#land of poets and thinkers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

obsessive-valentine · 10 months

Text

Yandere!childhood-Friend!Fae x F!reader

You grew up with a mysterious but kind friend, but when you learn the truth about him you become distant from fear that the stories about his kind are true. Despite this you still loved him and gathered up courage to see him one last time before you left town. Did you really think he’d let you leave again? Fae are know to abduct humans to be servants, entertainment or even lovers.

Use of y/n

You grew up on the edge of a small town, in a house with little garden space, enough for a small bed of vegetables and some pretty flowers. However there was plenty of wild land stretching till the next town over, most of it a forest with healthy oak trees and soft mossy ground. Some land was a meadow that always seemed to be glow with a golden hue and and sprout the most beautiful flowers and large daisies even on the gloomy days. Other bits of land had desire paths stomped into the ground, some by your own doing and some by strangers, there was a creek that ran through the town and into the forest then over to the next town. You liked to sit there as a child with the daisies from the meadow and make daisy chains and to fashion into jewellery and crowns.

Your parents though you were a unusually quiet child, never really playing with other kids to long not because of a fault on yours or theirs part; were just happily reserved. So they didn’t bother you to much, believing you were just a thinker who enjoys their own pace, maybe you could grow to be a great poet. However while some of that true you were quieter for other reasons.

You were content with with the friend you had already, you understood early on that one close friend is better than all the friend in the world (maybe with slight persuasion of the friend). You in fact wasn’t slinking out the back door to the forest, promising you’d be home before tea time, to be alone but instead to meet your woodland friend.

You never connected the dots that the friend that you had grown up with was far from human until you began to read more widely, therefore learning about old tales and creatures like werewolf’s, witches and... fae ? Fae that sounded eerily similar to the now young teen in the forest, small horns that will sometimes poke from his hair that you shrugged off to be knotty hair or odd lighting, or the sharp black nails you’d assumed to be a odd fashion statement, or the odd colour of his eyes that you didn’t know was possible but blamed good genetics.

You freaked out a bit when you first realised that this boy wasn’t just a boy from the neighbouring town who enjoyed the forest but rather a fae who are usually depicted as evil, cunning and unpredictable. Maybe the stories are dramatic or just false, he’d never lay a rough hand on you before, rather he’d gently wind together plants and branches with your daisy chain to make you a more extravagant crown, and when he’d gently coax you over the creek holding your hand telling you what rocks to step on, or rub certain leaves on your cuts carefully that ease the pain almost crying himself from seeing you tear up.

You found it hard to believe he was anything like the stories, so after a few days to process the possibility you set out to meet him again. Hopeful that you were over exaggerating and he was just a human boy.

...

Fiddling with the hem of your shirt you walked deeper into the woods following the desire path you and your friend had made through the years, reaching the creek you stepped on the rocks he had guided you over and met the muddy bank on the other side with a squelch as your boots sunk a bit. You watched your footing as you trudged back onto the dry mossy ground, having made the clumsy mistake of falling into the mud many times before, you missed the boy dropping what he was doing and jumping down from a tree before rushing to you.

“Where were you?” The boy sighs frustrated, you jolted on edge from the sudden intrusion but relaxed when you saw it was just him. Although he looked angry as he stomped closer you could understand why “I’m sorry, I was just a bit busy” you chewed your lip, annoyed you hadn’t come up with a better excuse “I’m here now though” you said more like a question and forced a smiled, searching his face for forgiveness.

His eyes softened and a toothy grin crept onto his face “you’re excused” he half joked and your shoulders relaxed fully and almost forgot why you were here when he slipped his hand into yours. Looking down at your fingers intertwined with his soft fingers with talon like nails at the end you couldn’t hide the was your face dropped, he luckily wasn’t looking but rather guiding you to the meadow.

Walking beside him you were as silent as a church mouse, even treading carefully on the forest floor. You couldn’t help but be fearful of what he might be, taking a quiet breath you decided to walk along side him instead of being dragged behind. Now beside him you tried looking at his hair hoping you had made this all up in you’re head, but you saw no horns. Maybe you had just been dramatic so you tried to enjoy the walk with peace of mind.

Finally reaching the meadow you both collapsed into some taller grass that would make a padded place to lay, laying side by your side he talked about his week while looking up at the clouds and occasional butterflies. His parents always sounded strict and unloving, his brother sounded cruel and he had no friends from what you heard, maybe one day he could come for tea ‘mom would love him and maybe that would make him happier’ you thought; feeling guilty you had such a idillic live and him not so much.

Turning your head to face his with a sad smile as he ranted wanting to emphasise or comfort somehow but you found yourself become chocked up, he turned his head to and saw your sour face “but never mind that, I’m here with you and the forest that’s what makes me the most happy”. You however weren’t comforted not even hearing his attempt of lighting the mood, no you were sickly unsettled for another reason. Small but sharp horns that glimmered under the sun, now exposed slightly as his black curls fell oddly when he turned his head uncovering all the evidence you needed.

You jolted up so fast from the grass that your hair ribbon that wrapped around your head keeping stray stands from you face had unraveled from its lovingly tied bow and fell to the grass, the wind began picking up and everything around you became chaotic with the sound of the trees groaning and leaves shaking violently you stumbled back away from the grass that tickled your legs, every piece of grass now feeling like needles. He jumped to his feet just as fast or maybe quicker and grabbed your arm “what is it? Are you okay?” He pushed the hair from your face and tried pulling you closer, there they were again, the horns exposed from the wind. He saw you looking at them and his face dropped his mouth opened to protest but you didn’t give him a chance as you ripped your wrist from his hand and began running for the forest.

He followed closely yelling for you to come back, it started desperate then became frantic before turning demanding , you could have sworn the woods were becoming darker and branches were reaching to trip you. However you got to the creek and ran straight through instead of minding the stepping stones, it’s reached your knees but splashed higher. Climbing the muddy bank with your hands before you became steady enough to climb the rest on your feet you glanced back seeing him run up to the creek and stand there as you ran further away. You never saw him look so angry, fully convinced he was a malicious fae like the ones from the book you ran all the way home.

...

It might have been slightly naive to believe that he would still be in the woods after all these years but you needed closure, needed to walk through the woods and see there was never any threat, that afternoon you had accused a harmless boy of being something he’s not, something that didn’t exist, and the woods hadn’t grown a conscience and tried to trip you and consume you or left a story book monster decide your fate. You wanted to remember this place for what it was, a wild but joyful escape from ordinary life.

Memories change and you believed whole heartedly that everything you experienced that last afternoon in this place was all childish imagination from reading to many books. So it did come as a disturbing realisation as you faced a young man, probably your age with curly dark hair, bright unnatural eyes and shiny dark but sharp winding horns. “It’s okay y/n, just come here for me okay? Then I’ll explain it all to you” he spoke softly just like he used to when attempting to soothe your scrapes. He stood tall with a hand outstretched persuading you to cross the creek and for some reason you couldn’t take another step back but only forwards, it was like you were in a trance like state but still partially conscious.

Maybe if you and done your research, and learned that giving your name to a fae means bad news, you might have had a clue as to what was happing as to why you were compelled to cross the water and let him pull you into a desperate and crushing hug “it’s okay now my love, I’ll never let you leave like I foolishly had before, I’m so sorry” he pulled back a bit to hold your cold cheeks and look into your terrified eyes, his eyes softened from their frantic state as he pushed the stray stands from your face.

He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a ribbon, no it was your ribbon the one that unraveled from your hair as you fled the forest. He wrapped it under your hair and around your head, keeping your hair from your face he kissed your forehead. Had he been here the whole time waiting for you with your old flimsy ribbon? “We’re going to go home now okay?” He spoke slow and condescendingly, holding your face to look him in the eyes. You nodded slightly but stopped when you noticed the subconscious action, he was however satisfied with that and began dragging you into the woods with a hand in yours.

He had only walked about a minute before he heard your sobbing, turning quickly he saw your reluctance in your eyes and your mumbled pleas, but as much as his heart broke seeing you so upset he refused to let you out of the trance he had over you and risk you leaving for good. Instead he slowly picked you up and held you close encouraging you to hide your face from the cold bite of winter and cry into his shoulder.

He continued walking deeper into the woods without regret, he would have taken you kicking and screaming over his shoulder if he had to. Just this way he can rub your back, talk to you calmly and comfortably walk through the entryway to the world where most fae beings reside to take you to his home.

#x reader #yandere #yandere oc #yandere fae #fae folk #fae childhood friend

534 notes · View notes

whencyclopedia · 9 days

Photo

Henry David Thoreau

Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) was an American philosopher, writer, naturalist, and political activist. He is best known for his book Walden, published in 1854, which recounts his two-year experiment living alone in a small cottage at Walden Pond two miles outside Concord, Massachusetts, and his essay On the Duty of Civil Disobedience written in 1849 shortly after his release from a Concord jail for non-payment of a poll tax.

Early Life & Transcendentalism

Thoreau was born in Concord, Massachusetts, on 12 July 1817. He studied at Harvard College and his worldview was shaped by transcendentalism, a belief in the divinity of human nature, which was not a coherent philosophy but an attitude or state of mind that inspired many American intellectuals who flourished between 1820 and 1860. The movement's foremost representative, Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) had given the Phi Beta Kappa commencement address at Harvard with Thoreau in attendance. Other notable transcendentalists were Margaret Fuller, Louisa May Alcott, Walt Whitman, and Bronson Alcott. They were young Americans who had been born into the Unitarianism of New England. According to Perry Miller in his American Transcendentalists, they responded to the new literature of England and the continent "revolting" against the rationalism of Harvard College. Although Protestant, they turned against the Protestant ethic, choosing instead to cultivate the arts of leisure to avoid making money. To some, it was intense individualism, but to others, it was sympathy for the poor and oppressed. Morris wrote: "…the self-reliance and self-determination exalted by the transcendentalists gave to American writers a freedom that vitalized the first period of national letters." (600)

Thoreau graduated in 1837 without distinction and returned to Concord; he viewed Concord as a microcosm of the world. Instead of seeking employment like his fellow graduates, he chose instead to become an observer and interpreter, a "thinker of thoughts, a student of nature and of literature – half-scientist and half-poet" (Mead, 112) He tried teaching for a while and even land surveying. In Walden he wrote, "I did not teach for the good of my fellow man but simply for a livelihood, this was a failure" (65). He even worked for a time in his family's pencil factory. An occasional odd job provided him with enough money to be clothed and fed. He became friends with Emerson, who took him into his home (1841-43) and offered him advice on the craft of poetry and writing. Thoreau moved briefly to New York, living with Emerson's brother, to try to sell some of his essays and poems, but he was unsuccessful.

#History #Philosophy #HenryDavidThoreau #AmericanLiterature

38 notes · View notes

jeannyjaykaydeh · 2 months

Text

A friend of mine and me come from Germany and we call him the „Sahneschnittchen mit Erdbeeren“, which literally translates to „cream slice with strawberries“.

Colloquially, a person who is attractive is also referred to as a cream slice. And the thing about the strawberries is self-explanatory, I think.

Germany - the land of poets and thinkers, or something like that.

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #radio demon #fanart #alastor fanart #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin fandom #hazbin art #hazbin fanart #artwork #art

23 notes · View notes

fitzrove · 6 months

Text

Rambling about Hass in Elisabeth for a REALLY long time. TL;DR - yeah, it is necessary as a song...

Because of the costumes and staging people often just see it as "the antisemitism song", which it is, strongly, but I think sometimes the wider context presented therein is ignored. Really, the song shows how antisemitism and hatred are fuelling and entangled with other movements!!

The nationalists in that song come from various groups and social classes, and identify as their enemies:

Socialists

Pacifists

Jewish writers

Jewish women

"Those who are not like us"

Crown prince Rudolf (because of his - historically strong - friendships and other positive associations with Jews)

The Habsburgs as a whole

Elisabeth and her Heinrich Heine (= a Jewish poet) monument project (which also attracted such strong criticism from German nationalists [Austrian Germans who were nationalists, not "Germans" in the modern sense] historically)

Hungary

The "barons" - so the nobility

The "slavic state"

The ongoing "betrayal of the people"

And to contrast, they identify as good:

Strength ("the strong wins, the weak fails", and also "strong leaders") and "purity"

"Unity"

Glory/splendour ("pracht")

Christian values

"Unified Germany", an alliance with Prussia and even an Anschluss (the joining of Austria and other "ethnically German" [so-called] lands to the German Reich. Hmm does anyone remember who also strove for and eventually implemented this... /s)

The conservative Wilhelm II as emperor (again, they want to join Austria into the German Reich)

So like. There is a glorification of all things "German" and of conservative values (religion) and reactionary power politics ("weakness" was and is by similar groups now considered to be a major flaw of liberalism and a liberal world order - in the song, pacifism and socialism are also connected to it), as exemplified by Wilhelm II's Germany specifically. To contrast, racial enemies ("non-Germans") threatening "racial purity" must be eliminated, with violence if necessary. And the Habsburg monarchy, being a multinational empire, is described as immoral and weak because of it being multinational (and the position of Slavs and Hungarians in politics and imperial administration).

The themes of "betraying the people" (Volksverrat) are especially interesting because the enemies of the nationalists as listed in the song, Jewish women, pacifists and socialists, were also the people blamed for German defeat in WW1 (the "stab in the back" at the home front myth). It's overall 19th and 20th century anti-establishment fascist imagery.

Ajdkkf I don't think I'm clearly making my argument but the song's key functions are:

To dispel the myth of the late 19th century being "the good old days", the glory days of Austria before the world wars somehow magically came to happen and ruined it. In fact, the songs shows that the developments leading to the world wars stem from politics and mass movements of hatred that developed alongside and gave power to & drew power from nationalism in the 19th century

To show the audience exactly what Rudolf is talking about in "Die Schatten werden Länger (reprise)". What is the "evil that is developing"? It's not Rudolf's personal petty wish for more power, or his angst about not being emperor yet, or some generic amorphous disdain for how FJ is reigning; it's not the lack of Hungarian independence either, for god's sake. I will die on this hill, if you cut Hass or replace it with conspiracy or whatever you can cut Rudolf as well, Elisabeth as a show is (in my opinion) a good portrayal of him precisely because it depicts him as a political thinker (in contrast to many depictions and post-Mayerling accounts which diminish that and just talk about Mayerling and his "immorality" - a talking point devised by the nationalists and antisemitists who hated him lol, liberal politics were connected to lack of morality) and someone who, unlike most of his contemporaries, saw that antisemitism, emphasis on "power" and realist power politics, exclusionary/hateful rhetoric and excess nationalism would lead to ruin. AND Hass also shows that he was hated by the German nationalists for this! As was his mother, for her sympathy to Heine...

To connect genuine popular dissatisfaction (from Milch - Hass is a reprise of Milch in terms of rhythm and the call-and-response structure where Lucheni talks to the crowd) with inequality, the lack of democracy and the excesses of royalty... to the rise and presentation of fascism as a "solution"

To show that 19th century nationalism was, in many ways, exclusionary, antisemitic, racist and "war-mongering", and that this rhetoric is old - not somehow magically appearing for WW2 and then disappearing again - and will time and again rise... and that it's everyone's responsibility to recognise it for what it is when it happens, if we are to have a reasonable, decent world to live in.

The framing of Hass sometimes confuses people I will never recover from that one post cancelling Elisabeth das musical for being antisemitic because Hass exists ajiddfkdllfgl what's next, it's pro-suicide and homophobic because a character technically dies from being gay? but to me it's rather clear that it's unsympathetic lol, with the whole doomsday atmosphere (no music, just footsteps/marching and drums and screaming, it's meant to be threatening), the way the ensemble harshly criticises the most sympathetically portrayed characters we have seen so far (Elisabeth and Rudolf) for things that seem petty and harmless (having Jewish friends), and the extremely direct comparison drawn to N*zism (to indicate what such a movement would develop to) in many stagings. I don't know how to say this but somehow I've always assumed that "H*tler and n*zism = evil" is EXTREMELY common knowledge and it mystifies me when people like. Think it should have been stated more clearly in the show. Like, the show is working off the assumption that you know what it is and that it's bad because of the millions and millions of people they killed............. this is EXTREMELY common knowledge in Europe, not least in Germany and Austria lol.

So um yeah akwkldlf, sorry for the ramble, I just feel like the song can be poorly understood and criticised on shaky ground sometimes. I mean, I am not Jewish and not equipped to talk about whether it's triggering or traumatising to watch especially with lived or family experience of antisemitic violence... But I think for non-Jewish people there is a huge responsibility to be aware and vigilant of antisemitism, historically and in the present, and sometimes it needs to be hammered home for people to understand...

By that last point I also somewhat mean... I think you don't "get" to be triggered by it if you're not Jewish but perhaps otherwise affected by politics of hatred. Of course I'm not emotions police lol, but many Jewish people have intergenerational trauma AND have to live with extremely similar antisemitic rhetoric and culture to this day, so there I understand criticisms - and there is also a discussion to be had about how and to what extent it is ok to use and display Jewish suffering as a device to educate non-Jewish people.

But anyway, to my original point. This is something I've seen people say and I just... if you're queer and it makes you uncomfortable to see Hass because modern n*zis hate you and it's traumatic, I mean, it's valid to feel uncomfortable and you can choose not to watch it personally to avoid being triggered, but you don't get to call for it to be erased from the show for "problematic content" or for "escapism" or to make you feel better. It is there because the destruction of the 19th century world, and Rudolf's and Elisabeth's suffering, is intrinsically tied to the rise of such hateful politics and without that being shown there is no show. You don't get to make it something it's not, this show is not ONLY an epic gothic romance with imaginary boyfriend, it's a commentary on past, present and future politics in that it shows the dangers of conservatism, antisemitism, racism and illiberalism. Calling for or supporting censorship, or state emphasis on militarism/"destroying the enemy", or advocating hatred, violence or oppression against any group based on ethnicity, religion, race, political views, etc. are all political stances held by and propagated by various people today in various political contexts. And you are not immune to antisemitism or reactionary nationalism if you're queer or whatever, so you have the constant responsibility to think critically about your worldview and your politics!!

#politics #musicals #theatre

23 notes · View notes

isfjmel-phleg · 4 months

Text

@inklings-challenge here is my contribution to day 19's prompt, "amateur."

This is an excerpt from a Coregean novel, The Amateur Princess, as described here. It's not the brilliant extravaganza I had in my head, unfortunately (I tried something more detailed but it was too ambitious for my current capabilities), but hopefully it gets the idea across.

Loriston society seldom had anything notable enough to warrant the rapt attention of throngs of ennui-stricken aristocrats. They were already accustomed to the ways of the Coregean royal family. They yawned over the most sensitive of poets, whispered through the performances of musicians whose work was renowned on the Continent, and favored the world’s greatest thinkers with only a half-hearted “how do you do?” It required a truly exceptional human being to command the regard of these jaded creatures, and at last society had found such a one: the exiled Princess Grayce of the tiny nation of Anatavia, somewhere in the southeastern mountains of the Continent. No one quite knew where to locate this land on a map. But one could locate Princess Grayce any evening at the residence of the Duchess of Ampnowle, surrounded by admirers. For not only was Princess Grayce amiable and beautiful—golden-haired and blue-eyed, with a foreign, high-cheekboned face—but she also told the most engaging tales.

That night a crowd had gathered around, begging for an account of how she alone of her family had escaped from the turmoil that deposed her father the king and brought a usurper to the throne.

“It really is quite painful to recall it, I am afraid,” said Her Royal Highness in a tremulous voice. She spoke excellent Coregean with hardly any accent, for it was one of the languages of the court in her homeland. “Surely you can imagine what a heartbreaking thing it is to lose everything you love in one night.”

The nobility, none of whom had lost anything more devastating than a small fortune at the gambling table, groaned in exquisite sympathy.

Princess Grayce acknowledged their kindness with the slightest smile and a regal little nod.

“For your sakes,” she said, “I shall do my best.”

And she did. She related an account full of palace intrigue, concealed crown jewels, faithful retainers, a daring plan for escape, and a devastating betrayal, resulting in the Princess Grayce getting separated from her mother, brother, and sister while en route to safety in neighbouring Ivica, only to hear upon arrival of the tragic assassination of her father at the hands of the conquering King Jellick’s supporters, while the rest of the royal family remained missing.

Amid the cries and gasps of her audience, Princess Grayce had managed to maintain most of her composure, but it was at this point that Her Royal Highness’s eyes filled with glittering tears that trickled down her stately nose like fallen diamonds. For a time, she could hardly speak. The Duchess placed a gloved hand on hers and patted it with the tenderness of a mother. Not a soul in that room was unmoved by the sight of the Princess Grayce as her delicate form shook with sobs.

As she was starting to recover, a gentleman asked, “Where did you go next?”

She dabbed at her face with a lace-edged handkerchief. “I had nothing left but a locket that my parents had given me for my sixteenth birthday. I sold it and bought a train ticket to Vischland, which was as far away from Jellick’s influence as I could afford. From there, I earned my passage to Corege as a lady’s companion until I reached Loriston and made the acquaintance of the dear Duchess.” She smiled a feeble little smile at her hostess.

“But why,” persisted the gentleman, “did you not go to Ivica as you originally intended? Your elder sister is their queen; surely she would have taken you in.”

Princess Grayce said nothing. She clenched the arms of her chair and went white, then red.

When at last she spoke, it was with a note of reproach. “Do you not,” she said, “recall that Ivica itself is under threat? A party not unlike Jellick’s is gaining power, and my brother-in-law King Kostandin has pleaded with your own king for aid. How could I enter that country without causing greater problems for my dear Viera? I wouldn’t wish what I suffered on anyone, least of all my own sister. For her to accept me into her home now would be to acknowledge and give credence to…what happened in Anatavia, which would only send a message that if one deposition can be managed, so can another. I couldn’t go there.”

“Is that why you haven’t presented yourself at Rhosemore…Your Royal Highness?” asked the gentleman.

“Your gracious king,” said Princess Grayce, “has not yet invited me. Whenever he does so, I shall be delighted to accept. But at the moment I cannot intrude upon his hospitality. The generosity of the Duchess has already been more than I could have hoped for.” She went misty-eyed again but collected herself. “And if there are no further questions tonight…?”

Even the inquisitive gentleman had nothing further to add.

Princess Grayce rose and curtsied in the elaborate Anatavian fashion. “In that case, I shall retire for the evening, but I would be delighted to meet with you all again soon. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

And with a regal wave, she swept out of the room in a cloud of white lace.

Away in the Duchess’s finest guest bedroom, a golden-haired young lady had put aside her lace finery in exchange for a silken wrapper and had dismissed her maid (loaned to her by her boundlessly munificent hostess) for the evening. She sat for a time at her dressing table, studying her reflection in the glass in various attitudes, ending with disgust.

“Who does he think he is?” she muttered in tones quite unlike the silvery ones heard in the Duchess’s drawing room. “Thank heaven I remembered.”

Within the drawer of the dressing table lay the evening newspaper, folded as small as possible. Snatching this up, she strode near the fire and paced in front of it for a time, reading every article of world news as religiously as a university student “cramming” for an “exam.” Unlike a diligent student, however, she took no notes. When the final article had been pored over, the newspaper fluttered onto the grate and began to darken and shrivel into ashes.

“I’ll be ready for him tomorrow,” vowed Tresta Gild.

Nature had granted her the gift of total recall of anything she read, a talent which had served her well in her years as a confidence woman. From the time the identity of Princess Grayce had fallen into her lap, her knowledge of Anatavia and its former royal family, gleaned from every book, newspaper, or magazine on which she could get her hands, had increased until she had nearly encyclopedic knowledge of the subject—inasmuch as was written and published.

And much of the life of Princess Grayce, whatever had truly become of her, remained locked away in the memories of those close to her.

Cresta began to suspect that she had just met one of them.

#the chesterton challenge #The Blackberry Bushes #The Blackberry Bushes worldbuilding #my writing #The Amateur Princess #I think this is a story better suited to the capabilities of fictionadventurer than to me!

7 notes · View notes

ohshy · 1 year

Text

more punch out headcanons

- I imagine every circuit has a person who tries to be friends or atleast on good terms w/ everyone. For the minor circuit it's Disco Kid, for the major circuit it's Bear Hugger, and for the world circuit it's Soda Popinski.

- Disco kid's very good at figure skating. He’s currently teaching SMM how to do it, with mixed results. Macho, like Doc has commented, can spin very well, but his landings leave a lot to be desired. Macho freaks out every time he does, afraid he'll ruin his pearly whites.

- So-called free thinkers (Glass Joe) when la Marseille starts playing

- SMM was born into a rich family. As a kid, he was able to practice any hobby he wanted to. Boxing was one he happened to have the most talent for. Like Macho Man, Disco Kid comes from riches as well. Unlike Macho man, however, Disco is as nice as can be, but doesn't take boxing as seriously.

- King hippo being 6 plus foot atleast + big n muscular as hell + resting bitch face + deep voice = accidentally intimidates people all the time. The funny thing is, however, he's actually the runt of his family. His ma n pop are 7 foot and 7'5 foot respectively

- The reason poor Von Kaiser is as traumatized as he is, is due to severe bullying at school because of his tics. that’s what happened in the slideshow; his trauma triggered from kids laughing at him.

- Von Kaiser 🤝 Piston Hondo being bullied as kids over their tics

- King Hippo? More like King AUTISM

- Bear Hugger knows a lot about survival in the wild, and loves camping out. Once, he invited the whole WVBA on a big camping trip. Big mistake, several people (namely SMM, Aran Ryan and Don Flamenco) littered, used a ton of ozone unfriendly sprays to get rid of bugs and were either disgusted by (SMM and Don flamenco) or pestering (Aran Ryan) the animals. As a result of this fiasco, he only invites trusted people on his camping trips anymore.

- Piston Honda's dad is a poet, and taught his son all about all kinds of japanese proverbs, which is why Honda's always reciting them during intermissions.

- SMM’s crowd, when they’re not booing him or throwing produce at him, sometimes sing the song ‘’Macho Man’’ by the Village People at him. Why? Because it's funny and they're doing it ironically. SMM is completely unaware of this though; he thinks they're admiring him.

- SMM often hosts ''Best Circuit'' parties for the world circuit. Bald Bull and Mr. Sandman will stand in the corner awkwardly watching the others dance, while Aran and Soda absolutely KILL it on the dance floor. Aran will also often embarrass Macho in front of ladies he's trying to flirt with.

#punch out #disco kid #super macho man #von kaiser #king hippo #bear hugger #piston hondo #piston honda #aran ryan #soda popinski #bald bull #mr. sandman #since u guys enjoyed my other ones sm heres some more thoughts i have #i just rly love these funky little boxers :D

50 notes · View notes

breha · 10 months

Text

[T]hose maligning [Jewish] non- or anti-Zionists are not saying they are not Jews; it’s even worse than that. These critics argue that those who diverge from the Zionist platform are essentially anti-Jews, or counter-Jews, because for these enforcers, Zionism – meaning support for the state of Israel as a Jewish state – has become a more essential marker of Jewish identity than Jewish practice, or any other criteria. [...]

[W]hat happens if we take the argument that anti-Zionism is antithetical to Jewishness seriously – in fact, more seriously than some of these Zionist or pro-Israel enforcers do? The problem with this argument is that it’s easily contradicted by Zionist history itself. Some well-known early Zionists would have enthusiastically agreed that they themselves were out of step with any notion of normative Jewishness. Take, for example, the radical Zionist Mikhah Yosef Berdyczewski who identified himself as the “last Jew and the first Hebrew.” Or the Canaanites, a small but influential artistic and ideological movement in Palestine and then Israel in the 1940s and ’50s, founded by poet Yonatan Ratosh, who openly repudiated Judaism and Jewishness in favor of a new Hebrew nation – one that was explicitly not “Jewish.” To those familiar with the history of Zionism, it is well-known that many of these early Zionist ideologues viewed Zionism as the replacement for Judaism – not a complement or extension of it, nor a faction within it. Zionism as a political movement was, in effect, Judaism’s fulfillment, in the sense of completion; returning to the land of Israel was meant to make the Jewish religion superfluous. Even the most conventional Zionists of that era were devoted to the creation of a Hebrew – not necessarily Jewish – nation. Debates about Judaism as a religion, and Jewishness as an identity, were central to early Zionist thought. For example, the foundational Zionist thinker Ahad Ha’Am argued for cultural Zionism, the idea that Israel should become a “spiritual center” for world Jewry, in parallel with the continued Jewish diaspora. On the other hand, one of the tenets of early Zionism, exemplified in its extreme by Berdyczewski and the Canaanite movement, but present in most Zionist ideology, was the “negation of exile” (or the “negation of the diaspora”) – the erasure of exilic existence (and its supposed ills) through the foundation of a state in the Jewish homeland. As one can see, the relationship of early Zionists to Judaism was often quite tortured and complex. Today’s “heresy hunting” ignores, dismisses, or perhaps is simply unaware of the utterly radical, and revolutionary, nature of Zionism itself. It elides how Zionism often claimed to replace Judaism, which some viewed derisively as essentially a product of exile. It ignores recent Jewish history and culture, before most of American Jewry had become Zionist, and before statist Zionism was the dominant form of the Jewish national project. These simplistic thinkers who attack non-Zionist and anti-Zionist Jews don’t realize that the Zionism they take as coextensive with Judaism today was, for many of its architects, meant to be the alternative to Judaism.

On Jews, un-Jews, and anti-Jews from The Necessity of Exile: Essays From A Distance by Shaul Magid

8 notes · View notes

nigrit · 2 months

Text

Anon [Louis de Champcenetz?], The War of the Districts, or the Flight of Marat, Heroi-comical poem in three cantos (Paris: n.p., July? 1790)

Part 2 (of 5)

Epigraph:[1]

“Fert animus causas novarum [tantarum] expromere rerum/

Ridiculumque [Immensumque] aperitur opus, quid in arma furentem/

Impulerit populum, quid pacem excusserit urbi [orbi]?” Lucan.[2]

Preface one can read:

It is said that the great Homer did not disdain to write a heroic-comic poem; Batrachomyomachia, that is to say, the war of the frogs and the rats.[3] The districts will perhaps be upset that we presumed to compare them with such creatures; but poetry has its licence.

TASSONI, in Italy, wrote the poem Secchia rapita, that is, The stolen bucket.[4] Voltaire said of him:

“O TASSONI! In your long composition,

So lavish with verse yet sparing in force;

Shall I, in my strange fate’s condition,

Implore from your moody languors, recourse?”

We have endeavoured in this trifle to do the opposite of the Italian poet, & the districts will not hesitate to say that we have failed; which will be generous enough. [5]

BOILEAU wrote the Lutrin; POPE, The Rape of the Lock, & VOLTAIRE, The Civil War of Geneva. We took a lower tone than all these gentlemen. The verses of seven syllables run like prose, the rhyme returns constantly, & when we interweave it with art, it produces a pleasant effect. A poem of this kind is only valuable for its display of imagination & ease, which is grace [state?] of mind, as VOLTAIRE often used to say. In poetry, it is very difficult to be effortless. For the rest, we leave it up to the gentlemen of the districts to judge whether our talent has surpassed our intentions. Although this poem is comic, we would still prefer it made them cry rather than to see them laugh; which is horrible to admit, but we must not be hypocrites.

All Europe knows the adventure of the famous MARAT, & the arsenal that was deployed for and against him. So we will say no more about it: the poem will tell the rest. It should have appeared long ago if the plot of COUNTER-REVOLUTION had not delayed it.[6] We wished to land 50 well-armed ships of the line at night, between the Pont-Neuf and the Pont-Royal, and 60 thousand Croats by balloon on the plain of Grenelle. All of this kept us very busy, and for the success of such a bold project, we would have sacrificed this joke; but we can no longer do so with a clear conscience. We hope that this confession will reconcile our poem to messieurs [MM.] NECKER, BAILLY, LA FAYETTE, & the gentlemen of THE DISTRICTS, who fear the stings of ridicule less than the wounds of sabres & cannons. It is a good habit & a laudable caution. [7]

First Canto:

You who once sang of the fights

between the frogs & the rats,

On the banks of the Scamander;

Come, hasten to defend: [8]

Muse! Lend me your voice

I shall recount the exploits,

Of this formidable district

Where the valiant bourgeois,

So firmly upheld the rights

Of an incomparable Genius.[9]

Marat (1), this profound thinker

With his daily pen,

Wearied the gentle mood

Of this young Dictator, [3]

Whose Parisian glory

Is worth as much, upon my honour,

As his American glory.

NECKER the calculator,

Tireless borrower,

Found in him a censor.

BAILLY, this supreme mayor,

Had him always on his hands;

He cried out for condemnation,

And found no consolation.

These three famous personages,

Annoyed by so much outrage,

Gathered together one day:

Then, without further delay,

NECKER said to la FAYETTE;

“We must make a hasty move.

MARAT, this ugly writer,

Pours his venom upon us;

He’s a noisy rattlesnake.

He makes me look rather dim;

Already the rumours are spreading;

So in order to avoid that

We must finally arrest him”.

The Mayor adds his support

To the Genevan’s speech;

And with a troubled soul,

Complains to the young hero,

That MARAT, this king of fools,

Insults his livery and luxury

At every opportunity. [6]

“Drawing unjustified disdain,

Should I, without fanfare,

Wander through Paris

Like some minor part?

Luxury is essential for me

To dazzle the masses with pageantry.

So, without too much thought,

You must resort to locking

Up this malicious hack.

All things considered,

And the hero prepared,

He tells them in a proud voice:

“Gentlemen, I agree to all;

Your opinions are very sound.

MARAT, ceaselessly devotes himself,

To directing his criticisms,

Against our natural talents;

I will arm all my fighters,

Abduct this caustic writer,

And tomorrow he’s in jail.

Then the Trio kiss cheeks,

While holding each other’s hand,

Saying, ‘Until tomorrow’.

They are overcome with bliss.

Alas! How fickle man is!

What frivolous hope!

Their words make them happy;

Tomorrow, fate may turn.

BAILLY, preceded by a page

In his pompous attire,

Returns home briskly;

NECKER goes more slowly.

Like DUBOIS, his colleague,

LA FAYETTE proudly,

Mounts his white horse:

He is followed from behind,

By GOUVION & DUMAS (2),

And by four or five soldiers.

But this swift Goddess

Who ceaselessly flies without pause,

To warn humankind

Of good & bad designs;

Enters this church

where FRANCIS OF ASSISI reigns,

And addresses the brave warriors

of the Cordeliers District:

“BAILLY, NECKER & LA FAYETTE,

By a terrible pact,

Wish to abduct MARAT;

Tomorrow they intend

To execute this brilliant feat;

Fear everything, I repeat,

From this proud TRIUMVIRATE.

This having been said, the Messenger

Vanishes like a bolt of lightning,

Her feet tracing a graceful

Thread of light across the air.

The bourgeois quite dazzled, [8]

Are no less dumbfounded.

D’ANTON (3), immediately begins;

D’ANTON, firm president,

Even prouder than ARTABAN: [10]

“Why then this great silence?

Are we then cowards?

We have battalions.

MARAT, this patron Saint

Of the surrounding districts,

Will he be captured like some corsair,

For handing out lessons

To half-baked despots

Whom we no longer require?

What happens to liberty

If this crime is committed?

The battle is necessary;

His paper is good & fine,

It's a true PALLADIUM;

If he is forced to be quiet,

Gentlemen, it's the end of ILION. [11]

This display of erudition

Impresses the crowd;

They cannot decide:

When, making his move,

Mr FABRE D'EGLANTINE (4),

Adjusting his ugly face,

Rises up on his heels.

Acting all important,

Like a pompous French pedant.

Once, a lousy actor

From the regions & perfect scoundrel,

Who prides himself on doggerel;

He wrote a comic play,

Where, in a bombastic role,

Poor MOLÉ went quite hoarse.

Let's leave his portrait there,

And talk about the meeting.

“The speech of the great d’ANTON

Proves he is no coward”,

he says, with confidence,

“Here is the consequence:

If tomorrow we fight,

We’ll lose the battle.

I cannot deny

That MARAT is a genius,

Well-known across Europe;

But for one person,

despite the solace of philosophy,

Should we cripple ourselves,

And see a district defeated?

As for me, I must confess,

And I intend to be praised for it,

I cherish peace above all;

And if some ARISTOCRAT

Were to push me to blows,

I would be a good DEMOCRAT,

And would sue him.

With pen and ink,

No harm is done; [10]

But this gunpowder,

And these metal bullets,

All do such devilish harm,

And lead a miserable soul

Straight to hospital:

I know this commonplace.

Gentlemen, here is justice;

MARAT from us is requested,

Their wish must be respected;

(Let one perish for all)".

At these words, the great d’ANTON

Says to him: ‘THERSITES-faced, [12]

Your morality is poisonous;

Leave the church now,

Or fear the truncheon blows.

Gentlemen, can you believe this traitor?

Will such a revered district

Be dishonoured?

No, you fear it too much to be so;

I know your hearts well;

Come, we will be Victorious’.

NAUDET, famous captain (5),

Who one often sees on stage,

Winning countless battles,

With his mighty arm,

Assures them of victory;

Every bourgeois, convinced,

By his determined tone,

Was obliged to believe him. [11]

Father GOD, Cordelier (6),

Whose countenance is bellicose,

Tells them, in a tipsy voice,

While rolling up his sleeve:

“Having had breakfast,

I said my Sunday mass:

But I swear on my cord,

Not to touch another

Drop of communion wine,

Unless SAINT-FRANÇOIS, my patron,

For whom I preached a sermon,

Lends his assistance to

The followers of OBSERVANCE.

Gentlemen, we will help you,

Our fathers are good fellows

Once they have filled their bellies;

Victory will be ours”.

This somewhat bacchic speech,

Yet also quite heroic,

Lifts bourgeois hearts;

They immediately take a vote;

The warrior party prevails.

And this brave cohort

Disperses in a moment,

To arm themselves. [12]

Notes to the First Canto [10-14]:

(1) MARAT, former physician. Unlike PERRAUT, who became a good architect after leaving his first profession; MARAT did not become a good writer. Opium was his universal remedy when he practised medicine, & he lavishes it upon his readers with the same abundance. This is the power of habit; as Pascal is supposed to have said (that it is a first nature). It is he who writes L'AMI DU PEUPLE, a newspaper that devours all others, like the serpent of Aaron.[13]

We composed the following quatrain at a time when the districts defended themselves so well: it is addressed to the Parisians.

Your noble courage cannot be praised enough,

And you will always be lauded by GARAT;

Conquered by you, the King groans in bondage,

And you have saved MARAT.

(2) Messieurs GOUVION & DUMAS. The former is M. de LA FAYETTE’s henchman. He advises him, he leads him, he pushes him. He is a cunning, false, cold, insinuating, intriguing, impudent man. His friends find in him only the vice of drunkenness; the indifferent are not so indulgent. The other has almost the same faults; scælus; quos inquinat, æquat; but he does not get drunk.[14] This man, whose talents are ambiguous, and who, from an obscure, even dubious, birth, has risen to the rank of colonel, & who had replaced M. de GUIBERT in the council of war, had nothing more urgent than to throw himself into the revolution, mistaking ingratitude for patriotism.

(3) D'ANTON, lawyer for the Conseil du Roi. Zealous DEMAGOGUE, with more character than wit, & who believes MARAT to be a great genius. He was president of the Cordeliers district at the time of the famous adventure.

(4) There is nothing left to say about FABRE D'EGLANTINE in the poem. He is the author of the sequel to Le Misanthrope; a work lacking style, filled with declamations & bad taste. The character of the Misanthrope has some charm, but is exaggerated, likewise Philinte. MOLÉ prefers this comedy to that of MOLIÈRE. Trahit sua quemque voluptas [Each to their own]. [15]

(5) NAUDET, former sergeant in the French Guards; he is a gentleman, whose talent does not bother anyone, & who has nothing to reproach himself for except the clothes he wears. He is a captain in the National Guard.

(6) Father GOD served as a model for VOLTAIRE, for his Grisbourdon.[16] The praise is not slight.

[1] La Guerre des Districts, ou la Fuite de Marat, Poème héroi-comique, en trois chants, BnF (Rés), Receuil de Facéties en vers (2), p.3128. On the titlepage (after the Preface), ‘Fuite’ is changed to ‘Enlèvement’.

[2] “My mind moves me to set forth the causes of these new [great] events/And ridiculous [huge] is the task before me to show what cause/Drove peace from the city [world] and forced a frenzied nation to take up arms?", from Lucan, Pharsalia [aka De Bello Civil], bk1, p.66 (Loeb). Lucan’s epic poem tackled the civil war between Caesar and Pompey. Here, the poem’s author has subtly adapted the epigraph for its new Parisian context; the original Latin is indicated inside the brackets. Lucan’s poem had also been invoked during the 16th-Century French Wars of Religion, when its description of events as sacrilegious manifestations of insanity, struck a chord.

[3] This parody of Homer’s The Iliad is usually translated into English as ‘The battle of the frogs and the mice’. Despite ‘winning’, the ‘mice’ are driven off by Zeus with a Deus ex machina intervention of a crack troop of crabs. It is now generally ascribed to Pigres of Hallicarnassus rather than Homer.

[4] Allessandro Tassoni (1565-1635) was famous for this mock-epic poem, also known as The Rape of the Pail.

[5] It is unclear whether the ‘We’ [nous] here, refers to a singular or plural ‘we’, and thus a singular or double authorship.

[6] A clever double meaning and possible reference to Suleau’s Picardy adventure for which he was arrested, as mentioned in the introduction.

[7] The poem being parodied featured divine intervention, grandiose speeches, heroic genealogies and paradeigma. It is intended to be read aloud.

[8] A river in Troy that features in The Iliad.

[9] [CJ:you don’t actually say what a district is and when the change to sections happened (June 1790).]

[10] The expression, “Fier comme Artaban” comes from a character in Gauthier de la Calpranède’s historical novel, Cleopatra (1657). Its English equivalent might be ‘proud as a peacock’.

[11] Archaic name for Troy.

[12] A foolish, hunched character from Homer’s Iliad.

[13] This footnote acknowledges the growing influence of Marat’s paper. When Moses and Aaron appeared before the Pharaoh, Aaron turned his rod into a serpent to swallow the ‘serpent’ rods of Pharaoh’s sorcerers (Exodus 7:10-12).

[14] ‘Crime; those it contaminates, it makes equal’.

[15] Francois-Réné Molé (xx-xx) was an actor in the Comédie-Francaise.

[16] A character in La Pucelle. “Father God” appears to be an allusion to Danton.

#la fuite de Marat #Jean-Paul Marat #French Revolution #poetry #counter-revolutionary #General Lafayette #libel #Jacques Necker #Georges Danton #marat

2 notes · View notes

fatehbaz · 2 years

Text

I think a lot about water, in this time. […] Whisperings of rivers that greet the sea. The currents [...]. The saltiness of estuaries that ebb through the roots of mangroves. Waters that return to themselves, always different, streaming off, merging back, sinking in. […]

To refuse is usually understood as being-against: the Bartleby-an preference not to; refusal as strike, occupation, boycott, cancellation, retaliation, resistance, from passive evasions to spectacles of revolution. The no of refusal is a mode of survival: an impenetrable boundary, silent or shouted. It is a refusal to be killed or to succumb: the Indigenous refusal of colonial recognition, the Black refusal of white erasure and enclosure. But before refusal as dialectic, in the now unused meaning found in common Latin, refusal also meant to give back, to restore, to return.

Derived from re-, “back”, and fundere-, “to pour”, this meaning fell out of use, likely because conversational Latin was not transcribed but comprised of evolving and diverging dialects […]. The addition of refusal as return – a definition always already slipping away, consigned to hearsay and archival traces – disarranges refusal’s march towards the future [...]. An understanding of refusal as return [...] unsettles narratives of resistance that are framed only in opposition. [...] The idea of pouring back or watering expands the conceptualisation of refusal as an act of liberation. Refusal as return swells refusal’s imagination-otherwise [...]. Vast ecosystems flattened for plantations [...], raw minerals pulled from the ground and sea for the building of [...] war [...]. The ordering of land into resource [...] has been arbitrated by those who profit [...]. Return disavows final consolidation [...]. On the contrary, the past illuminates the limitations of capitalist time and the fallibility of colonial history. Return is a reckoning with what is presumed to be universal. [...]

As well as the being-against of refusal, return allows for a being-with, a sitting-with. [...] A return is an invitation to humble oneself to another approach. Being-with requires a pause from which to imagine otherwise, in all of its vastness and uncertainty. It is a moment between, where one is asked to hold onto many possibilities at once.

To be-with [...] needs a disposition of attentiveness, [...] an attunement, following I-Kiribati poet and thinker Teweiariki Teaero when he says, “two ears, one mouth, don’t talk too much. Learn to listen more,” or Fijian academic Unaisi Nabobo-Baba when she speaks of silence as a “pedagogy of deep engagement”. [...]

The immensity of the loss of people and ecologies to capitalist brutalities exceeds what we can comprehend. But as Indigenous and Black Studies scholars, artists, and ecologists show, so do the myriad, and insuppressible flourishings and alliances, the joyfulness and love, the lives lived otherways. Attunement leads us to the gaps and silences and soundings that run through everything, that connect the earth and all who live and die.

---

Text by: AM Kanngieser. “To undo nature; on refusal as return.” transmediale. 2021.

#tidalectics #carceral geography #archipelagic thinking #sacrifice zones and extractivism etc #caribbean #multispecies

30 notes · View notes

oomphband · 1 year

Text

Listen to our second single on Spotify here

"Richter und Henker" deals with communication and behavior, especially on social media these days, where dissenters get defamed: 'If you don't support my opinion, you're against me. Then you are stupid and I hate and insult you and won't listen to you anymore'. This can easily lead to a loss of objective discussions, which are crucial in a democracy. Irresponsible populists sow hatred and discontent in order to make political and monetary profit from it. Germany, the so-called land of poets and thinkers, is in danger of becoming the land of judges and executioners [ger: Richter und Henker] - and we've been through that before... In the video for the song, we perform in an old, run-down mansion, which symbolizes the impending decay of society. In the calm interlude, reason - personified by our young performer - is put up against the wall by an execution squad.

#napalmrecords #neuedeutschehärte #witzkivisions

#Spotify

10 notes · View notes

garadinervi · 2 years

Photo

Weiße Rose, Leaflet #2 [Summer 1942] [Weiße Rose Stiftung e.V., München. United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, Washington, D.C.]

The Second Leaflet

«It is impossible to engage in intellectual discourse with National Socialism because it is not an intellectually defensible program. It is false to speak of a National Socialist philosophy, for if there were such an entity, one would have to try by means of analysis and discussion either to prove its validity or to combat it. In actuality, however, we face a totally different situation. At its very inception this movement depended on the deception and betrayal of one's fellow man; even at that time it was inwardly corrupt and could support itself only by constant lies. After all, Hitler states in an early edition of "his" book (a book written in the worst German I have ever read, in spite of the fact that it has been elevated to the position of the Bible in this nation of poets and thinkers): "It is unbelievable, to what extent one must betray a people in order to rule it." If at the start this cancerous growth in the nation was not particularly noticeable, it was only because there were still enough forces at work that operated for the good, so that it was kept under control. As it grew larger, however, and finally in an ultimate spurt of growth attained ruling power, the tumor broke open, as it were, and infected the whole body. The greater part of its former opponents went into hiding. The German intellectuals fled to their cellars, there, like plants struggling in the dark, away from light and sun, gradually to choke to death. Now the end is at hand. Now it is our task to find one another again, to spread information from person to person, to keep a steady purpose, and to allow ourselves no rest until the last man is persuaded of the urgent need of his struggle against this system. When thus a wave of unrest goes through the land, when "it is in the air," when many join the cause, then in a great final effort this system can be shaken off. After all, an end in terror is preferable to terror without end.

We are not in a position to draw up a final judgment about the meaning of our history. But if this catastrophe can be used to further the public welfare, it will be only by virtue of the fact that we are cleansed by suffering; that we yearn for the light in the midst of deepest night, summon our strength, and finally help in shaking off the yoke which weighs on our world.

We do not want to discuss here the question of the Jews, nor do we want in this leaflet to compose a defense or apology. No, only by way of example do we want to cite the fact that since the conquest of Poland three hundred thousand Jews have been murdered in this country in the most bestial way. Here we see the most frightful crime against human dignity, a crime that is unparalleled in the whole of history. For Jews, too, are human beings—no matter what position we take with respect to the Jewish question—and a crime of this dimension has been perpetrated against human beings. Someone may say that the Jews deserved their fate. This assertion would be a monstrous impertinence; but let us assume that someone said this—what position has he then taken toward the fact that the entire Polish aristocratic youth is being annihilated? (May God grant that this program has not fully achieved its aim as yet!) All male offspring of the houses of the nobility between the ages of fifteen and twenty were transported to concentration camps in Germany and sentenced to forced labor, and all girls of this age group were sent to Norway, into the bordellos of the SS! Why tell you these things, since you are fully aware of them—or if not of these, then of other equally grave crimes committed by this frightful sub-humanity? Because here we touch on a problem which involves us deeply and forces us all to take thought. Why do the German people behave so apathetically in the face of all these abominable crimes, crimes so unworthy of the human race? Hardly anyone thinks about that. It is accepted as fact and put out of mind. The German people slumber on in their dull, stupid sleep and encourage these fascist criminals; they give them the opportunity to carry on their depredations; and of course they do so. Is this a sign that the Germans are brutalized in their simplest human feelings, that no chord within them cries out at the sight of such deeds, that they have sunk into a fatal consciencelessness from which they will never, never awake? It seems to be so, and will certainly be so, if the German does not at last start up out of his stupor, if he does not protest wherever and whenever he can against this clique of criminals, if he shows no sympathy for these hundreds of thousands of victims. He must evidence not only sympathy; no, much more: a sense of complicity in guilt. For through his apathetic behavior he gives these evil men the opportunity to act as they do; he tolerates this "government" which has taken upon itself such an infinitely great burden of guilt; indeed, he himself is to blame for the fact that it came about at all! Each man wants to be exonerated of a guilt of this kind, each one continues on his way with the most placid, the calmest conscience. But he cannot be exonerated; he is guilty, guilty, guilty! It is not too late, however, to do away with this most reprehensible of all miscarriages of government, so as to avoid being burdened with even greater guilt. Now, when in recent years our eyes have been opened, when we know exactly who our adversary is, it is high time to root out this brown horde. Up until the outbreak of the war the larger part of the German people was blinded; the Nazis did not show themselves in their true aspect. But now, now that we have recognized them for what they are, it must be the sole and first duty, the holiest duty of every German to destroy these beasts.

If the people are barely aware that the government exists, they are happy. When the government is felt to be oppressive, they are broken. Good fortune, alas! builds itself upon misery. Good fortune, alas! is the mask of misery. What will come of this? We cannot foresee the end. Order is upset and turns to disorder, good becomes evil. The people are confused. Is it not so, day in, day out, from the beginning? The wise man is therefore angular, though he does not injure others; he has sharp corners, though he does not harm; he is upright but not gruff. He is clearminded, but he does not try to be brilliant. LAO-TZU

Whoever undertakes to rule the kingdom and to shape it according to his whim—I foresee that he will fail to reach his goal. That is all. The kingdom is a living being. It cannot be constructed, in truth! He who tries to manipulate it will spoil it, he who tries to put it under his power will lose it. Therefore: Some creatures go out in front, others follow, some have warm breath, others cold, some are strong, some weak, some attain abundance, others succumb. The wise man will accordingly forswear excess, he will avoid arrogance and not overreach. LAO-TZU

Please make as many copies as possible of this leaflet and distribute them.»

– Inge Scholl, (1952), The White Rose. Munich 1942-1943, With an Introduction by Dorothee Sölle, Translated from the German by Arthur R. Schultz, Wesleyan University Press, Middletown, CT, 1983, pp. 77-80

#flyer #pamphlet #book #weiße rose #hans scholl #alexander schmorell #christoph probst #sophie scholl #willi graf #kurt huber #weiße rose stiftung #united states holocaust memorial museum #inge scholl #dorothee sölle #arthur r. schultz #wesleyan university press #1940s #1950s #1980s

10 notes · View notes

a-god-in-ruins-rises · 1 year

Note

🔥

the dark ages were actually dark.

i've noticed a lot of people trying to downplay the dark ages and say that it was actually flourishing or some shit. now, to be clear, i'm talking about the time period immediately following the collapse of the western roman empire and mainly focusing on the lands within that former empire.

life got worse by almost every metric. people became poorer, had lower wages, less freedom, infrastructure fell into disrepair, medical expertise and sanitation declined, literacy declined, etc. worst of all, there was a dearth of culture in general. great thinkers, poets, artists, etc, were hard to come by. if you disagree, name me 5 great philosophers or poets from dark ages western europe. you can't.

now i'll admit it probably wasn't as bad as popular culture suggests. but still it was probably pretty bad. at least, it was worse than it was before.

2 notes · View notes

kingmabry · 1 year

Text

_*Experiences with Maha Periyava: Paul Brunton’s search for his Master*_

*Very Long but worth reading till the end.*

About the time of tiffin, that is, tea and biscuits, the servant announces a visitor. The latter proves to be a fellow member of the ink-stained fraternity, to wit, the writer Venkataramani. Several letters of introduction lie where I have thrown them, at the bottom of my trunk. I have no desire to use them. This is in response to a curious whim that it might be better to tempt whatever gods there be to do their best – or worst. However, I used one in Bombay, preparatory to beginning my quest, and I used another in Madras because I have been charged to deliver a personal message with it. And thus, this second note has brought Venkataramani to my door. He is a member of the Senate of Madras University, but he is better known as the author of talented essays and novels of village life. He is the first Hindu writer in Madras Presidency, who uses the medium of English, to be publicly presented with an inscribed ivory shield because of his services to literature.

He writes in a delicate style of such merit as to win high commendation from Rabindranath Tagore in India and from the late Lord Haldane in England. His prose is piled with beautiful metaphors, but his stories tell of the melancholy life of neglected villages.

As he enters the room I look at his tall, lean person, his small head with its tiny tuft of hair, his small chin and bespectacled eyes. They are the eyes of a thinker, an idealist and a poet combined. Yet the sorrows of suffering peasants are reflected in their sad irises. We soon find ourselves on several paths of common interest. After we have compared notes about most things, after we have contemptuously pulled politics to pieces and swung the censers of adoration before our favourite authors, I am suddenly impressed to reveal to him the real reason of my Indian visit. I tell him with perfect frankness what my object is; I ask him about the whereabouts of any real Yogis who possess demonstrable attainments; and I warn him that I am not especially interested in meeting dirt-besmeared ascetics or juggling faqueers.

He bows his head and then shakes it negatively. “India is no longer the land of such men. With the increasing materialism of our country, its wide degeneration on one hand and the impact of unspiritual Western culture on the other, the men you are seeking, the great masters, have all but disappeared. Yet I firmly believe that some exist in retirement, in lonely forests perhaps, but unless you devote a whole lifetime to the search, you will find them with the greatest difficulty. When my fellow Indians undertake such a quest as yours, they have to roam far and wide nowadays.

Then how much harder will it be for a European?”

“Then you hold out little hope?” I ask.

“Well, one cannot say. You may be fortunate.”

Something moves me to put a sudden question:

“Have you heard of a master who lives in the mountains of North Arcot?”

He shakes his head. Our talk wanders back to literary topics. I offer him a cigarette, but he excuses himself from smoking. I light one for myself and while I inhale the fragrant smoke of the Turkish weed, Venkataramani pours out his heart in passionate praise of the fast disappearing ideals of old Hindu culture. He makes reference to such ideas as simplicity of living, service of the community, leisurely existence and spiritual aims. He wants to lop off parasitic stupidities which grow on the body of Indian society. The biggest thing in his mind, however, is his vision of saving the half-million villages of India from becoming mere recruiting centres for the slums of large industrialized towns. Though this menace is more remote than real, his prophetic insight and memory of Western industrial history sees this as a certain result of present day

Trends. Venkataramani tells me that he was born in a family with a property near one of the oldest villages of South India, and he greatly lamented the cultural decay and material poverty into which village life had fallen. He loves to hatch out schemes for the betterment of the simple village folk, and he refuses to be happy whilst they are unhappy. I listen quietly in the attempt to understand his viewpoint. Finally, he rises to go and I watch his tall thin form disappear down the road.

Early next morning I am surprised to receive an unexpected visit from him. His carriage rushes hastily to the gate, for he fears that I might be out. “I received a message late last night that my greatest patron is staying for one day at Chingleput,” he bursts out. After he has recovered his breath, he continues: “His Holiness Shri Shankara Acharya of Kumbakonam is the Spiritual Head of South India. Millions of people revere him as one of God’s teachers. It happens that he has taken a great interest in me and has encouraged my literary career, and of course he is the one to whom I look for spiritual advice. I may now tell you what I refrained from mentioning yesterday. We regard him as a master of the highest spiritual attainment. But he is not a Yogi. He is the Primate of the Southern Hindu world, a true saint and great religious philosopher. Because he is fully aware of most of the spiritual currents of our time, and because of his own attainment, he has probably an exceptional knowledge of the real Yogis. He travels a good deal from village to village and from city to city, so that he is particularly well informed on such matters. Wherever he goes, the holy men come to him to pay their respects. He could probably give you some useful advice. Would you like to visit him?”

“That is extremely kind of you. I shall gladly go. How far is Chingleput?”

“Only thirty-five miles from here. But stay?”

”Yes?”

“I begin to doubt whether His Holiness would grant you an audience. Of course I shall do my utmost to persuade him.

But “”I am a European!” I finish the sentence for him. “I understand.”

” You will take the risk of a rebuff?” he asks, a little anxiously.

“Certainly. Let us go.”

After a light meal we set out for Chingleput. I ply my literary companion with questions about the man I hope to see this day. I learn that Shri Shankara lives a life of almost ascetic plainness as regards food and clothing, but the dignity of his high office requires him to move in regal panoply when travelling. He is followed then by a retinue of mounted elephants and camels, pundits and their pupils, heralds and camp followers generally. Wherever he goes he becomes the magnet for crowds of visitors from the surrounding localities. They come for spiritual, mental, physical and financial assistance. Thousands of rupees are daily laid at his feet by the rich, but because he has taken the vow of poverty, this income is applied to worthy purposes. He relieves the poor, assists education, repairs decaying temples and improves the condition of those artificial rain-fed pools which are so useful in the riverless tracts of South India. His mission, however, is primarily spiritual. At every stopping-place he endeavours to inspire the people to a deeper understanding of their heritage of Hinduism, as well as to elevate their hearts and minds. He usually gives a discourse at the local temple and then privately answers the multitude of querents who flock to him. I learn that Shri Shankara is the sixty-sixth bearer of the title in direct line of succession from the original Shankara. To get his office and power into the right perspective within my mind, I am forced to ask Venkataramani several questions about the founder of the line.

It appears that the first Shankara flourished over one thousand years ago, and that he was one of the greatest of the historical Brahmin sages. He might be described as a rational mystic, and as a philosopher of first rank. He found the Hinduism of his time in a disordered and decrepit state, with its spiritual vitality fast fading. It seems that he was born for a mission. From the age of eighteen he wandered throughout India on foot, arguing with the intelligentsia and the priests of every district through which he passed, teaching the doctrines of his own creation, and acquiring a considerable following. His intellect was so acute that, usually, he was more than a match for those he met. He was fortunate enough to be accepted and honoured as a prophet during his lifetime, and not after the life had flickered out of his throat. He was a man with many purposes. Although he championed the chief religion of his country, he strongly condemned the pernicious practices which had grown up under its cloak. He tried to bring people into the way of virtue and exposed the futility of mere reliance on ornate rituals, unaccompanied by personal effort. He broke the rules of caste by performing the obsequies at the death of his own mother, for which the priests excommunicated him. This fearless young man was a worthy successor to Buddha, the first famous caste breaker. In opposition to the priests he taught that every human being, irrespective of caste or colour, could attain to the grace of God and to knowledge of the highest Truth. He founded no special creed but held that every religion was a path to God, if sincerely held and followed into its mystic inwardness. He elaborated a complete and subtle system of philosophy in order to prove his points. He has left a large literary legacy, which is honoured in every city of sacred learning throughout the country. The pundits greatly treasure his philosophical and religious bequest, although they naturally quibble and quarrel over its meaning.

Shankara travelled throughout India wearing an ochre robe and carrying a pilgrim’s staff. As a clever piece of strategy, he established four great institutions at the four points of the compass. There was one at Badrinath in the North, at Puri in the East, and so on. The central headquarters, together with a temple and monastery, were established in the South, where he began his work. To this day the South has remained the holy of holies of Hinduism. From these institutions there would emerge, when the rainy seasons were over, trained bands of monks who travelled the country to carry Shankara’s message.

This remarkable man died at the early age of thirty-two, though one legend has it that he simply disappeared. The value of this information becomes apparent when I learn that his successor, whom I am to see this day, carries on the same work and the same teaching. In this connection, there exists a strange tradition. The first Shankara promised his disciples that he would still abide with them in spirit, and that he would accomplish this by the mysterious process of “overshadowing” his successors. A somewhat similar theory is attached to the office of the Grand Lama of Tibet. The predecessor in office, during his last dying moments, names the one worthy to follow him. The selected person is usually a lad of tender years, who is then taken in hand by the best teachers available and given a thorough training to fit him for his exalted post. His training is not only religious and intellectual, but also along the lines of higher Yoga and meditation practices. This training is then followed by a life of great activity in the service of his people. It is a singular fact that through all the many centuries this line has been established, not a single holder of the title has ever been known to have other than the highest and the most selfless character.

Venkataramani embellishes his narrative with stories of the remarkable gifts which Shri Shankara the Sixty-sixth possesses. There is an account of the miraculous healing of his own cousin. The latter has been crippled by rheumatism and confined to his bed for many years. Shri Shankara visits him, touches his body, and within three hours the invalid is so far better that he gets out of bed; soon, he is completely cured. There is the further assertion that His Holiness is credited with the power of reading the thoughts of other persons; at any rate, Venkataramani fully believes this to be true.

We enter Chingleput through a palm-fringed highway and find it a tangle of whitewashed houses, huddled red roofs and narrow lanes. We get down and walk into the centre of the city, where large crowds are gathered together. I am taken into a house where a group of secretaries are busily engaged handling the huge correspondence which follows His Holiness from his headquarters at Kumbakonam. I wait in a chairless anteroom while Venkataramani sends one of the secretaries with a message to Shri Shankara. More than half an hour passes before the man returns with the reply that the audience I seek cannot be granted. His Holiness does not see his way to receiving a European; moreover, there are two hundred people waiting for interviews already. Many persons have been staying in the town overnight in order to secure their interviews. The secretary is profuse in his apologies.

I philosophically accept the situation, but Venkataramani says that he will try to get into the presence of His Holiness as a privileged friend, and then plead my cause. Several members of the crowd murmur unpleasantly when they become aware of his intention to pass into the coveted house out of his turn. After much talk and babbling explanations, hewins through. He returns eventually, smiling and victorious.

“His Holiness will make a special exception in your case. He will see you in about one hour’s time.”

I fill the time with some idle wandering in the picturesque lanes which run down to the chief temple. I meet some servants who are leading a train of grey elephants and big buffbrown camels to a drinking-place. Someone points out to me the magnificent animal which carries the Spiritual Head of South India on his travels. He rides in regal fashion, borne aloft in an opulent howdah on the back of a tall elephant. It is finely covered with ornate trappings, rich cloths and gold embroideries. I watch the dignified old creature step forward along the street. Its trunk coils up and comes down again as it passes.

Remembering the time-worn custom which requires one to bring a little offering of fruits, flowers or sweetmeats whenvisiting a spiritual personage, I procure a gift to place before my august host. Oranges and flowers are the only things in sight and I collect as much as I can conveniently carry. In the crowd which presses outside His Holiness’s temporary residence, I forget another important custom. “Remove your shoes,” Venkataramani reminds me promptly. I take them off and leave them out in the street, hoping that they will still be there when I return!

We pass through a tiny doorway and enter a bare anteroom. At the far end there is a dimly lit enclosure, where I behold a short figure standing in the shadows. I approach closer to him, put down my little offering and bow low in salutation. There is an artistic value in this ceremony which greatly appeals to me, apart from its necessity as an expression of respect and as a harmless courtesy. I know well that Shri Shankara is no Pope, for there is no such thing in Hinduism, but he is teacher and inspirer of a religious flock of vast dimensions. The whole of South India bows to his tutelage.

I look at him in silence. This short man is clad in the ochrecoloured robe of a monk and leans his weight on a friar’s staff. I have been told that he is on the right side of forty, hence I am surprised to find his hair quite grey. His noble face, pictured in grey and brown, takes an honoured place in the long portrait gallery of my memory. That elusive element which the French aptly term spirituel is present in this face. His expression is modest and mild, the large dark eyes being extraordinarily tranquil and beautiful. The nose is short, straight and classically regular. There is a rugged little beard on his chin, and the gravity of his mouth is most noticeable. Such a face might have belonged to one of the saints who graced the Christian Church during the Middle Ages, except that this one possesses the added quality of intellectuality.

I suppose we of the practical West would say that he has the eyes of a dreamer. Somehow, I feel in an inexplicable way that there is something more than mere dreams behind those heavy lids.

“Your Holiness has been very kind to receive me,” I remark, by way of introduction. He turns to my companion, the writer, and says something in the vernacular. I guess its meaning correctly.

“His Holiness understands your English, but he is too afraid that you will not understand his own. So he prefers to have me translate his answers,” says Venkataramani.

I shall sweep through the earlier phases of this interview, because they are more concerned with myself than with this Hindu Primate. He asks about my personal experiences in the country; he is very interested in ascertaining the exact impressions which Indian people and institutions make upon a foreigner. I give him my candid impressions, mixing praise and criticism freely and frankly. The conversation then flows into wider channels and I am much surprised to find that he regularly reads English newspapers, and that he is well informed upon current affairs in the outside world. Indeed, he is not unaware of what the latest noise at Westminster is about, and he knows also through what painful travail the troublous infant of democracy is passing in Europe.

I remember Venkataramani’s firm belief that Shri Shankara possesses prophetic insight. It touches my fancy to press for some opinion about the world’s future.

“When do you think that the political and economic conditions everywhere will begin to improve?”

“A change for the better is not easy to come by quickly,” he replies. ” It is a process which must needs take some time. How can things improve when the nations spend more each year on the weapons of death?”

“There is nevertheless much talk of disarmament to-day. Does that count?”

“If you scrap your battleships and let your cannons rust that will not stop war. People will continue to fight, even if they have to use sticks!”

“But what can be done to help matters?”

“Nothing but spiritual understanding between one nation and another, and between rich and poor, will produce goodwill and thus bring real peace and prosperity.”

“That seems far off. Our outlook is hardly cheerful, then?”

His Holiness rests his arm a little more heavily upon his staff.

“There is still God,” he remarks gently.

” If there is, He seems very far away,” I boldly protest.

“God has nothing but love towards mankind,” comes the soft answer.

“Judging by the unhappiness and wretchedness which afflict the world to-day, He has nothing but indifference,”

I break out impulsively, unable to keep the bitter force of irony out of my voice. His Holiness looks at me strangely. Immediately I regret my hasty words.

“The eyes of a patient man see deeper. God will use human instruments to adjust matters at the appointed hour. The turmoil among nations, the moral wickedness among people and the suffering of miserable millions will provoke, as a reaction, some great divinely inspired man to come to the rescue. In this sense, every century has its own saviour. The process works like a law of physics. The greater the wretchedness caused by spiritual ignorance, materialism, the greater will be the man who will arise to help the world.”

“Then do you expect someone to arise in our time, too?”

” In our century,” he corrects. “Assuredly. The need of the world is so great and its spiritual darkness is so thick, that an inspired man of God will surely arise.”

“Is it your opinion, then, that men are becoming more degraded?” I query.

“No, I do not think so,” he replied tolerantly. “There is an indwelling divine soul in man which, in the end, must bring him back to God.”

“But there are ruffians in our Western cities who behave as though there were indwelling demons in them,” I counter, thinking of the modern gangster.

“Do not blame people so much as the environments into which they are born. Their surroundings and circumstances force them to become worse than they really are. That is true of both the East and West. Society must be brought into tune with a higher note. Materialism must be balanced by idealism; there is no other real cure for the world’s difficulties. The troubles into which countries are everywhere being plunged are really the agonies which will force this change, just as failure is frequently a sign-post pointing to another road.”

“You would like people to introduce spiritual principles into their worldly dealings, then?”

“Quite so. It is not impracticable, because it is the only way to bring about results which will satisfy everyone in the end, and which will not speedily disappear. And if there were more men who had found spiritual light in the world, it would spread more quickly. India, to its honour, supports and respects its spiritual men, though less so than in former times. If all the world were to do the same, and to take its guidance from men of spiritual vision, then all the world would soon find peace and grow prosperous.”

Our conversation trails on. I am quick to notice that Shri Shankara does not decry the West in order to exalt the East, as so many in his land do. He admits that each half of the globe possesses its own set of virtues and vices, and that in this way they are roughly equal! He hopes that a wiser generation will fuse the best points of Asiatic and European civilizations into a higher and balanced social scheme.

I drop the subject and ask permission for some personal questions. It is granted without difficulty.

“How long has Your Holiness held this title?”

“Since 1907. At that time I was only twelve years old. Four years after my appointment I retired to a village on the banks of the Cauvery, where I gave myself up to meditation and study for three years. Then only did my public work begin.”

“You rarely remain at your headquarters in Kumbakonam I take it?”

“The reason for that is that I was invited by the Maharajah of Nepal in 1918 to be his guest for a while. I accepted and since then have been travelling slowly towards his state in the far north. But see! – during all those years I have not been able to advance more than a few hundred miles, because the tradition of my office requires that I stay in every village and town which I pass on the route or which invites me, if it is not too far off. I must give a spiritual discourse in the local temple and some teaching to the inhabitants.”

I broach the matter of my quest and His Holiness questions me about the different Yogis or holy men I have so far met. After that, I frankly tell him: “I would like to meet someone who has high attainments in Yoga and can give some sort of proof or demonstration of them. There are many of your holy men who can only give one more talk when they are asked for this proof. Am I asking too much?”

The tranquil eyes meet mine. There is a pause for a whole minute. His Holiness fingers his beard.

” If you are seeking initiation into real Yoga of the higher kind, then you are not seeking too much. Your earnestness will help you, while I can perceive the strength of your determination; but a light is beginning to awaken within you which will guide you to what you want, without doubt.”

I am not sure whether I correctly understand him. “So far I have depended on myself for guidance. Even some of your ancient sages say that there is no other god than that which is within ourselves,” I hazard.

And the answer swiftly comes: “God is everywhere. How can one limit Him to one’s own self? He supports the entire universe.”

I feel that I am getting out of my depth and immediately turn the talk away from this semi-theological strain.

“What is the most practical course for me to take?”

“Go on with your travels. When you have finished them, think of the various Yogis and holy men you have met; then pick out the one who makes most appeal to you. Return to him, and he will surely bestow his initiation upon you.”

I look at his calm profile and admire its singular serenity.

“But suppose, Your Holiness, that none of them makes sufficient appeal to me. What then? ”

“In that case you will have to go on alone until God Himself initiates you. Practise meditation regularly; contemplate the higher things with love in your heart; think often of the soul and that will help to bring you to it. The best time to practise is the hour of waking; the next best time is the hour of twilight. The world is calmer at those times and will disturb your meditations less.”

He gazes benevolently at me. I begin to envy the saintly peace which dwells on his bearded face. Surely, his heart has never known the devastating upheavals which have scarred mine? I am stirred to ask him impulsively:

”If I fail, may I then turn to you for assistance?”

Shri Shankara gently shakes his head. “I am at the head of a public institution, a man whose time no longer belongs to himself. My activities demand almost all my time. For years I have spent only three hours in sleep each night. How can I take personal pupils? You must find a master who devotes his time to them.”

“But I am told that real masters are rare, and that a European is unlikely to find them.”

He nods his assent to my statement, but adds:

“Truth exists. It can be found.”

“Can you not direct me to such a master, one who you know is competent to give me proofs of the reality of higher Yoga?”

His Holiness does not reply till after an interval of protracted silence.

“Yes. I know of only two masters in India who could give you what you wish. One of them lives in Benares, hidden away in a large house, which is itself hidden among spacious grounds. Few people are permitted to obtain access to him; certainly, no European has yet been able to intrude upon his seclusion. I could send you to him, but I fear that he may refuse to admit a European.”

“And the other?” My interest is strangely stirred.

“The other man lives in the interior, farther south. I visited him once and know him to be a high master. I recommend that you go to him.”

“Who is he?”

“He is called the Maharishee. I have not met him, but know him to be a high master. Shall I provide you with full instructions, so that you may discover him?”

A picture flashes suddenly before my mind’s eye. I see the yellow-robed friar, who has vainly persuaded me to accompany him to his teacher. I hear him murmuring the name of a hill. It is: “The Hill of the Holy Beacon.”

“Many thanks, Your Holiness,” I rejoin, “but I have a guide who comes from the place.”

“Then you will go there?”

I hesitate.

“All arrangements have been made for my departure from the South to-morrow,” I mutter uncertainly.

” I n that case I have a request to make.”

“With pleasure.”

“Promise me that you will not leave South India before you have met the Maharishee.”

I read in his eyes a sincere desire to help me. The promise is given.

A benignant smile crosses his face.

“Do not be anxious. You shall discover that which you seek.”

A murmur from the crowd which is in the street penetrates the house.

“I have taken up too much of your valuable time,” I apologize. ” I am indeed sorry.”

Shri Shankara’s grave mouth relaxes. He follows me into the ante-room and whispers something into the ear of my companion. I catch my name in the sentence. At the door I turn to bow in farewell salutation. His Holiness calls me back to receive a parting message: “You shall always remember me, and I shall always remember you!”

And so, hearing these cryptic and puzzling words, I reluctantly withdraw from this interesting man, whose entire life has been dedicated to God from childhood. He is a pontiff who cares not for worldly power, because he has renounced all and resigned all. Whatever material things are given to him, he at once gives again to those who need them. His beautiful and gentle personality will surely linger in my memory.

I wander about Chingleput till evening, exploring its artistic, old-world beauty, and then seek a final glimpse of His Holiness before returning home. I find him in the largest temple of the city. The slim, modest, yellow-robed figure is addressing a huge concourse of men, women and children. Utter silence prevails among the large audience. I cannot understand his vernacular words, but I can understand that he is holding the deep attention of all present, from the intellectual Brahmin to the illiterate peasant. I do not know, but I hazard the guess that he speaks on the profoundest topics in the simplest manner, for such is the character I read in him.

And yet, though I appreciate his beautiful soul, I envy the simple faith of his vast audience. Life, apparently, never brings them deep moods of doubt. God is; and there the matter ends. They do not appear to know what it means to go through dark nights of the soul, when the world seems like the grim scene of a jungle-like struggle; when God recedes into shadowy nothingness; and when man’s own existence seems nothing more than a fitful passage across this small, transient fragment of the universe which we call Earth. We drive out of Chingleput under an indigo sky gemmed with stars. I listen to palms majestically waving their branches over the water’s edge in an unexpected breeze.

My companion suddenly breaks the silence between us.

“You are indeed lucky!”

“Why?”

“Because this is the first interview which His Holiness has granted to a European writer.”

“Well?”

“That brings his blessing upon you!”

It is nearly midnight when I return home. I take a last glimpse overhead. The stars stud the vast dome of the sky in countless myriads. Nowhere in Europe can one see them in such overwhelming numbers. I run up the steps leading to the veranda, flashing my pocket torch. Out of the darkness, a crouching figure rises and greets me.

“Subramanya!” I exclaim, startled. “What are you doing here?” The ochre-robed Yogi indulges in one of his tremendous grins.

“Did I not promise to visit you, Sir?” He reminds me reproachfully.

“Of course!”

In the large room, I fire a question at him. “Your master – is he called the Maharishee?”

It is now his turn to draw back, astonished.

“How do you know, sir? Where could you have learnt this?”

“Never mind. To-morrow we both start for his place.

“This is joyful news, sir.”

“But I shall not stay there long, though. A few days, maybe.”

I fling a few more questions at him during the next half-hour, and then, thoroughly tired, go to bed. Subramanya is quite content to sleep on a piece of palm matting which lies on the floor. He wraps himself up in a thin cotton cloth, which serves at once as a mattress, sheet and blanket, and disdains my offer of more comfortable bedding.

The next thing of which I am aware is suddenly awakening. The room is totally dark. I feel my nerves strangely tense.The atmosphere around me seems like electrified air. I pull my watch from under the pillow and, by the glow of its radium-lit dial, discover the time to be a quarter to three. It is then that I become conscious of some bright object at the foot of the bed. I immediately sit up and look straight at it. My astounded gaze meets the face and form of His Holiness Shri Shankara. It is clearly and unmistakably visible. He does not appear to be some ethereal ghost, but rather a solid human being. There is a mysterious luminosity around the figure which separates it from the surrounding darkness. Surely the vision is an impossible one? Have I not left him at Chingleput? I close my eyes tightly in an effort to test the matter. There is no difference and I still see him quite plainly! Let it suffice that I receive the sense of a benign and friendly presence. I open my eyes and regard the kindly figure in the loose yellow robe.

The face alters, for the lips smile and seem to say: “Be humble and then you shall find what you seek!”

Why do I feel that a living human being is thus addressing me? Why do I not regard it as a ghost, at least?

The vision disappears as mysteriously as it has come. It leaves me feeling exalted, happy and unperturbed by its supernormal nature. Shall I dismiss it as a dream? What matters it?

There is no more sleep for me this night. I lie awake pondering over the day’s meeting, over the memorable interview with His Holiness Shri Shankara of Kumbakonam, the Hierarch of God to the simple people of South India.

#ramana #bhagavan ramana maharishi #Mahaperiyavaa #Paul Brunton #Sage of Kanchi

3 notes · View notes

kammartinez · 1 year

Text

By Luis Alberto Urrea

I was born in Tijuana and spent much of my boyhood in a neighborhood — “colonia,” in TJ-speak — called Independencia. There was an ersatz European-style castle at one end of our street, a tamed bear living at the bottom of the hill, a madman next door who regularly got drunk and shot his pistola at the moon, and a yard with bananas and a tall old pomegranate tree. Sounds tropical. Sounds like Gabriel García Márquez. Doesn’t sound on the surface like the deadly desert, like the frightening shadow land of crooked policías and narco hit men.

The borderlands are the most interesting book in the world, being rewritten every day. Currently, I can attest that much of that contested region, from coast to coast, is alive with tourists seeking good food and cheap medical care, a developing street scene of boutiques and gourmet eateries, baristas and art galleries, vivid music and literary movements, ballet companies and symphonic concerts and, in my hometown, the best street tacos on earth.

The Mexican cultural journalist Jaime Cháidez Bonilla recently wrote this on Twitter (I’ve translated from his Spanish): “I like it when evening falls over Tijuana, a poetic act. A city so defamed, a city so generous.” I dare say most people don’t think of any border city, on either side of the wall, as generous. I have been fortunate enough to write about Tijuana and the border for many years, and of course I have read a library’s worth of other authors wrestling with the region. My favorite border pop song is by Nortec Collective (more on them below), and it’s called “Tijuana Makes Me Happy.” Yeah — the border makes me happy. A tip: Expect the unexpected.

I need to pause here in recognition that immigration is the relentless theme of this area and this era. But I do not believe that immigration stories are a subset of the literature of the borderlands: Though there is some cross-pollination, I believe immigration literature is a genre of its own, deserving of its own spotlight. I do not include it here.

What books and authors should I take with me?

One grand feature of border culture is the lure of a bargain. For decades, the clarion call of cheap muffler (“mofle”) shops drew tourists south; now, it’s cheap dentures and Viagra. So let us offer a one-stop classic, the anthology “Puro Border: Dispatches, Snapshots and Graffiti From La Frontera.” Edited by Tijuana’s greatest literary son, Luis Humberto Crosthwaite, along with El Paso’s late, great Bobby Byrd and his son John William Byrd, this wild anthology covers the good, the bad and the ugly. Many of the greatest border thinkers and writers are contained within its covers: Charles Bowden, Leslie Marmon Silko, Sam Quinones, Juan Villoro and Doug Peacock (model for the infamous hero of Edward Abbey’s novel “The Monkey Wrench Gang”), among others. Funky, funny, literary, angry — it will show you things you may have wondered about and things you might not have imagined.

What writers or books will help me feel the spirit of this place?

Even if you do not read poetry, the borderlands require it. In a place both lush and austere, alien and homey, full of symphonies of languages and accents, smells and sounds, silence and raucous music, nothing can touch the experience of being there like poetry. It is not a coincidence that most of the writers on my list are also poets. They will transport you.

Ofelia Zepeda, a 1999 MacArthur fellow, is a Tohono O’odham poet of such elegant and exact rhetoric, such integrity of culture and vision, that you miss her quiet genius at your own risk. She gave the songs of the Tohono O’odham back to the land. Come to the chapels of her books “Ocean Power: Poems From the Desert” and “Where Clouds Are Formed.”

I highly recommend a book that gives me endless delight as a reader and endless inspiration as a writer: Harry Polkinhorn and Mark Weiss’s seminal anthology “Across the Line/Al Otro Lado.” It covers the broad and surprising corpus of Baja California’s poetry, from Indigenous chants to postmodern epics, and it includes works that reflect the flavored cross-genre/cross-cultural/cross-border adventures the writers foresee in the distance of this decade.

Arizona’s first poet laureate, Alberto Ríos, born in Nogales, Ariz., is a true writer of the borderlands. Though all of his poetry books are excellent, “A Small Story About the Sky” remains my favorite. However, of particular interest for this list is “Capirotada: A Nogales Memoir.”

No one is better positioned to affect this literature than Natalie Diaz, the director of the Center for Imagination in the Borderlands at Arizona State University. A winner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry and a self-described “language activist,” Diaz is brilliant and powerful, and you need to read both “When My Brother Was an Aztec” and “Postcolonial Love Poem.”

Finally, the wizard, the curandero, the presidente: Juan Felipe Herrera. A former U.S. poet laureate and son of migrant farmworkers. My homeboy from Barrio Logan in San Diego. His selected poems in “Half of the World in Light” are a magical mystery tour, not only along the border but through the universe. Herrera is a kind of psychedelic drug and he will make you see visions. His voice is the distillation of all of our journeys.

What novels will transport me?

Borderlands authors are many. One of the best and most authentic is Denise Chávez. Her milieu is the often overlooked southern New Mexico and West Texas world of frontera families, and the tall tales that flourish there. She is the queen of the generation that surged in the 1980s and beyond — a strong feminist voice free of cant and bursting with delight. Her novel “Loving Pedro Infante” will begin your Chávez collection, and you won’t want to stop. Another groundbreaker is the poet and novelist Ana Castillo and her border classic “So Far From God.” Both of these writers tell the stories of women on the American side of the line in vivid color, in many tones and in both languages.

I also highly recommend anything by Benjamin Alire Sáenz. His “Aristotle and Dante” young adult novels are immensely popular, but I regard his poetry with helpless envy. Start with his story collection “Everything Begins and Ends at the Kentucky Club,” which won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction, and his poetry collection “Elegies in Blue.”

What audiobook would make for good company while I walk around?

The oldest, most venerable literary tradition along the borderline is oral. I didn’t start out reading books: I sat at the feet of old women telling ghost stories and fanciful family histories (and recounting dyspeptic gossip about other relatives). They were my first lit professors.

In my opinion, rather than audiobooks, you should listen to the music of the border, because it will be easier to absorb and you can dance to it. Every song is a novel or a book of poems, because the borderlands don’t talk: They sing. Music transcends and leaps over border walls like wild doves. Two of the best musical portraitists of this world are Lila Downs and Nortec Collective. Downs’s “The Border” is an elegant and lively album that paints indelible portraits with depth and wit. And her album “Shake Away” is a wild ride through the sounds and tales that we will never see on a tour bus or a beach holiday. (Suggested track: “Minimum Wage.”) For dance lovers and electronica fans, the Nortec Collective duo has created a hybrid of techno music that absorbs and transforms traditional instrumentation and themes into a rollicking dance music of joy and, yes, generosity. There are few bands that spawn a huge cultural and literary movement, but Nortec has opened gates for creativity in literature, theater, dance and visual art throughout the region and across the world that are constantly bearing fruit.

I must also recommend Los Lobos from Los Angeles, Calexico from Tucson, Ariz., and two wildly rollicking bands from Monterrey, Mexico: El Gran Silencio and Jumbo.

Anything I should add to my bookshelf?

For literate thrills and occasional chills, turn to Rubén Degollado (“The Family Izquierdo” and “Throw”). A splendid collection by Oscar Cásares, “Brownsville,” gives the inside scoop on a place in Texas that you may not think of without an author’s guidance. And Sergio Troncoso is such a beloved writer of the borderlands, there is a public library branch named for him in El Paso. His “A Peculiar Kind of Immigrant’s Son” is simply brilliant.

Luis Alberto Urrea’s Borderland Reading List

“Puro Border: Dispatches, Snapshots and Graffiti From La Frontera,” edited by Luis Humberto Crosthwaite, Bobby Byrd and John William Byrd

“Ocean Power: Poems From the Desert” and “Where Clouds Are Formed,” Ofelia Zepeda

“Across the Line/Al Otro Lado,” edited by Harry Polkinhorn and Mark Weiss

“A Small Story About the Sky” and “Capirotada: A Nogales Memoir,” Alberto Ríos

“When My Brother Was an Aztec” and “Postcolonial Love Poem,” Natalie Diaz

“Half of the World in Light,” Juan Felipe Herrera

“Loving Pedro Infante,” Denise Chávez

“So Far From God,” Ana Castillo

“Everything Begins and Ends at the Kentucky Club” and “Elegies in Blue,” Benjamin Alire Sáenz

“The Family Izquierdo” and “Throw,” Rubén Degollado

“Brownsville,” Oscar Cásares

“A Peculiar Kind of Immigrant’s Son,” Sergio Troncoso

#books

3 notes · View notes