a dumb-founded expression and took a bite out of it herself. An extremely salty taste filled up her mouth and she felt like spitting it out.

She looked over at Gintoki and then down in embarrassment. "I was sure I put sugar in…." she felt like beating herself up for making a mistake as stupid as that.

Gintoki sighed as he looked at his wife, "Well, don't let it get you down so much. You'll get better with practice." Gintoki patted her back in encouragement and held a pink bag infront of her, "Here, I got you something as well." He handed the gift over to his wife, "Happy anniversary Tsukuyo." Gintoki smiled.

It was Tsukuyo's turn to be surprised and she took the gift bag out of his hands. She unwrapped the present delicately and made a confused expression.

"Why did you buy me a flute?" She said as she held a wooden pipe in her hand with curiosity written all over her face.

Gintoki frowned at her question and then looked to at the instrument on her hand. He was sure that he had placed a smoking pipe on the counter. Then how did it turn into a flute?

The image of the girl from the store came into his mind and the answer clicked inside his head.

"It was supposed to be a smoking pipe…" He half-explained it to Tsukuyo and mentally face-palmed.

The room fell quiet and both of them looked away from each other in embarrassment.

"We both messed up didn't we?" Gintoki spoke up after awhile and laughed to lighten up the mood.

"I guess so…" Tsukuyo replied still trying to remember if she grabbed the salt or sugar.

Suddenly, Gintoki grabbed her hand making her drop the instrument and got up from the couch, "Come on."

"Where?" She asked, almost losing her balancing and falling over as Gintoki lead her towards the door.

"I heard there was a fireworks festival today. Let's make the best of the remaining day." He said making her smile in return.

Their first anniversary hadn't turned out the way they both wanted it to but they figured that it didn't matter as long as they both were together.

[atomicstrawbrys]

The Magnificent Toy Emporium

Alfred is in Northern Ireland on vacation, and makes a quick stop to pick up a souvenir for his brother. He walks into a toy shop to meet the mysterious owner, who’s just as lonely as he is strange. Usuk. //

Alfred jogged down the brick path as rain fell, looking at the buildings on either side of him as he ran.  He scanned the signs hanging from them, looking for one in particular. The sign, and by extension the shop he was searching for was called the Magnificent Toy Emporium. It was somewhat hidden away, squeezed between the rest of the side-by-side buildings on the street. Alfred never really saw any advertising for it, but it's reputation spoke for itself. The store was famous, but there was only one location. The Magnificent Toy Emporium resided in the Newcastle of County Down. It had opened there, and it hadn't moved locations since the first day. Though, Alfred felt that surely a store as well known as this could stand its ground in large cities. Or, it could start a chain of toy stores. But, hey, what did Alfred know about running a business. All he needed to do was grab something for Matthew and head back. He didn't need to worry about keeping the shop's doors open. The rain was starting to come down harder, so Alfred was thankful when he saw the hanging sign of the toy store rocking back and forth overhead. He took a glance at the building as he went in.

The outside was made of red brick, with a large window in the front  that displayed a few toys. It wasn't very colorful, but it had a lot of warm red and brown colors that made it seem very comforting.

Alfred went inside, and a bell rang overhead. He looked around, and his eyes widened. "Oh, wow.." He breathed, looking at the arrangements of toys, and at the shelves that went all the way to the ceiling. Soft, happy music played throughout the store. The lighting was a warm yellow, making everything seem to have it's own glow. It was overwhelming, but it in the best possible way. There were different types of toys in every direction he looked. He wandered down to the arrangements, examining the plush toys. They seemed to smile at him, and he couldn't help but smile back. Some of the shelves housed wooden dolls, and each one was in its own outfit and had a unique, painted-on face. Alfred was no toy expert, but the dolls seemed expertly crafted. "Ah! Hello there!" A melodic voice came from behind him, and Alfred turned to face a man about a head shorter than himself. The man had feathery blond hair, and it looked almost white in the light. He had freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his eyes were big and bright, giving him an almost ethereal appearance. "Um..hey, do you work here?" Alfred asked, and the presumed employee laughed. "Well, you could say that. I'm the toymaker, dear." He grinned and rolled his eyes. "Arthur Kirkland, pleased to make your acquaintance." He held out a delicate hand. Alfred took it, giving it a polite shake before stepping back. "Alfred...nice to meet ya.." He replied, dropping his hand as he looked through the toys around him. He picked up a stuffed bear and looked it over before setting it down and turning to him. "You made all these?" He asked, furrowing his brow. "Dude, these are way too many toys for one guy to put together, seriously, how much help do you have? You're not the toymaker, you've gotta have, like, employees." Alfred watched Arthur approach one of the dolls, positioning its arm. "Well, you could say that.." He gave a strange, knowing grin, and for a moment Alfred thought the doll winked. "Nevertheless," Arthur continued, "I am the shop owner." He rose a slight brow at Alfred, looking him over. Alfred rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. "Okay, okay, I got it.. I'm just gonna look around for a while." Alfred shrugged. "It's a gift for my brother, so I only need to pick out something I think he'd like." Arthur gave a slight nod, and then walked away. At least, Alfred assumed he walked. He'd been looking at Arthur as he spoke, and after the toymaker nodded, Alfred blinked, and when he opened his eyes Arthur was gone. He looked down the neighboring aisles for him,  but the man was nowhere to be seen. Alfred rolled his eyes, shrugging his shoulders as he wandered through the store. The emporium seemed to go on forever, and every direction Alfred turned seemed to have rows and rows of different toys. He sifted through a bin of carved toys, ranging from tiny rocking horses to trains. Alfred had come here for Matthew, but that didn't mean he couldn't do some shopping for himself. But, honestly, he didn't even know what he'd want, much less what Matthew would like. There was so much to choose from, and he wished his brother had been able to come to Northern Ireland to pick something out for himself. But, no, he couldn't get the time off so he'd simply asked for a souvenir. "Find anything?" a familiar voice hummed, and Alfred jumped in his skin, turning around to find Arthur sitting on top of one of the aisles. Alfred sighed, and placed a hand over his chest, narrowing his eyes at the toymaker. "Don't do that, man. And, no, I mean, your toys are great and all, but there's a lot to choose from." "Oh, so picky.." Arthur laughed, resting his head in his hands. He swung his legs. "Children are never so picky, they generally pick whatever they see first. It's always you adults that take so long. Of course, your indecision and fear of missing something better is rather endearing. Your kind is so interesting." He hummed, shaking his head. "My kind?" Alfred huffed, rolling his eyes. "Might want to cut the insults, or I'll buy something someplace else." He crossed his arms. Arthur sighed. "Alright, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it, truly I didn't. I find people like you interesting, that's all. Here, if you're having such a hard time making a decision, how about I show you my personal favorites?" He offered, climbing down from the aisle. "..Alright.." Alfred agreed, now feeling a bit foolish that he'd lashed out at him. "And, uh, sorry. You didn't..mean anything." He rubbed his arm, biting his lip as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. He followed the shop owner down several rows of toys, and he tried not to get distracted because Arthur wasn't stopping. After taking just a second to look at little building block set, he had to jog to catch up, and soon they came to the back wall. There were very few toys back here, but along the wall were two sets of shelves, full of clay ball jointed dolls. They were all unique, and downright beautiful, but the best dolls sat in a glass display case in between the sets of shelves. Alfred walked up to them, and Arthur cleared his throat. "Um, sorry, Dear, but the dolls in the display case aren't for sale. They're my own personal collection." He clarified. Alfred turned his head to look at Arthur. "But they're the nicest ones. Why not sell them? What's so special about them?" He asked, bringing his gaze back to the glass case. "You asked earlier about who helped me make the toys. That would be them. I couldn't even dream of selling my team.." Arthur looked at the case, and his expression softened into a fond gaze. "No one ever stays with me, so, I modeled the dolls after my favorite customers. That way I'll never forget them, and they'll always be with me, in a way." He explained, gesturing to the case. Alfred looked at them, but, as he looked, he realized the dolls seemed like they were from different time periods. There was one that looked recent enough, but the rest had styles dating back to the fifteenth century. Not all of them were the common ball jointed doll. The ones that seemed older were made of wood or stuffed cloth, and didn't have as many,  if any, joints. "Stop messing with me, these things look like they're from ages ago." Alfred chuckled. "Well, I've been making toys for a very long time." Arthur replied, completely serious. For once that ethereal smile had faded into a fond, yet somber expression. Alfred furrowed his brow as he tried to understand. Arthur was...weird, but it was obvious he was lonely. Alfred decided to humor him, at least for a second, and pointed to one of the dolls in the case. "Um, okay then, who's this..?" "Oh, Allen? He served in World War Two. He was American, like yourself, and he was looking for a present for his daughter. I distinctly remember. My shop wasn't very well known, then. It wasn't called the Magnificent Toy Emporium either, and I was actually residing in New York...of course, I went by Oliver during that time. I sold him a model plane, at a discount too. I wonder if he's still alive.." Arthur mused, crossing his arms. "Wait, so, Arthur isn't your real name? What is?" Alfred furrowed his brow. "Oh, I can't remember at this point, Alfred. But Arthur is my personal favorite out of all the names I've had, so, I think I'll keep it for as long as I can." Arthur was strange, but so far he'd been relatively harmless. That didn't stop Alfred from being suspicious, though, and he decided he'd keep an eye on Arthur (Or, whoever he was) until he could just pick a toy and leave. Still.. even though his stories had to be fake, they were interesting, so Alfred asked about another doll. "Oh, Allistor? God, he was so much fun, I miss him often.." He chuckled, and soon he was talking about the day Allistor had drunkenly wandered into his shop. "He wasn't angry or rude at all, but I did have to stop him from purchasing one of my more expensive toys- he didn't have the money to spare. He came back a few times..I wish he hadn't grown old so fast.." While Arthur described each of his dolls in detail, Alfred browsed the dolls on the shelves, which were actually for sale. It was hard to not believe Arthur, his stories were so precise and convincing. It was difficult to think that he could simply make stories up like that. A clock chimed the hour after Arthur had been rambling for a while, and the toymaker looked up, sighing. "Ah..I've kept you here far too long, haven't I?" He asked, rubbing his arm with a sort of guilty smile. He seemed a little disheartened, and he looked at Alfred, and then at his glass case. "Matthew doesn't want a doll, Alfred." He sighed, shaking his head. Arthur picked up a large stuffed cat. It was orange, and had uniform yellow stripes on his back. Alfred shook his head. "No, Mattie doesn't like cats, he's allergic." He turned his back for only a moment to look at a price tag on a doll, but when he turned his head again the toy was completely different. The cat had changed to a bear. Its ears went from pointed to round, and the face grew a snout and a big black nose. The tail was shortened, and the toy was now fluffy and white. A baby blue bow had been tied around the bear's neck, and there was a tag on it that read 'Kumajiro'. Arthur held it out to him, an almost shy smile on his lips. "I do apologize for not finding this for you sooner, but you were just so interesting to talk to." Alfred took the toy, looking for a price tag, though there was none. "Arthur, don't tell me this thing is like, super expensive, because it's perfect for him, I-" "Take it." Arthur cut him off, and turned his head. He walked Alfred to the front of the store, but stopped when he got to the checkout counter. Alfred continued to the door, but before he went out, he turned, smiling at Arthur and giving a friendly wave. "Hey, seriously, thanks Arthur. He's gonna love this-" He started, but then stopped, staring at the toymaker. Arthur's pupils had turned to slits, and he had pointed ears and teeth. Alfred rubbed his eyes, and when he looked at Arthur again he was normal. Arthur just smiled at him, and hummed a cheery goodbye. Alfred pushed the door open, and went outside, where it had stopped raining. He left the shop, and took the toy to Matthew when he went home. A few weeks later, there was a new doll in the glass case. A carefully crafted doll with blue eyes, blond hair, and a wide, friendly smile carved onto his lips.

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Carolee Schneemann on Five Decades of Meat, Harnesses, and Innovation

Carolee Schneemann, “Portrait Partials” (1970), 35 gelatin silver prints. 26 7/8 x 26 3/4″ (The Museum of Modern Art, New York, acquired through the generosity of the Peter Norton Family Foundation, © 2017 Carolee Schneemann,courtesy the artist, P.P.O.W, and Galerie Lelong, New York)

This year, Carolee Schneemann received the Venice Biennale’s Golden Lion Award. She is also the subject of a major retrospective, Carolee Schneemann: Kinetic Painting, which will travel from the Museum der Moderne Salzburg to open at MoMA PS1 on October 22 — a level of recognition for which she has waited five decades.

In Schneemann’s provocative paintings, sculptures, installations, performances, films, and videos, serendipity often plays a crucial role, interceding as an intermediary to life’s bothersome snags. In fact, serendipity courses through her entire career. A suspension from Bard College for painting herself nude (despite permission to pose nude for male students) seeded her sense of female empowerment. She went on to use her body as a medium to spring the female form from its frame, and to pursue explicit expressions of female sexuality. If her physical body was central to her project, it also often eclipsed her larger body of work. Hugely significant innovations, born or sired by chance, are now becoming more visible as the breadth of her legacy is acknowledged. At a Huguenot inn near her home in upstate New York, Schneemann spoke with Joyce Beckenstein about her early struggles for recognition, the sensuous connections between the beautiful and the grotesque, and her enduring kinship with cats.

Joyce Beckenstein: What was going through your mind when you found out you’d received the Golden Lion award?

Carolee Schneemann: I was incredulous! I first thought it was a mistake; I didn’t understand what it was until people starting writing me. Now I’m an archivist, an organizer, and I have to tell myself that this new confluence is a kind of work.

JB: Hadn’t much of that work already been done for you over the years?

CS: My work was acknowledged for its historical significance, but it was nevertheless treated in a marginal way for many years. It took a feminist revolution to ensure that no decent gallery was without what I call a “token cunt.” With the culture concentrating on my work with the body as either pornographic or narcissistic, it was hard to get teaching jobs, or to have the work exhibited in terms of its evolving process.

JB: Now, “Carolee Schneemann: Kinetic Painting,” which opened at the Museum der Moderne, Salzburg in 2015 and travelled to The MMK in Frankfurt this May, will open at MoMA, P.S.I in October. What’s changed?

CS: P.P.O.W. gallery has been committed to my work for two decades.  Recently a number of remarkable exhibits have brought attention to neglected works from the ’80s and ’90s. A few brave and devoted curators — Christine Marcel of the Pompidou Center, and Kristine Stiles — fought for this recognition, as did Elga Wimmer, Dan Cameron, and Robert Riley. Women have to live long enough — no longer be sexually desirable — for the erotic aspect of their works not to confuse or overwhelm the cultural significance.

JB: There has been an obsessive focus on your body rather than on your body of work: your artistic life has been as an innovator in filmmaking, performance, installation, and video art. Yet you’ve always defined yourself as a painter.  When you met Jim Tenney, you said, “I’m a painter who paints space as time.” He responded: “I’m a composer who composes time as space.”

CS: The relationship with Jim was intense, and we shared the research we were doing: his in music and science, mine in visual aesthetics and art history. Jim’s work influenced my considerations of dissonance, fragmentation, repetition — the way when you split two elements there is some incremental energy between them, as with collage. Our love fueled and sustained my art. When people said, “This is crap,” there were the two of us rowing our boat together.

JB: And how do you describe that time/space aspect of painting?

CS: It had to do with physicality: the energy of the stroke, the gesture of the arm extending the body into visual space. Also how the painting is relayed through the mysterious intensity of the eye to the surface. There is a kinetic sense of visual tracking, an energizing force between eye and hand, a gestalt to the way everything is perceived to be energetically connected.

JB: Where did that concept of gestalt come from?

CS: When I was eleven I traveled to a museum and was drawn by the intoxicating aroma of oil paint to a room downstairs where adults were painting a still-life. The teacher invited me into the class and set me up with drawing supplies. At one point he took a student’s paper sandwich bag, tore it up, threw the pieces on the floor, and asked everyone if they knew what it was about. No one replied, but I said, “I think it’s about the rhythm between the pieces.” The teacher was pleased and said, “Yes, this is gestalt.”

JB: In that regard, you’ve talked about the influence of Cézanne and the problems he had trying to integrate his bathers within space.

CS: I began as a landscape painter and was going nuts trying to transpose landscape into painting — I wanted the energy of what I was seeing, but the form was so predetermined. Cézanne exemplifies this struggle. His early works are sexualized, misogynist, and possess a dense, visceral erotic energy. I understood the conflict and saw his need to tame it all into structure. Cézanne opened procedural thresholds for me. I began to carve my paintings with razor blades, trying to enter the other side of them.

JB: How did you make the leap from painting space as time to other media?

CS: All my work contains visual sequences — this goes back to my childhood drawings from when I was four or five that are filmic. I used ten pages of images and move through them as if they are time.

JB: Those drawings foreshadow much of the imagery in your art. There is one of a cat springing out of a box, a series of vertical marks beneath the box underscoring its charged movement.

CS: The cat also represents the energy moving between domestic and natural worlds: cats’ grace is in tandem with their delicate intimacy, hunting, and capture. In Fuses (1965), my self-shot experimental erotic film, our cat Kitch is an appreciative witness.

JB: This brings us to another dynamic in your process: your visceral sense of using space to power tension in your work. You have compared it to the vulnerable instant when, climbing stairs, one foot trusts the other to hold steady as it ascends the next step. So much of your art seems to take place within those shifting spaces.

CS: That was my sensation of swinging in a harness in Up to and Including Her Limits (1973-76) [a performance in which Schneemann, suspended in a harness on a three-quarter inch manila rope, sustains an entranced period of drawing. Her extended arm holds crayons that stroke the surrounding walls, accumulating a web of colored marks]. I recognized that the suspension would lead me to another aspect of drawing that I could sustain over a long period of time. It’s an ecstatic feeling, but it takes abdominal strength to keep moving and not spill out of the harness. The work relates to a child’s pleasurable feeling in a swing, but it also addresses Pollock’s extended stroke.

  Carolee Schneemann, “Up to and Including Her Limits,” (1973-76), crayon on paper, rope, harness, Super 8mm film projector, video (color, sound; 29 min.), and six monitors, dimensions variable (The Museum of Modern Art, New York, Committee on Drawings Funds and Committee on Media and Performance Art Funds, 2012, © 2017 Carolee Schneemann, Courtesy the artist, P.P.O.W, and Galerie Lelong, New York)

JB: Meat Joy (1964), — one of your most controversial works — rambunctiously plays with psychic space. You’ve described it as “an erotic rite — excessive, indulgent, a celebration of flesh as material: raw fish, chicken, sausages, wet paint … shifting and turning among tenderness, wildness, precision, abandon; qualities that could at any moment be sensual, comic, joyous, repellent.” Where did that concoction come from?

CS: As a teenager I worked on a chicken farm. Chopping their heads and eviscerating these chickens was very sensuous. When I was in Paris to create Meat Joy, Jean-Jaques Lebel arranged for me to stay at the hotel La Louisiane. My room was directly above a fragrant fish market and I hung a recorder out my window to capture all the cries of the vendors. This would become part of the soundtrack for the performance. The visceral erotic aspect to the work relates to lived experience, and many find disturbing what should be delicious and splendid.

Carolee Schneemann, “Meat Joy” (1964), chromogenic color print of the performance in New York, 5 × 4″ (© 2017 Carolee Schneemann, courtesy the artist, P.P.O.W, and Galerie Lelong, New York, photo by Al Giese)

JB: There is always the body politic in your work, whether it deals with feminism or the atrocities of war and despotism. Video installations are often the medium. How did you go from film to this technology, and how did it impact your process?

CS: Fuses (1965), was done in 16mm. For Viet-Flakes (1965), dealing with the atrocities of the Vietnam War, I used suppressed footage culled from international magazines. Later, computer editing changed my filmmaking process; I could do almost anything with the video system.

JB: Most of your video works are edited as fractured collages that contrast domestic life with horrific catastrophes. Devour (2003-4) loops war footage with domestic intimacy. How did these installations gestate from your earlier works, particularly those featuring your body?

CS: The presence of my body here goes to my empathy with the mutilated bodies. I have the privilege of observation; the privilege of not being threatened, raped, stabbed, hung from a noose. Now I’m considering the destruction of culture in the Middle East. Many of my “nightmare” works like Souvenir of Lebanon (1983-2006) and More Wrong Things (2001) combine images of atrocities with elements from my own environment, mixing my own personal footage and found footage.

JB: Flange 6 rpm (2013), recalls much of your early abstract imagery, yet it addresses your sensual ambiguity — the way in which a projection of raging fire envelops a sculptural series of motorized, poured metal flanges. There’s visceral tension in their gyrating movements toward and away from one another. How did this work come about?

CS: From a dream, like so many of my works. While walking down the street in Soho, I imagined a stick suspended in space and wondered what would happen if I put it in motion. I made drawings and conceived of a motorized computer system. The flange sculptures were originally each hand-formed in a lost wax process, which was then burnt out into a poured aluminum mold. The flange relates to the compendium of V-forms in Venus Vectors (1987), a large sculpture of transparent panels through which one sees V-forms from Paleolithic imagery, pyramids, wings, and one panel that includes a video performance.

Carolee Schneemann, “Flange 6rpm” (2011-13), seven foundry-poured aluminum sculptures, motors (6 rpm), and video (color, silent), dimensions variable (© 2017 Carolee Schneemann, courtesy the artist, P.P.O.W, and Galerie Lelong, New York)

JB: What do you tell students who want to become artists, and what are some of the challenges out there?

CS: There is currently a fundamental difference in the way students initiate their process, because of its digital mediation, and because increasingly formal art education encourages them towards a predetermined concept of what the work must be. There is a sense of, “you tell us what to do and we will do it, then get a gallery and sell work.” I let them know it is chaotic out there in terms of commercialism, I let them know I reject common academic language: I don’t have a “practice,” I have a process. My work has concept, but is not conceptual as such; I don’t “unpack” anything except my travel bag. I tell them to question rhetoric, to stop being fearful of history, to look at what excites them, and to what has vigor and history. You belong to what you inherit and can transform.

Carolee Schneemann: Kinetic Painting will be on view October 22, 2017 – March 11, 2017, at MoMA PS1 (22-25 Jackson Avenue, Long Island City, Queens).

The post Carolee Schneemann on Five Decades of Meat, Harnesses, and Innovation appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Inside the Gypsum-Window Workshop at Jerusalem’s al-Aqsa Mosque

A nearly completed gypsum window sits at the center of the workshop beside al-Aqsa mosque, the third holiest site in Islam (all photos by the author for Hyperallergic)

Walking around Jerusalem’s iconic, gleaming Dome of the Rock with Bassam Hallak is a history lesson, architecture class, and news brief all rolled into one whirlwind tour session.

But Hallak isn’t a tour guide. He’s the chief architect at the Haram al-Sharif, as it is known in the Islamic tradition, which houses the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa mosque, the third-holiest site in Islam. He’s also a very busy man, responsible for the 144-acre site’s upkeep, conservation, restoration, and decoration. On this particular morning, he’s checking in at the Haram’s most hidden artistic treasure: its gypsum-window workshop.

A view of the Dome of the Rock from the chief architect’s office at the Haram al-Sharif

The chief architect’s office is located just beside the Dome of the Rock, in a small, unassuming stone building.

On the stroll from his cluttered office to the southern end of the Haram, Hallak weaves around a large group of worshippers, then a gaggle of American tourists, and then stops to discuss bringing in a new supply of paint with the Israeli police who patrol the grounds. In the shadow of the solemn and stately al-Aqsa mosque, a line of unassuming, tin-roofed sheds is barely noticed by the hundreds of visitors milling about the holy site.

The inside of the chief architect’s office charts the visual and architectural history of the Haram al-Sharif, crammed full of tiles, calligraphy, photographs and ephemera.

The gypsum window workshop is housed in an unassuming tin-roofed building at the southern end of the sanctuary.

“We’re here, we’re at the gypsum workshop!” Hallak assures me as we walk up to the shed on the left. From the outside, it doesn’t look like it could hold much more than a few wheelbarrows. But inside, a team of eight men is working to preserve a particularly Islamic tradition of stained-glass-window making, using techniques that date back hundreds of years.

Inside the gypsum window workshop, a team of eight men navigate the tiny space, a labyrinth of scaffolding, wooden frames, and finished pieces.

“We work on different kinds of gypsum windows, like this one,” Hallak says as we wedge ourselves into the small studio space, filled with iron support rods. In front of us is a mammoth circular rose window with an intricate floral design in a mix of blues, reds, and oranges. “In al-Aqsa mosque, we have around 250 windows, all different sizes. But mostly they are about a width of 90 cm and length around 1.5 meters. Inside the Dome of the Rock we have around 100, and the problem is we have only one specialist on this work.”

Each window starts out on paper; when fully planned, the intricate Islamic designs are then transferred to the blank gypsum with charcoal and pencil.

Each member of the team specializes in different parts of the window-making process. Here, the gypsum, a type of carve-able plaster, is in the early stages of design-carving.

Each window frame is sized and created onsite and then filled with the gypsum plaster.

As if on cue, a man in chinos and a button-down shirt walks through the workshop door. “The others work with him, but he’s the number one,” Hallak says, pointing to the new arrival. Bashir, he explains, has inherited his role as head craftsman from his father, who learned from Bashir’s grandfather. “All of this gypsum is handwork,” Hallak says proudly. “We need about five or six months for each window.”

The workshop is made up of two workrooms, and we follow Bashir into the first, where the process begins. After Hallak decides which of the windows need restoration or replacement, measurements are taken and a new wooden frame is made to fit the space exactly. The frame is then filled with a special type of gypsum. In its natural state, gypsum is a mineral compound used as the main ingredient in different types of plaster. Here, the gypsum mixture is soft enough to be carved by sharp hand tools but sturdy enough to bear the weight of the glass.

Bashir is the most senior gypsum specialist in the workshop. He inherited the position from his father, who learned the craft from Bashir’s grandfather.

The lights in the workshop illuminate the initial rough cuts in an intricate floral pattern.

The carving process is painstakingly precise. A large design plan is mapped out in pencil, then transferred to the gypsum with charcoal. Today, two large arched windows are in the initial stages of carving — plaster litters the floor, and sketches are pinned to the frames for more precise freehand design. The floral and geometric patterns that are prevalent in many traditional Islamic tile designs also decorate the stained-glass windows. When asked how many designs they use, Hallak and Bashir laugh. “Too many!” they say.

Chisels, lathes, and other hand tools are strewn about the workshop, never far from a hot cup of sage tea.

Chief architect Bassam Hallak stands beside the Dome of the Rock. He says that one of the biggest misconceptions about the Haram is that “most people think that the Dome of the Rock is al-Aqsa!”

Hallak makes sure to point out an older stained-glass window from the mid-20th century hanging on the wall. “See how thick?” he asks, pointing at the back of the window, which would have been seen from the inside of the building. Bashir has modernized and perfected the carving technique so that the interior side of the window is clearly considered and very delicate.

The interior side of the window is also angled downward, and the glass appears inset, which adds another level of complexity. “The carving is at a 45-degree angle; it is not straight,” Hallak says. “All these windows, we put them at high levels. We do it at 45 degrees to permit sunlight to enter, because they are so high on the wall.”

We shuffle carefully into the second room, where the glass is applied to the gypsum. Bashir consults with one of his workers, who is measuring the spaces on the exterior side of the window. A sand-like dusting of multicolored glass decorates the floor like glitter. In this room, three men are busy tracing the small negative spaces in the design onto little pieces of glass, which they then cut by hand with knives.

After the design has been fully carved into the gypsum, the window frame moves into the room where glass is applied.

Glass shards are carved by hand to fit the design gaps exactly, then adhered with wet plaster.

One of the workshop team holds a shard of blue glass before a window that is nearly complete.

They work methodically, with bright spotlights shining through the colored windows, and then mix a thinner gypsum, painted to fix the glass shards to the exterior side of the window. When the gypsum dries, the result is a slightly bumpy flat surface that looks nothing like the other side — it’s a bit messier and a bit richer in color due to the fact that there are no angled protruding lines — but it’s no less beautiful.

The walls of the workshop are filled with Arabic calligraphy, design templates, and old frames.

The back of the gypsum window, which is seen from the interior, is more delicate than the front. The neatly angled gypsum is scaled to light the interior of the mosques from their high positions on the walls.

As we leave the workshop, Hallak is called over to the side entrance of al-Aqsa, where prayers are just about to begin. I comment that it must be difficult to oversee the preservation of one of the holiest sites in Islam with so many visitors around all the time. “It’s not difficult!” he exclaims happily, explaining that his team of 70 workers are guaranteed a break around midday prayers, when the site fills with worshippers.

The plaster is applied to the glass on the front of the window. This side, which functions as the exterior of the window, is a bit less finished but still achieves a grand effect from high on the mosque walls.

Back in his office, Hallak tells me he is keen to retire soon but has no idea how he will — he simply has too much to do. He’s 60 and has overseen the Haram for the past 38 years. As he rattles off his to-do list, filled with delicate dome restoration and window installations, it’s hard to imagine someone qualified enough to replace him. “Some days I leave and my head is like this,” he jokes, hands shaking around his head — a man with too much to worry about. “It’s a tough job, but I do like my work.”

The gypsum windows, in situ, at al-Aqsa mosque.

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