#literally ENGRAVED IN MY BONE STRUCTURE

[oncamelliastreet]

i cannot relate in the slightest given my asexual state of being but i CANNOT get

“i bet we’d have really good—come right on me…i mean camaraderie! said your not in my time zone but you wanna be. where art thou? why not uponeth me? see it in my mind let’s fulfill the prophecy”

out of my head

[gsasustainability]

Yihao Li, MLitt Fine Art Practice

Embodied Landscapes: The Intersection of Anatomy, Ecology, and Technology

My developing project, “Embodied Landscapes,” explores the interconnectedness between the human body, the environment, and the impact of technology on our physical and social structures. I tried to examine the inner body’s imagination, sensation, and reflection from the perspective of visuals and their embeddedness within the awareness structures. The goal was to use artistic methods to research topics commonly examined within an academic framework. The project focused on aspects of bodies that have been/are excluded or made invisible within contemporary and historical discourses. The work, “Untitled (Somatic Circuit),” challenges the boundaries between organic and inorganic forms, drawing on sustainability, environmental awareness, and social justice themes.

“Untitled (Somatic Circuit)” presents a complex and evocative installation that bridges the intersection of anatomy, material literacy, and conceptual exploration. The assemblage of materials—including organic elements, mechanical components, and digital elements—creates a compelling narrative about the human body, its cultural representations, and the intricate interplay between nature and technology. The core concept behind this piece is the notion of the body as a landscape—both a literal and metaphorical terrain that bears the marks of environmental degradation and technological intrusion. Combining elements of natural and synthetic materials reflects how the human body is not just a physical entity but a site of ongoing negotiation between nature and culture, biology, and technology.

As a recurring motif, anatomical forms, particularly the spine, symbolise the backbone of human existence, connecting physical structure with metaphysical ideas about support, strength, and vulnerability. Incorporating branches, wires, and technological elements emphasises human innovation's invasive and sometimes destructive influence on the natural world.

The installation features a striking juxtaposition of natural and industrial materials. The organic forms, such as branches and bones, contrast sharply with the mechanical parts, like bicycle wheels and digital elements. Natural wood represents the organic, untainted state of the environment, while metal and plastic signify industrialisation and technological advancement. The digital elements, including video projections and mechanical components, underline technology's omnipresence in modern life.

This contrast emphasises the tension between nature and technology and invites viewers to reflect on the body's place within these realms. Incorporating anatomical structures, such as the spine and pelvis, rendered in transparent or semi-opaque materials evokes a sense of fragility and transparency. These elements are strategically placed within the installation, allowing the viewer to navigate around them, creating a dynamic and immersive experience. The viewer's movement becomes part of the work, engaging with the physicality of the materials and the space. One of the innovative aspects of this work is the use of translucent glass wax to cast vertebrae, creating a haunting visual effect that blurs the lines between natural and artificial, past and present. The glass wax casts are suspended, interacting with the natural wooden elements engraved with ancient symbols, thus merging historical narratives with contemporary concerns

The materials used in this installation were carefully selected to minimise environmental impact and embody sustainability principles by employing found objects, reducing waste and imbuing the work with a sense of history and continuity. The branches, sourced from discarded remnants, represent the resilience of nature, yet its scars and marks also tell a story of environmental exploitation and human intervention.

The metal and plastic components sourced from electronic waste and scrap yards reflect the pervasive presence of technology in our lives and its often detrimental impact on the environment. By repurposing and upcycling these materials, the work challenges contemporary consumerism. The installation is designed to provoke a dialogue on environmental stewardship and the ethical responsibilities of human beings in the face of ecological crisis.

Moreover, the work engages with social justice issues by questioning how environmental changes impact different bodies (both human and non-human). The depiction of the somatic remnants, an essential yet vulnerable part of the human anatomy, serves as a metaphor for the marginalised communities most affected by environmental degradation and technological advancements.

The artwork aims to evoke a strong emotional response by making the invisible effects of environmental and technological changes visible and tangible. The delicate balance between organic and synthetic materials mirrors the fragile state of our current ecological and social systems. The viewer is invited to reflect on their role in these dynamics and consider the broader implications of their interactions with the natural world and technological advancements.

The project also challenges the viewer to think critically about the sustainability of our current practices and the social inequities exacerbated by environmental issues. By engaging with these themes through physical and digital mediums, the work fosters a deeper understanding of the interconnectedness of all life forms and the urgent need for a more equitable and sustainable future.

“Embodied Landscapes” is an art project and a call to action. It underscores the importance of sustainability and social justice in contemporary art and society. By bridging the gap between the body, environment, and technology, this work offers a profound commentary on the state of our world and the imperative to protect and preserve it for future generations.

Yihao Li is a visual artist and researcher in Glasgow, UK. His practice spans drawing, sculpture, and installation art, focusing on East Asian art, Orientalism, and fascination with the interplay between form and material. Start with a question on the physicality and materiality of sculpture, which necessarily invoke bodily relations. His work employs various materials to interpret and translate the concept of the absent body within the realm of pre-empirical knowledge. He articulates a symbiotic relationship between form, materiality, and cultural identity as a testament to the ongoing exploration of artistic expression and the complexities of human existence.

Contact information

Email

07551052358

Social media information

@leonardlee0730

[elijah-wilfred-boyle]

Please send your goodest delivery boy

Darius x reader

--------------

Reader adores the tiny Abominations with their whole heart and when they find one keen on delivering things they quickly discover a secret that their boyfriend Darius has been trying to keep.

-------------

*nervous laughter* hey everyone....

so I know that this isn't an update to Literal Perfection and I know that you've all been asking me for updates, but I've realised that I can't write a story with interconnecting chapters so I will be abandoning the story I had and will probably just write one shots and do requests from now on, I'm so sorry to everyone who enjoyed my story but is just so difficult to write it; I haven't updated the story since November and I don't even know how to begin writing chapter 3 so I won't, if anyone wants to take ownership of Literal Perfection and write it instead then that's perfectly (haha) fine, just dm me and we'll sort it out, thanks for being so patient with me, love you all,

Now, onto the story :)

---------------

"Darling" came the exasperated sigh of your lovely boyfriend Darius, "you can't keep the Abominations, I need them!"

You didn't respond to him, instead cooing gently over the tiny goop creatures, watching them stumble around and pick things up, bring them to you like an offering.

Darius groaned pinching the bridge of his nose and drew a circle in the air, recalling the small Abominations and making them dissappear.

You looked back at him, "Hey! Bring them back, I was playing with them!"

Darius glared at you, "my dear you are not a child, and they are not playthings."

"They're my babies! Our children, we created them!"

"No I created them to do jobs for me, not for you to coo over!"

You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes, "fine, whatever, I'll see you later Darius.", you said and left the room.

It was a few days after this conversation that you decided that you needed to see the baby Abominations again, that you would die if you didn't, and the Titan must have owed you a favour because you found one strolling through the corridors of the Coven holding a letter addressed to Raine.

You followed after it from a distance, not wanting to startle it, you didn't even know if you could, and after it delivered its note, you walked over to it.

"Hello little baby," you addressed it, your voice soft and high pitched.

You bent over to pick it up, nearly squealing when it lifted its tiny stubby arms to you.

You walked back to yours and Darius' shared room, carrying the abomination in your arms, and sat down on the plush bed.

"Aren't you just the best delivery creature?", you cooed at it, cuddling the thing gently, "do you have anything to deliver to me?"

You watched the creation look around the room before it climbed down your hands and slithered off the bed, travelling over to the chest of drawers that stood opposite to you.

It climbed up the wooden structure and looked around before stumbling over the the wooden box that housed Darius' jewellery.

You continued to observe the creature as it opened the lid of the box and closed it again, laughing as it repeated this step multiple times, but you stop laughing when a small compartment opens on the side of the box.

You got off the bed and went over to investigate, picking up the baby and placing it on your shoulder before lifting the box in your hand.

Inside the compartment was a small jewellery box, it was pale blue and tied in a small navy ribbon.

You untie the ribbon and open the box, what was in the box made you freeze; it was a ring, a white gold ring with small crystals on it and a gem of your favourite colour on top.

You take the ring out of the box and examine it closer, there was an engraving on the inside of the ring, "13/7/19X- The Broken Bone at Sundown".

A wide smile broke out across you face, "Our first date", you whispered, pure adoration dripping from your words.

You looked back at the tiny abomination, "thank you little baby."

You put the ring back in its box and closed it, you were about to retie the ribbin when the door opened and Darius walked in.

He had his mouth open about to say something but it closed when he say the box in your hands.

He slammed the door shut with his heel and snatched the box from you hands, startling you greatly.

"Did you open this?", he questioned you, raising his voice almost in anger.

You stood there in shock for a moment before nodding.

Darius then saw the abomination attached to his shoulder and his eyebrows furrowed, "Did you ask that to bring you this?".

'Why is he so mad?', you wondered, 'it's not like you'd never find out about it.'

"No", you started slowly, "I just asked if they had anything to deliver to me and they showed me the ring", your grin returned and your cheeks darkened, "when were going to propose?"

"I wasn't, well I was, but not with this ring, it's too small for your finger", Darius admitted, fidgeting with the box and, quite uncharacteristically, looking very nervous.

You walked over to him and wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder.

You heard him sigh and wrap his arms around you, "I had been planning this for awhile, Darling, I was going to take to the Broken Bone and propose to you there, but then the ring arrived and it wasn't the right size, so I couldn't, I had to wait until the new one arrived, I thought I had done a good job of hiding this one but clearly not."

"Aww, Darius", you said fondly, before replaying some of what he said in your mind, "wait how did you know the ring was too small? Did you measure my hand or something?"

Darius went red with embarrassment, "You and Rain have very similar hand sizes okay? I didn't want to ruin the surprise by asking you so I had to improvise!"

You chuckled softly at him, this man he was such a goof sometimes.

You took the box back from him and smiled, "Well I'm not going to let you put this to waste."

You sat back on the bed and Darius followed suite, watching as you retrieved the ring and drew a circle around it, making the band glow orange and shift in shape.

The piece of jewellery dropped back into your hand, no longer an engagement ring, but now a simple earring.

You turned to Darius, "I know you don't have your ears pierced, but, will you accept this clamp earring and make me the luckiest witch on the Boiling Isles by marrying me?"

Darius' eyes glossed over and he scrunched up his face as if he were about to cry and nodded, "yeah, I will marry you Darling."

You smiled and turned his face to the side, attaching the jewellery to his lobe and clamping it in place, then Darius pulled you in by your shoulders and kissed you softly.

You sighed against him and pulled back, still grinning.

"I'm still proposing to you though, I've been planning this for too long to just not go along with it."

"How long have you been planning this, can I ask?"

Darius stared at you and them looked at the floor, "Uh, since our second date?"

[clockworkouroboros]

I’ve been postulating since early March (and it seems like I’m not the only one for sure, this seems to be pretty commonly accepted) that The Horror and the Wild (album) is symmetrical.

I’d like to provide some backup for this, if only for my own record-keeping, since I sometimes forget what all I have and haven’t said on this topic. So. I’m going to start from the middle and work my way out.

Farewell Wanderlust is the song in the middle of the album, which makes sense, given that it really has no equivalent elsewhere. It has elements of other songs (the back-and-forth conversation that we later see in Marbles, a few referential lyrics in Battle Cries and The Horror and the Wild, etc), but it’s very much standalone. It’s the only jazzy song on the album, like a haunted west end musical number, it’s bold and dramatic and honestly, TAD has never done a song like it.

On either side of FW, there’s Welly Boots and Fair. For a long time now I’ve been struggling to tie these together beyond the fact that they’re both Joey solos. But I’ve been thinking about it, and consider some of these lyrics: WB’s “when you scream that it’s not fair” vs Fair’s “It’s not fair how much I love you,” or WB’s “I know you’re strong enough to do this on your own” vs Fair’s “she is stronger than he has ever been he knows.” Consider, for a moment, even the outside narrator that Joey seems to be in both songs. He sings as an outsider wishing for what the couple in Fair have (“it’s what my heart just yearns to say, in ways that can’t be said/it’s what my rotting bones will sing when the rest of me is dead”), and he sings as an outsider trying to help someone dear to him (possibly from beyond the grave) in Welly Boots. Even the idea that the narrator in Welly Boots is dead works with this: in Fair, he sings, “it’s what my rotting bones will sing when the rest of me is dead/it’s what’s engraved upon my heart in letters deeply worn/today I somehow understand the reason I was born,” then goes into this third-person love story. In Welly Boots, it could be the same narrator, his rotting bones singing what he believes he’s meant to do. I understand that’s a bit of a stretch, but honestly if you’ve read any of my The Amazing Devil analysis posts, you know this is normal for me.

But that’s enough time spent on Welly Boots and Fair. (I can elaborate on that in a separate post, if people want that.) Next up is Wild Blue Yonder and That Unwanted Animal, which, as I’ve said before, is definitely about the same couple on the same night, but from wildly different perspectives. I have my post about it linked, and I know there are other parallels in the songs that I didn’t include in the post, but I got the big ones, I think. The two songs are lyrically really really similar, even if the tone is completely different. One is a lighthearted bop with robot vampires, the other is Madeleine Hyland singing her lungs out like she’ll die if she doesn’t.

Outside of those, then, there’s The Horror and the Wild and Marbles, which again are two wildly different songs in terms of tone, but still fit. First of all, these are both duets that don’t feature the lyric/melodic overlap thing that Joey and Madeleine do on songs like Pruning Shears, Wild Blue Yonder, and Battle Cries. The things that I find really interesting in THatW and Marbles, when comparing the two, actually aren’t even the similarities; it’s the fact that they seem to be nearly opposites. THatW is about gods and power, Marbles is down-to-earth and very human, reminding us from the first lyric to the last that the characters in this song are human, with human lives. Another, more obvious similarity/opposite would be “Remember me, I ask/remember me, I sing” in THatW vs Marbles, the literal dementia song. To put these opposite each other (especially when Joey is the one to sing “remember me” and Madeleine seems to be the one with dementia/Alzheimer’s) really fits. Both songs also end mid-thought, almost: THatW ends with “witness me, old man, I am the–” while Marbles ends halfway through the end of all things motif, like Madeleine has forgotten what she’s singing.

And that brings me to the final two songs: The Rockrose and the Thistle and Battle Cries. Figuring out how these songs tied into my idea of album symmetry caused me a lot of trouble. They’re just so different: Battle Cries is about a failing relationship, RatT is about the same sort of steadfastness we see in Welly Boots, Fair, and Marbles. But look at the themes both songs present and the structures of those songs. They both build and fade in a similar manner, both begin thematically discordant, both feature fighting/wailing/screaming as the climax, even the endings seem similar: “I wake and hear you calling/and up those cliffs I climb/and I find you with a thimble, weeping/‘may I,’ I ask, “may I?’/and you gently git it to me/‘cos you’ve no clue how to sew/and I know the kindest thing is to never leave you alone” in RatT vs “all it took to unearth in the dust and the dirt/some relief or respite from the heat and the hurt/was taking the time, now and then, to ask how I am/and now at the end/at the end of all things/I’m not gonna scream, beat my chest at the wind/I’m doing fine.” These two songs follow the same story, the first being much more metaphorical and the latter being more literal.

So. There you go. The album is symmetrical. Which, if I’m being honest, provides a whole new lens through which to view the album/theorize, working with Farewell Wanderlust as the center. I’m not going to get into that right now, but hey! Something to think about!

Tldr: the album The Horror and the Wild is symmetrical, the post explains how the songs opposite each other are connected/mirror each other.

[the-summer-of-like]

For Eternity

This is the first fan fiction i ever wrote, it's kinda.....ehhh, but imma do requests later on.

Gerard Way (my chemical romance) X Reader ((Vampire AU))

I run into my house and head straight down to my basement, literally just in time to avoid the sunrays landing on my pale skin. Shit, I need to be more careful. But it was worth it to see her. I lie on my bed and gasp for the oxygen I no longer need, purely out of habit. Once I calm down I go into the bathroom. I look into the mirror and hiss at the sight in front of me. I quite honestly look like shit. But I don’t care because I got to see her. I run the tap, collecting the water in my hands and washing my face of all the smears of her sweet blood and my smudged make up. Once I feel as though my skin is suitably clean I dry my face. I look in the mirror again and realise that my hair is still dirty. I decide that I should probably shower.

I leave the shower feeling suitably clean and am completely ready for bed. I wrap a towel around my waist and head into my basement-bedroom, instantly climbing under the quilt. My body accepts my deep tiredness from a long night. But seeing her was worth it. With her on my mind I fall into a heavy slumber.

She slowly advances to me, the moonlight making her shoulder length hair shine an even more blood red than I’d seen it before, the black tips at the ends only making the vibrancy of the red more prominent. The shaved sides add a contrast and make her look more… I don’t even know, but it is incredibly flattering to her beautiful bone structure. As she reaches me I have to resist the urge to comb my fingers through her hair. She looks up to me. Her gentle eyes are a beautiful pool of green outlined in a ring of cold. Her eyes are lightly rimmed in a black which, against her gentle skin tone, makes the green more inviting. She has a little nose ring which is cute, almost contradicting to how piercings are perceived. As her lips curve into a heart-warming, for anyone possessing a functioning heart that is, I can also see that she has piercings on either side of her bottom lip. Her snake bites just draw my attention to the soft curve of her plump lips. They look so gentle and loving.

“Hi,” she whispers, looking down to the ground, shy.

“Hi, I’m Gerard,”

“I’m (Y/N),” she gently replies. (Y/N), such a beautiful name. It is strange and seems as if it doesn’t fit in anywhere but in the best possible way. She fits the name, this gorgeous girl who appears to be different from everyone but not in a freaky way, in the most beautiful of ways. I place my fingers under her chin, lifting her head gently so that I can see her beautiful face again. I can only just smell her now. She smells divine. She smells like a mixture between a fresh bouquet and summer air. Her smell is intoxicating.

“Why did you come over, (Y/N)?” I ask with a smirk set across my features.

“I,” she begins, looking down again, only for me to lift her face with my fingers again, re-establishing eye contact. “I don’t really know. I felt like I had to. I felt as though I was meant to…” she trails off, chewing on one of her snake bites. “Does that make sense?” she asks, hope swimming in her eyes.

“Perfect sense,” I say before I lean down the five or so inches and connect my lips to her enticing soft ones.

She kisses back instantly and I feel that familiar hunger inside of me, a desire to feed. I try to control myself but I find myself biting and sucking on her plump bottom lip. To my surprise she doesn’t freak out. I feel her smile slightly against my lips before she starts to kiss back again.

She pulls back, needing oxygen. She smiles at me and runs her fingers over the small bites on her lip.

“Didn’t that… hurt?” I ask, concerned. Never had I bit someone who hadn’t cried in pain and had smiled. A smile signifies enjoyment and that isn’t something that has ever been present in one of my bite victims.

“Hurt? Are you serious? It was… I can’t explain it,” she trails off, smiling. “It was like you were injecting something into me that made every nerve light up. It was the best thing I’ve ever felt,” she says, a slow blush rising to her smooth cheeks. I can’t help but smile at that.

“That’s odd… but I am glad…” I say, clearly confused. “I know we just met but I think that…” I am cut off by a burn across my skin. I look up and see the sunrise. Shit. “I can’t explain but I have to go. If you want to see me again then meet me here, tonight at 11PM, okay?” I say as I rush off. I rush into my house and slump to the floor, my skin ablaze and covered in burns. That was far too fucking close.

“Gee?” Mikey calls from the kitchen where I can smell the coffee that he is making.

“Yeah?” I say before I hiss sharply, my skin is agitated and the pain is getting worse.

“Did you just get back?” he shouts, concern clear in his voice.

“Yep,” I whimper.

“Shit, Gee! You know you can’t do that shit!” Mikey shouts, rushing to my side. “Basement,” he orders and I comply, rushing into my cool basement. I sit in the corner, emerged in darkness. I feel the dark and cool air soothe my damaged body. “Why were you out so late?”

“I think I found her…” I reply, smiling even though he couldn’t see it.

“You found who, Gee?”

“My mate,” I say, grinning.

“Gee!” Mikey shouts. “Gee! GEE!!! GEE, WAKE UP!!!”

“Shit!” I yelp as I jump from my place in the bed. “What the fuck, Mikey? You ruined my favourite fucking dream!” I shout.

“Sorry, I just thought I’d wake you to tell you it’s dark…” he mutters, walking up the stairs and out of my basement. “Gee,” he says when he stops.

“What?” I ask grumpily.

“What dream?”

“The one about the night I met her,” I say fondly, smiling bright.

“Oh, right,” Mikey says, smiling back at me. “Sorry then,” he says as he leaves my room.

I decide to get up and get dressed, making sure that I am entirely ready for tonight. Tonight will be one of the most significant of my entire, eternal, existence. I am ready by 8PM and leave for the restaurant at 9PM, (Y/N) is meeting me there because she lives about three minutes from it so driving her made little sense.

I get to the restaurant and she isn’t there yet. I simply sit at our reserved table, trying to get my waistcoat neat and tie straight. As soon as she arrives I can smell it. That mixture of fresh bouquet and summer air is flooding my senses and I smile before I even see her. She soon finds the table and I stand to great her. I kiss her soft pink lips delicately and then gently nip on one of her snakebites, making her to giggle. I pull away from her, to keep this kiss decent in public, and pull her chair back for her. With a grateful smile, she sits in the chair gracefully.

“Hi,” she mutters, just as shy as the first night we’d met.

“Why are you still so shy around me? It’s been an entire year,” I say teasingly.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she says in her angelic voice. “I’ll stop being shy when you stop giving me butterflies,” she continues, looking up with a faint blush, causing me to chuckle.

The date goes as all of the others before it had, perfect. As we get onto dessert I decide that I should probably get my act together and just do it.

“So, umm… You’re my mate, right?” I say clumsily. (Y/N) laughs and nods at that. “Right, and we know everything about eachother and we love eachother, right?” I continue. (Y/N)'s laughter ceases and she looks at me compassionately and smiles, nodding again. “Well we’ve known eachother exactly a year and we both know that we are meant to be,” I say, pausing to grab her hand in mine. “I could never go on without knowing that your beautiful eyes will be there for me to gaze into. I could never go on without knowing that your silken hair will be there for me to run my fingers through. I could never go on without knowing that your soft lips will be there for me to kiss. I could never go on without knowing that you would be there with me,” I say and I can see tears well up in her bright eyes as she smiles lovingly at me, holding my hand tighter. “So, having said all of that, I wanted to ask you something,” I stand and get down on one knee, cliché I know. “Will you marry and bond with me, (Y/N)? Will you become my wife for all of eternity?” I ask, reaching into my pocket to retrieve the platinum ring, with a diamond atop and engraving inside which read ‘I promise to love you for as long as we both shall live, eternity’. (Y/N) still hasn’t responded. She is just gazing into my eyes and clutching my hand. (Y/N)? Will you?” I ask, nervously.

“Of course I will, Gerard,” she says, smile wide and bright. I smile back and slip the ring onto her finger. We stand and I instantly capture her soft lips in a meaningful and loving kiss. I reluctantly pull away to allow Talia to breathe.

“I love you,” I whisper as I cup her soft face in my hands. “I love you so much, (Y/N),” I repeat.

“I love you too, Gerard, for eternity,”

[illapa-greybane]

The Greybane/Fairlight Wedding: Ceremony Transcript

The pavilion is open on four sides, one entrance to each cardinal direction. Gold embellishments and carved scrollwork gleam against the alabaster stone, familiar elements of Sin’dorei aesthetic design. The pavilion has been decorated in the betrothed couple’s own signature colors: ivory and violet, black and gold. Lengths of colored silk support garlands of flowers: from familiar roses (albeit in a unique deep indigo hue) to sprigs of fragrant Twilight Jasmine pale as the moon. The seaward breeze keeps the air light and fresh, stirring petals and wafting lengths of silk.

The officiant enters from the west and takes his place in the open center of the round, smiling politely at the assembled guests on the space’s perimeter. The ambient music fades to a mere murmur, bringing with it a hush of anticipation at what comes next: the entrance of the bride and groom.

Illapa enters from the south, distinct in his usual dark colors and austere manner; but today, everything is embellished with gold. Gold embroidery is thick on the sleeves and lapels of his finery; gold buttons glitter from his cuffs and collar, gold thread weighs down the heavy cloak draped over the crook of one arm. The black and gold is only broken by a fall of silver hair, not a strand out of place, brushed to a silk finish and adorned with braids that converge in a chain behind his head.

Solarine seems almost to glide into the pavilion, lengths of gauzy violet fabric fluttering in the light sea breeze wafting through the open archways behind her. She too carries a length of cloth draped over the crook of an arm, but hers is translucent, veil-like, as it covers her otherwise-bared shoulders and midriff. A floor-length skirt is paired with a choli blouse, and the whole ensemble of deep blue-violet is spangled and embroidered with gold thread along seams and edges. Her raven-black hair is pulled back into a long, elegantly-messy plait and adorned with fresh, fragrant Twilight Jasmine blossoms.

Illapa enters in his finery, wearing the fortune of a minor prince but the dignity of a king. His posture is exacting, back straight, shoulders level, chin high. His stride is graceful and betrays nothing of the years the lines of his face suggest. But as he and Solarine finally come face-to-face across the pavilion, there is a single falter in his stride; his chest swells with anticipation and pride beneath the layers of his garb.

Another man might have smiled at the first sight of his bride on their wedding day, but not Lord Greybane. Instead, the lines of age and care and scorn that gather at the corners of his eyes deepen, literal cracks in his legendary composure. And those eyes: those eyes are only for her.

Solarine can’t help but smile, despite a hint of nervousness to her countenance, as she approaches Illapa and the officiant Priest at the center of the pavilion. The faint, crystalline jingle of a strand of tiny ankle bells is just audible as she walks. The attempted-solemnity of her presentation is somewhat less effective as she comes to a halt, gazes at Illapa in all his finery, and blushes strawberry-red.

The officiant speaks:

“Priestess Solarine Fairlight, daughter of Farstrider Captain Alassien and Sanctum Warden Liya Fairlight, mother of Varali. A beacon of hope to the Sin’dorei in their darkest hour, she never faltered in the Light as she has tirelessly worked to heal the sick and wounded, bolster the spirits of the demoralized and disheartened, and offer her very own blood and tears in service to her people.

“Lord Illapa Greybane, scion of the ancient and noble line of Duskwarden. Exemplary in his discipline and dedication, a man of noble history and personal integrity. Respected as both a healer and scholar, a respected and familiar figure of Sin’dorei politics, but ever a leader to his people and a bastion of tradition in trying times.

“It should come as little surprise, then, that Priestess Fairlight and Lord Greybane’s shared dedication to their people and their homeland eventually bloomed into friendship, which in turn gave fruit to a dedication to one another.

“In times of darkness and tribulation, they found a light and strength in one another, and not even the threat of the Legion could break their commitment or tear them asunder.

“And so we gather here to witness the joining of their hands, and to celebrate the consummation of the love and devotion which has brought them before us today.”

The officiant turns to Solarine and Illapa, raising an ornately-decorated book as he gathers their attention. “Lord Greybane. Priestess Fairlight. Turn to one another, and place your rings upon each other’s hands.”

Illapa’s two children bear Solarine’s wedding ring: one a slender blonde girl on the cusp of adolescence, already so poised and ladylike in a modest yellow silk slip-dress; the other a robust flame-haired boy spattered with freckles from the sun.

It’s the boy, Rowan, who offers the ring box up to his father, his sister Liesel demurring to keep the peace between the siblings. The boy is young enough to cling to his father’s neck when he bends to accept the ring, but old enough to have enough pride to do it quickly.

Illapa places a fond hand on each of his children’s hair, both the golden and the fiery red, before ushering them back to their places.

The ring Illapa slides onto Solarine’s finger is delicate truegold set with a magically-hardened opal. A pair of gold crescent moons flank the perfectly round opal, and a dozen tiny diamonds surround the stone and dot the band like the stars in a constellation. The rainbow facets in the gem glimmer with both light and enchantment. The ring’s delicate construction is perfectly suited to Solarine’s dainty hand, but its celestial themes speak to the bright and shadowed divinity of her soul.

A chunky, raven-haired toddler with Solarine’s colouring and dimples, but with hints of a strong, angular bone structure developing beneath her baby fat, shuffles shyly in between Illapa and Solarine. Wearing a white petal skirt and a pale pastel-yellow blouse, she looks like a perfect spring Peacebloom as she offers her mother a velvet ring box, then stuffs a thumb into her mouth and hides behind Solarine’s legs.

Solarine opens the box, then pulls out a ring that might as well have Illapa’s name engraved on it. It is thick and heavy, with smooth rounded edges connecting the inner surface to the hard edges of the exterior surface. The exterior surface is black--so dark a black that no form would be obvious were it not for the brilliant gold rimming both edges, and the inner surface of the ring is a mysterious, deep, iridescent violet. All three metals making up the ring are obviously magical to the touch, most surely piquing the curiosity of a recipient who cannot yet examine it more closely as Solarine slips it onto Illapa’s finger.

Solarine then follows the officiant’s instruction, holding out her small, delicate hands and allowing Illapa to envelop them in his long, graceful fingers. Her short nails, usually plain, are painted in violet and each is tipped in a tiny crescent of gold.

The officiant lightly wraps an ornately-woven silk ribbon, embroidered with tiny rosebuds, around Solarine and Illapa’s clasped hands.

“With the exchange of these rings I place the first of three bindings about your hands, to symbolize the first commitment you made to each other.”

The officiant speaks again as he wraps a second ribbon around their hands. This one is embroidered not with rose buds, but with fully-bloomed flowers.

“I place the second of three bindings about your hands, to symbolize the love and devotion that has bloomed and bound you together.”

The officiant speaks a final time as he binds the last ribbon around their hands: one embroidered with pomegranates, split-open ripe and spilling with seeds.

“I place the third of three bindings about your hands, to symbolize the fruits of love and family that your union will bear.”

The officiant pauses to allow Illapa and Solarine a moment to look at each other and contemplate their exchange of words.

“Thus bound, in the eyes of friends and family, of vassal and peers, and under the blessing of the eternal Sun, speak now your vows.”

Illapa begins: “I take Solarine Fairlight to be my lady wife.”

Solarine answers. “I take Illapa Greybane to be my lord and husband.”

“My name is her name.”

“His name is my name.”

“My blood is her blood.”

“And my blood is his blood.”

“My deeds honor her.”

“My deeds honour him.”

“My thoughts ennoble her.”

“And mine ennoble him.”

“My heart cherishes her.”

“My heart cherishes him.” Solarine blushes again.

“On this day and for all our days upon the earth.”

“On this day and for all the days we share.”

The officiant ties all three ribbons together around the couple’s clasped hands. The knot is literally tied. “So as these bindings are intertwined, so are your lives from this day forward. If you may, seal this ancient pact with a kiss.”

Illapa smiles, and the formality of the ceremony melts away with the ease with which he and Solarine embrace. The new bride steps into his arms and despite the disparity of years between them (and the foot of inches between their heights) they fit together like storybook lovers.

Solarine leans in, pressing her cheek and chest to Illapa’s chest, then leans back expectantly and smiles cheekily, beckoning him to lean in and kiss her.

Illapa lifts their bound hands below Solarine's chin, tipping up her chin to receive their first wedded kiss. And if there was any lingering doubt about their union -- a woman as bright as May and a man as wintry as December -- it is banished by the ardent devotion of that kiss.

[still-finding-our-way]

N17, N16

(SX 742760) 28/11/ 2020

I am slow to write about this walk. For days after, whenever I close my eyes, visions arise, vivid and intense. Spooling and searing under lids, I need time to process what feels like a profound experience. Hallowed and spiritual, time distorted, surreal and dreamlike, we are moving through a white space, still without a whisper of wind. Silence magnified. The sighting of a magnificent raven perched on a boundary wall, silhouetted against the gloom, statuesque and blacker then coal. Its eerie caw, rasping, cuts through the stillness. We watch, still and wordless, spellbound by its presence, reluctant to peel away to continue on our journey. The sighting feels totemic. This is the ravens space, not ours. 

Jennie points out a tiny plant no more than finger height amongst the moor grass, dew drops suspended, crystal cut on delicate limbs—it radiates amongst earthly hues, no seasonal decoration able to match its completeness. Stripped back to the elements, away from noise and distraction, the high moor often feels otherworldly, now swathed in thick fog, visibility reduced to less than a few metres, the landscape is positively alien. Spatial perspective has dissolved and we are suspended in a colourless void. A place where there is no middle or far distance, no front, back or sideways, no horizon or sky. Only the here and now. Just us, breathing in whiteness, the sound of boots trudging. For all we know we might have slipped through a megalith portal, crossed over a time and space threshold and be walking in a different dimension and reality. 

My eldest daughter Libby joined us on this walk. All three of us seeking relief and respite on the moor and in each other’s company; vital therapy for shaking out the suffocating insularity caused by the lockdown restrictions. As with Jennie’s children and my own, Libby grew up with parts of Dartmoor as her extended playground. Now, as an avid climber, she regularly searches out the moor’s rocky outcrops to boulder and climb with her partner Harry. No doubt under normal circumstances—not being pregnant and having clear visibility—she would have confidently strode out and led the way. Today however, engulfed by a swirling nothingness, unable to correlate the symbols on the map with the surrounding terrain, the compass becomes our only reliable guide. 

Navigating through murky liquid water requires an act of faith. Follow the flickering red arrow, trust the magnets and the unseen. Our belief rewarded by staying on course. Landmarks marked on the map: Rippon Tor, Logan Stone, Buckland Beacon, Pil Tor and Top Tor, loom out from the grey miasma, yawning great slabs of granite, alien rock sculptures, moulded and defiant. It felt miraculous. All this despite my erroneous route planing. X may mark the spot but as we found out, almost to our peril, the links between the X’s do not necessarily follow a neatly drawn line on the map. 

The walk was designed primarily around visiting Buckland Beacon, a Tor which stands 1,253ft (382m) above sea level and which Jennie had discovered hosts two slabs of stone carved with the 10 commandment’s from the Christian bible. Given our religious upbringing, exposed to the spiritual fervour of Pentecostalism, we wondered how we had not heard about the stones before.

A quick scan of the internet reveals a family who had made money through the Greenall Whitely brewery established in the 18th century in the North of England. An enterprise enabled by the seismic cultural and economic fallout from the industrial revolution. Flicking from page to page I quickly spiral into a story about commercial enterprise, the expansion of capital, wealth, political influence and private education, the tentacles of which reach Devon through the brothers William and Herbert Whitely, who moved to the county in the early 20th Century. William Whitely became lord of Buckland Manor, buying up land and a number of surrounding farms with the help of his younger brother, Herbert. As a staunch protestant and traditionalist, William commissioned local stone mason W. A. Clement to engrave the ten commandments on two slabs of granite on the south face of the Beacon in 1928. The inscription was a celebration of the Parliamentary ruling that rejected proposals to revise the Book of Common Prayer, and included the dates when the bill was passed and an eleventh commandment for good measure.

Meanwhile, the younger brother, Herbert had been busy building a menagerie on his private estate near Paignton, acquiring all manner of exotic plants and animals. In 1923 he opened his collection to the public as Torbay Zoological Gardens, a venue that later became known as Paignton Zoo. I read with interest that Herbert had a particular penchant for blue, collecting and breeding blue animals and plants. The most precious hue in nature, not really a pigment but an interplay of light on feathers, wings, skin, scales and exoskeletons. Blue is not an earthly colour, it has to be extracted from stone or made synthetically and as such has been much prized in history. The deep blue pigment 'Ultramarine' favoured by the great Italian renaissance painters, Raphael, Botticelli and Titian, was ground from the semi-precious mineral ‘Lapis lazuli’, which translates from its Middle Eastern roots as literally ‘blue stone’. Mixing and blending, accruing and containing. Blue became the colour of royalty and divinity. Peacock feather, delphinium, cerulean and the deepest indigo. A slick of blue eyeshadow drawn across Cleopatra’s brow to seduce an empire. Virgin blue, alchemy and sorcery. Blue blood and blue beard. The rich and powerful scoring words into stone and hoarding natures treasure.

Reading the inscription on the stones unearthed long forgotten memories from childhood. Stories flooded back about the wrath and vengeance of the Christian old God ‘Thou shalt have none other gods but me … I the Lord thy God am a jealous God’. Seduced and softened by modern liberalism, a new religion where, on the surface at least, we are expected to cast no judgement, the language felt controlling and finite, limited and at odds with the fecundity of the moor, which even in the deepest winter is alive. You can feel and smell the aliveness, folding and churning, a living entity. Leaf mould and dung, symbiosis, copulation and predation; the parasitic and endophytic, plant and animal and the in-between. Everywhere sprouting and spewing fungi, mulching and mashing. Names that weave story and folklore into identification of plant and fauna, marking out the deadly and the vision inducing: Witches butter, Yellow brain, Ink cap and Velvet shank. The moor speaks to an earthly spirituality, synthesising and composing, living and dying, a life renewing continuum. I take heed of myth that reflects the biological life cycle as found in the ancient trinity of the Hindu deities: Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva—forever creating, maintaining and destroying. Alive and dead, my skin catches on the shards of granite, grains of quartz and feldspar, mingling with micro-biological lifeforms, bacteria and my own spiralling blue-print contained in DNA. 

The commandment stones are no match for the elements or the passing of time. Eaten away by lichen and eroded by the onslaught of weather, the words have to be regularly chiseled to stop them disappearing altogether. A hundred years passing, not even a heartbeat in geological time. Rooted in pre-history and borne out of fire and fusion, the stones represent forces far bigger than the scratchings and scrubbings of men. Standing on the stones, taking the obligatory 'we were here' selfies, it is easy to dismiss the monument as archaic, the monomania of a rich and powerful man. But we arrive at the stones with our own set of beliefs, contained by ideological structures—some of which are invisible to even ourselves—that colour how we see our place in the world. We talk comfortably about the effect of nature on the body as evidenced through scientific measurement and analysis, the language of endorphins, lowered blood pressure and raised serotonin levels—but we are not so fluid in the language of the spiritual. 

Sipping hot tea, I garble about monotheism and the cultural separation of the divine from earthly realms to an abstract other place. But I am unable to grasp the right words to explain the contradiction of the stones with the surroundings. I want to say how the arrival of the three mono religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam elevated the divine to a non-earthly domain, somewhere over the rainbow, beyond the clouds and out of reach. The earlier gods and goddesses; the spirits and deities of rivers, trees, forests and stones were all but chased out, surviving only through folklore and myth. Whilst the life renewing vitality of the deep earth became associated with devilment and hell; a place to bury the carnal and hide our earthly appetites. Out too, went the animal spirits, the totems from which to learn and draw strength from: the sharp eyed raven, the stealth of the wild cat, the strong ox and cunning snake. In separating the divine from the corporeal we created a hierarchy and dominion that placed man atop of the pile so we might touch the divine and in doing so we cut off our roots. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Bones and dirt, dirty old bones. Godliness became whiteness and purity, and heaven the only place where we might be free from earthly weights; the sweat and the tears, pain and sickness, shame and folly. You can see the attraction—the body weighs heavy, it breaks and is fallible. Our appetites always biting back. Too much and we get sick, too little and we get sick. How to to lighten the load? Psychedelic drugs, serotonin, diazepam, liquid ecstacy, shamanic rituals, prayer, hallucination, meditation, visions and dreams; a story to make it all go away.

The crown slips. The spires reach high up to the skies but bring us no closer to heaven. We are no more divine or kingly, as we ever were. Heaven was always here.

The spool keeps spinning and I can’t rewind. Each moment evaporates into nothingness. Gone. White space. Dense twisted oak and hardy hawthorn giving way to larger trees as we descend into the valley. Mosses, liverworts, fern and lichen. Leaf litter turning to thick mulch. Branches snag and catch loose hair as we duck beneath trees. Bulbous fruiting fungi wet to touch, animal. Three women: mothers and daughters and friends, traipsing down a winding road in the deepest winter. Smiling and laughing, savouring the moment. An old church, cool and still invites us in. Before we enter we study the lettering on the ornate clock face on the church tower, we think it spells ‘Dear Earth’. Later I find out Mr William Whitely has been at it again, replacing the numbers in 1931 with the letters ‘My Dear Mother’. I figure it means the same as our first interpretation. We enter the church and stay awhile. My girl waits outside, sitting on an old lichen covered bench amongst the granite gravestones, her trusted dog by her side. The old bones of Mr Whitely not far away feed the earth while she grows new bones deep within her belly.

SC

[shapesweets83-blog]

Best Architecture, Urban Design, & Public Art Of 2018

We’ve been saying this for a few years now, but 2018 really did feel like a year where significant changes–much of them highly-anticipated–came to Philly’s built environment.

Comcast Technology Center | Photo: Bradley Maule

A refashioned LOVE Park opened without skateboarders and a replacement National Products building with its faked but convincing historic facade began filling up with renters; some might say the original versions were better. The iconic Curtis and Bourse buildings emerged from renovations as upscale food destinations. In West Philadelphia, the development of uCitySquare, a joint project of Science Center, Cambridge Innovation Center, Wexford Science and Technology, BioLabs, and Ventas continued apace with the opening of its first mid-rise tower.

A significant extension to the Schuylkill River Trail from South to Christian street closed part of the gap between the existing boardwalk and Grays Ferry Crescent, while the Fairmount Water Works Trail and Boardwalk opened, affording views of the small island wetlands behind the Philadelphia Museum of Art. We like how at this point all of these Schuylkill projects have come to an understanding about the materials, finishes, and street furniture that they will be using going forward.

In fact, there’s much to like about all of the above developments but whether in scope or aesthetics, context or contributions, they weren’t the most transformative ones of 2018. What ties our winners together are linkages–past to present, city to nature, interior to exterior. For those, read on.

New Building: Skyscraper

The eastern view from the Comcast Technology Center | Photo: Nathaniel Popkin

Who needs Amazon when we have Comcast? With its second skyscraper, the 1,121-foot, $1.5 billion Comcast Technology Center, the media giant has risen to the occasion by using corporate architecture to positively impact downtown. Granted, Foster + Partners’ glass tower isn’t exactly groundbreaking, but its interiors are. An installation by the world-class contemporary artist Jenny Holzer and an extensive use of wood (from slatted sides and ceilings to distinctive woodblock flooring) integrate the building into the life of the city and elevate its performance as public space. An elegant and reasonably priced cafe offers a great addition to the lunch scene (as I witnessed one recent afternoon, CEO Brian Roberts thinks it’s good enough to entertain Steven Spielberg). The expansive glass opens up respectful vistas of, and a connection to, the two towers’ stalwart neighbor, the Arch Street Presbyterian Church, and the Robert Morris Building beyond.

New Building: Hidden Gem

Entrance to the Discovery Center overlooking the East Park Reservoir | Photo: Nathaniel Popkin

Discovery Center in East Fairmount Park has a grand exterior, perhaps more so than its relatively modest mission demands. Designed by Digsau for the offices and services of the local branches of Audubon and Outward Bound, its long flat planes emerge from the Fairmount Park landscape seemingly out of nowhere, promising an oasis amidst the sea of chickenwire fencing that surrounds a decommissioned reservoir/now native habitat. Serene and bold at the same time, it reminds me of some of the best of modern Japanese architecture, not only in its forms and materials but in its embrace of nature. Your first steps through the portal of a hand-forged steel gate (it looks like wood lattice) positioned in the middle of a 500-foot facade of shou sugi ban will pretty much take your breath away.

    Public Space

Cherry Street Pier | Photo: Michael Bixler

Among the many civic achievements of Race Street Pier (2011) was the crystallization of the allure of its near neighbor to the south, Cherry Street Pier. The realization of that tease came this fall, with a little piece of tactical urbanism designed by Groundswell Design Group and Interface Studio Architects. Drawing on the lessons of GDG’s wildly successful Spruce St. Harbor Park–namely that people like beer, street food, and things to do along with their views–it’s a fun and dynamic environment that aims to delight. Someone please give the folks at Delaware River Waterfront Corporation (the force behind all three spaces) an award for recognizing that interventions don’t always have to take dozens of years and hundreds of millions to be transformative.

Adaptive Reuse

The Rail Park | Photo: Bradley Maule

The idea of the Rail Park was a big meh to me–until it opened. As was the case with Cherry Street Pier’s first weekend, though, the excitement and interest in the unveiling that morning (of course I went!) was tangible and encouraging. If they do nothing else, such projects foster a dialogue about how we use our urban spaces, and for that alone they deserve high praise. Sure, The Rail Park’s first phase is just a little spit of a thing and sure it can’t boast the views or (as of yet) the landscape vision of New York’s High Line. But Studio Bryan Haynes nailed it with a plan that’s firmly of its place and with enough design twists and turns (literally) to keep things interesting–and swinging (also literally).

      Preservation

Sprouts Farmers Market | Photo: Michael Bixler

The debut of Philadelphia’s first Sprouts Farmers Market, the Arizona-based chain with a natural/organic bent, was particularly noteworthy because it’s filled a demonstrable market need on South Broad Street. Part of Lincoln Square, an otherwise ordinary development that offers 322 apartments and a retail coterie that includes a tired trio of Target, Starbucks and Pet Smart, its real significance is its success as a bold example of both historic preservation, of the 1876 Philadelphia, Wilmington & Baltimore Railroad depot, and adaptive reuse. Though the corporate strip mall treatment of the entrance to the market fails to acknowledge the urban setting, the historic architecture of the train shed, or the contemporary design of the multi-use apartment building, Sprouts gets shouts simply because of how it’s smartly wedged into the historic train shed. That and the free samples.

New Place

Looking east toward East Market, with the under restoration Stephen Girard and under construction Girard apartment hotel tower in the foreground | Photo: Nathaniel Popkin

East Market touts itself as “dynamic” and while that’s an overstatement, I kind of like it there. An expert mix of new construction, historic restoration, and adaptive reuse that keeps it from feeling bland, this refashioning of the downtrodden former Snellenburg Department Store site into a true mixed-use pedestrian street by BLT Architects is something we haven’t seen before. A new hotel and more local retail (Federal Donuts!) suggest things will only get better. Best of all, the development adds vibrancy to the urban fabric that surrounds it, allowing new vantage points to gaze on the Reading Terminal, PSFS Building, and the former Horn & Hardart at 11th and Ludlow Streets.

              Restoration

The Met: White elephant no more | Photo: Nathaniel Popkin

It’s hard to believe that The Met was ever allowed to devolve into a ruin, but after years kept alive by the Holy Ghost Headquarters Church, developer Eric Blumenfeld’s 2013 plan for the Oscar Hammerstein opera house has come to fruition. The careful $56 million renovation by local firm AOS Architects is ruby velvet and gilded surfaces–and bars, lots of bars. It’s been modernized (of course) but with much of its astounding plaster ornamentation recreated, it looks like a concert hall should. Visitors say the sightlines are almost uniformly great, too. Take that, Academy of Music.

Transformation

The Hale Building | Photo: Peter Woodall

Day in, day out the miracle of the 1887 Keystone National Bank Building, designed by Willis Hale, has proven the most pleasurable for me, located as it is on a prominent corner that I pass a couple of times each week. When I first saw the spiffed up red brick and cleaned-up facade in full reveal of the “Hale Building” I do believe I let out an audible gasp. While I’m not in love with the new entrance on the Chestnut Street and I’m not expecting much from the interiors, I thank JKRP Architects for a careful revival of this masterful mashup and making my walks around town that much more pleasurable.

Design Vision

Rear view of the Ronald O. Perelman Center for Political Science and Economics | Photo: Nathaniel Popkin

Long under-utilized, the stately West Philadelphia Trust Building has renewed presence on Walnut Street thanks to a smart restoration and intervention from Toronto-based KPMB. Freshly engraved with the name of its tenant, the University of Pennsylania’s Ronald O. Perelman Center for Political Science and Economics, the 1925 Art Deco building has been seamlessly linked to a new glass-and-aluminum tower that echoes the older structure’s massing and window cutouts. Interiors, too, are elegant with clean lines and a dramatic staircase that suggests both the old and the new bones of the intertwined university building.

  �� Placemaking

Trolley Car Station cafe adjacent to the SEPTA Subway-Surface tunnel | Photo: Nathaniel Popkin

With outdoor seating and beds of native plantings, Trolley Portal Gardens makes a there out of something whose assets–historic Woodlands Cemetery, a charming tunnel–belie its utilitarian functions (catching and disembarking from mass transit). The wood structure of the Trolley Car Station café echoes the form of the adjacent tunnel and bumps up the space from an amenity for transit users to a gift for the entire neighborhood.

    Public Art

Deck the Hall light show, City Hall | Photo: Nathaniel Popkin

Robert Indiana’s LOVE was returned to a renovated Love Park, the Parkway Holocaust memorial expanded, and the better-in-concept-than-reality (thus far) sculpture Pulse finally debuted at Dilworth Plaza. From Winter Fountains, the luminous orbs that decorated the Parkway, to Sea Monsters HERE, an Insta-ready serpent that wreaked playful havoc at the Navy Yard, it was certainly a big year for public art. My favorite, though, came courtesy of a brilliant burst of color and movement from the geniuses over at Klip Collective: the City Hall Deck The Hall Light Show. Granted, this iteration differed only slightly from the version the group premiered last year. But because it so lovingly touted City Hall as a dazzling piece of architecture and because it comes from a homegrown operation that’s rapidly gaining a national reputation, I’m giving it the nod. Next year, guys, maybe switch it up?

About the author

Freelance journalist JoAnn Greco writes about the fascinating people, places, trends, and stories found in the worlds of urban planning, arts and culture, design, hospitality, travel and, of course, Philadelphia. Her work has been published in the Washington Post, Art & Antiques, Toronto Globe and Mail, Amtrak’s Arrive, PlanPhilly, Penn Gazette, and dozens of others. She lives in Bella Vista.

Source: https://hiddencityphila.org/2018/12/best-architecture-urban-design-public-art-of-2018/

[the-tales-of-horror]

Something happened 63 years ago that's haunted me my entire life. I’ve never told anyone about it—until now.

Original Link By Sergeant_Darwin

It’s official: I’m an old man.

For the last couple years, I’ve comforted myself by saying I’m in my “early 70s,” but math is simple and unforgiving. Today is my 75th birthday, and God, the years do fly.

I’m not here for your well wishes; this is hardly a milestone I’m excited about. I’m glad to still be here, of course, but I find I have less and less to live for with every passing year. My bones ache, my kids live far away, and the other side of my bed has been empty for just over eight months now. In fact, once I cast my vote against that goddamned Trump this November, I may have nothing to live for at all.

So spare me your “happy birthdays” and your congratulations, if you please. I’m here because I have a story for you, and it’s one I’ve never told before. I used to think I kept it inside because it was silly, or maybe because nobody would believe it. I’ve found, though, that the older you grow, the more exhausting it becomes to lie to yourself. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ve never told anybody this story because it scares me, almost to death.

But death seems friendlier than it used to, so listen close.

The year was 1950; the setting a small town in Maine. I was a boy of nine, rather small for my age, with only one friend in the world to speak of—and his family, seemingly on a whim, decided to move 2,000 miles away. It was shaping up to be the worst summer of my life.

My pop wasn’t around and my mom was a chore-whore—boy, was I proud of myself when I came up with that one—so I wasn’t apt to hang around the house. With some hesitation, I decided the public library was the place to be that summer. The library’s collection of books, particularly children’s books, was meager to say the least. But within the walls of that miserly structure, I would find no undone chores, no nagging mother (God rest her soul), and perhaps most importantly, no other children with whom I would be expected to associate. I was the only kid with a low enough social status to spend his precious days of freedom sulking amid the bookshelves, and that was just fine with me.

The first half of my summer was even more dreadful than I had imagined it would be. I would sleep in until 10, do my chores, and then ride my bike to the library (and by bike, I mean rusty log of shit attached to a pair of wheels). Once there, I would split my time between unintentionally annoying the elderly patrons and deliberately doing so. One pleasant lady actually interrupted my incessant tongue-clicking to hiss a “shut the fuck up!” at me—the first time I ever heard a grownup use The F Word. Big fuckin’ deal, I know, but in those days it was unheard of.

The dreary days turned to woeful weeks. I had actually begun praying for school to start again—until I discovered the basement. I could have sworn I’d roamed every inch of that library, but one day, in the far corner behind the foreign language collection I stumbled across a small wooden door I had never seen before. That was where it all began.

The door was windowless and made from oak that looked far older than the wall in which it rested. It had a knob of black metal that quite literally looked ancient—I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it was crafted in the 17th century. Engraved on the knob was what appeared to be a single footprint. I had the sense that whatever lay beyond this door was forbidden to me, and therefore probably the most interesting thing I would encounter all summer. I quickly glanced around to make sure nobody was watching me, then turned the heavy knob, slipped behind the door, and shut it.

There was nothing; only darkness. I took a couple of steps and then stopped, unnerved by the totality of the shadow which surrounded me. I waved my hands in front of me in an attempt to find a wall or a shelf or anything to hold on to. What I actually found was far more subtle—a small string, dangling from above—but far more useful. I grabbed it firmly and pulled it down.

Back in the day, lots of lightbulbs were operated with strings, and this was one of them. My surroundings were instantly illuminated. I was standing on a small, dusty platform that looked as though it hadn’t seen life in quite some time. To my left was a crickety-ass spiral staircase, made of wood and appearing ready to collapse at any second. The bulb was the only source of light in the room, and it was feeble, so when I peered over the railing to see what lay below, the bottom of the staircase dissolved into the darkness.

I was beginning to feel scared. This place—wherever I was—seemed to have no business in a town library. It was as though I were in a completely different building. But no nine-year-old likes to let a mystery go unsolved. Looking back, I wish I could tell my prepubescent self to turn around, go back, do anything else besides descending that staircase. “You’ll be spared a lot of sleepless nights,” I’d say. But, of course, I didn’t know that then—and I may not have listened even if I had. So instead of turning back, I took a deep breath, gripped the railing, and glared resolutely forward as I began my descent.

The wood on the railing was dry and covered with splinters. I immediately let go, holding my hands out for balance as I carefully traversed the staircase. It was (or at least seemed) very long, and with only the dim glow from the string-bulb far above me, my heart pounded mercilessly in the darkness. Even kids can sense when something isn’t right, I think—they just don’t always give a shit.

By the time my feet reached the cement floor at the bottom, the light from the bulb above was very nearly a memory. But there was a new light source, and God, I’ll never forget it. Directly in front of me was a door, massive, and a deep shade of red. The light was coming from behind the door, and it shone out in thin lines from all four sides—a sinister, dimly glowing rectangle. For the second time, I took a deep breath and went through a door I shouldn’t have.

In contrast to the dank room I entered from, the room behind the door was blinding. When my eyes adjusted, what I saw nearly took my breath away.

It was a library. The most perfect library imaginable.

I gaped in wonder as I stepped, almost reverently, further into the room. It was beautiful. It was smaller than the library above, much smaller, but it seemed to be almost tailor-made for me. The shelves were packed with brightly colored titles, both armchairs in the middle of the room were exquisitely comfortable, and the smell—my God, the smell—was simply unbelievable. Sort of a mixture of citrus and pine. I simply can’t do it justice with words, so I’ll suffice it to say that I’ve never smelled anything better. Not in my 75 years.

What was this room? Why had I never heard of it before? Why was nobody else here? Those were the questions I should have been asking. But I was intoxicated. As I gazed around at all the books and basked in the smell of paradise, I could only form one thought: I will never be bored again.

In truth, boredom only hid from me for three years. It was on my 12th birthday, 63 years ago to this day, that everything changed.

Before that day, I visited my basement sanctuary as often as I could—usually several times a week. I never saw another soul down there, yet strangely remained free of suspicion. I never removed a book from that room, but instead would pick up a particular volume wherever I had stopped reading during my previous visit. I sat, always in the same deep purple armchair, and always leaving its twin barren and directly across from myself. That armchair was mine, the other was—well, I suppose I couldn’t have articulated it then much better than I can now. But it wasn’t mine, that’s for damn sure.

On my twelfth birthday, I arrived later than usual. My mom had invited a couple classmates and some cousins over to our house to celebrate, a gesture which I found more tedious than touching—really, I just wanted to spend my birthday sitting and reading and smelling paradise. Eventually, our guests went home, and I made it to the library about fifteen minutes before closing time. That didn’t matter; the workers never checked down there before they locked up. I was free to stay as late as I wished. This particular night, I was devouring the final chapters of an epic adventure; knights, swords, dragons, and the like. I didn’t smell it until I read the final words and closed the book.

The once exquisite aroma of that room had turned sour. I sat for a moment, unsettled. Objectively, I could recognize that the smell was actually the same as it had been before—that mixture of citrus and pine. I just perceived it differently, and I didn’t like it anymore. It was the nasal version of an optical illusion; you know, the one that looks like a young woman glancing backward, but all of a sudden you see that it’s really an old woman facing toward you? You can’t unsee that, and I couldn’t unsmell this. The spell was broken.

The odor also seemed, for the first time, to be coming from somewhere specific. With a fair amount of trepidation, I stalked around the room, sniffing the air like a crazed canine until I came to a shelf near the back. The shelf was perfectly normal, with the exception of one title—a large, leatherbound cover of solid faded maroon, with one striking black footprint at the top of the spine. This was the source of the smell. I opened the front cover, and saw one sentence scrawled neatly in blood-red ink atop the first page:

Rest your sorrows down, friend, and leave them where they lie.

I stared at this sentence, mesmerized, as I began to retreat to my chair. I turned a page. Blank. The smell became stronger. Another page, blank, and the smell grew stronger still. I stopped for a moment, suppressed a gag, and continued walking. Then, as I neared the armchairs, I turned one final page—and there, in the same sinister print, was the last thing I expected to see: my own name. I dropped the book. I began to sprint toward the door, but as I shifted my gaze forward, my heart leapt to my throat and I stopped in my tracks.

The empty chair wasn’t empty anymore.

An aged man in a suit sat before me, one leg crossed over the other, contemplating me with piercing gray eyes and a light smirk. This was all too much. I fell to my knees and expelled the contents of my stomach onto the carpet. I wiped my mouth, staring at my vomit, when I heard the man let out a chuckle.

I stared at him disbelievingly. “Who are you?” I asked, panic in my voice.

The man leapt to his feet, grabbed me gently by the shoulders, and helped me to my chair. He sat, once again, in his own. “I fear we got off to a bad start,” he said, glancing at the pile of sick on the carpet. “The smell . . . it does take some getting used to.”

“Who are you?” I repeated.

“Tonight, you will know hardship like you’ve never before known,” he said. “I come as a friend, offering you refuge from it, and from all other storms which lie ahead.”

I wanted nothing more than to leave at that moment, but I remained seated. I asked him what he was talking about.

“Your mother is dead, my boy. By her own hand, in her kitchen. The scene is gruesome, I must admit,” he said in sorrowful tones, but was there a playful glint in his eye? “Surely you wish to avoid this path. I can show you a safer one.”

My blood ran cold at the horrors this man spoke of, but I did not believe him. “What do you want with me?” I demanded, trying to sound braver than I felt. He laughed, an old, raspy yelp that seemed to shake him to his bones.

“Nothing but your friendship, dear boy,” he said. Then, sensing I found his answer inadequate, he expounded. “I want you to come on a journey with me. My work is noble and you will make a fine apprentice. And maybe, when I’m done”—he sighed tiredly, running his bony fingers through his thin white hair—“maybe then, my work can be yours.”

I stood up, shuffling toward the door but never breaking his gaze. “You’re crazy,” I told him. “My mom isn’t dead. She’s not.”

“See for yourself, if you must,” he said, gesturing toward the door. I threw him a contemptuous glare and bolted for the exit. As my hand closed around the knob, he said my name softly. In spite of myself, I turned around.

“Your road won’t be easy, friend. If it ever becomes too much for you, and I mean ever,” he said, pausing to sweep his hand over the room, “you know where to find me.”

I slammed the door behind me and took the decrepit stairs two at a time. I exited the library, clambered onto my bike, and high-tailed it home. The front door was wide open. I dismounted, leaving my bike in a heap on the ground, and approached the house cautiously. The old man was lying—he must have been. Still, tears began to sting my eyes. Heart pounding, I stepped inside and called for my mother. I heard no answer, so I turned into the kitchen.

To this day, I don’t know why she did it.

I’ve lived in that small town in Maine my entire life, although I’ve kept mostly clear of the public library. Once, in my late 20s, I summoned the courage to step inside. Life was good at that time, and my fear had begun to morph into idle curiosity. Where the door to my basement sanctuary once stood was only a blank wall. I asked the librarian what had become of that basement, though in my heart I knew the answer. There was no basement, she said. There had never been a basement. In fact, if she had her facts correctly, city zoning ordinances prohibited a basement in the area.

I’ve been haunted by that sickly-sweet smell, that poisonous blend of citrus and pine, ever since that long ago birthday. When I saw my mother in the kitchen that day, collapsed in a pool of her own blood, I smelled it. When a man claiming to be my father knocked on my college apartment door, begged me for money and beat me to within an inch of my life when I refused, I smelled it. When my wife miscarried our second child, I smelled it, and again when she miscarried our fourth. When our oldest son got behind the wheel of the family Buick completely shitfaced and got his girlfriend killed, I smelled it.

I began to smell it periodically as my wife became sick. She died late last year, and now, I’m alone for the first time in more than half a century. Now, I smell it every day, and it feels like an invitation.

A few months ago, I went back to the library and the small oak door with the ancient handle was there—right where it used to be. My evening walk has brought me past that library every day since, but I haven’t gone inside. Maybe tonight I will. I’m frightened to die, yes, but lately I’m even more frightened to keep living. The old man was right—my road hasn’t been easy, and I doubt it will get any easier.

Rest your sorrows down, friend, and leave them where they lie.

He promised relief. A refuge, he said. Was he right about that too? There’s only one way to find out. After all, I still know where to find him.

[theupsidedownunderblog-blog]

THE GOSFORD GLYPHS - OUR EGYPTIAN HERITAGE?

The Gosford Hieroglyphs, or “Gosford Glyphs” for short, are a series of strange, deep-cut markings on a rock in Hunter Valley, New South Wales. The “Gosford Glyphs” are located near Kariong, about 60 km north of Sydney, Australia and since their discovery in the 1970s, this set of arguably ancient carvings has achieved widespread notoriety due to their resemblance of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. The glyphs are carved into two parallel sandstone walls about 15 m (49 ft) long. They depict boats, chickens, dogs, owls, stick men, a dog’s bone as well as two that appear to be the names of kings, one of them Khufu, the other uncertain. There is also a carving of the ancient Egyptian god Anubis.

The Gosford Hieroglyphs, or “Gosford Glyphs” for short, are a series of strange, deep-cut markings on a rock in Hunter Valley, New South Wales. What’s more, the area also seems to have a large, labyrinthine structure of strangely straight caves and tunnels underneath the stone.

The Gosford Glyphs area seems to have a large, labyrinthine structure of strangely straight caves and tunnels underneath the stone. Does this mean that ancient Egyptians somehow managed to travel to Eastern Australia, and brought their rock-working tools along for the ride? So, how did they manage that? Was it magic? Were they helped by aliens? Well, it depends on who you ask.  Below is a list for FOR's and AGAINST's in this ongoing saga... FOR: Steven Strong, the leader of a group of amateur archeologists researching the area, says that the amount of existing evidence (along with a second series of glyphs that his team has recently found) means the area still clearly has many strange mysteries to hide. AGAINST: Egyptology expert Boyo Ockinga, from Sydney’s Macquarie University, has stated that the site has nothing to do with Egyptians. According to him, the glyphs are poor imitations that were most likely made by Australian soldiers who visited Egypt during World War I and developed a fascination with the culture. FOR: A team from Egypt’s Khemit School of Ancient Mysticism visited the the site, documented and completed an in depth study.  The team has deemed the Gosford ‘Glyphs legitimate, they believe the scribes who created them accurately used a number of ancient hieroglyphs and ‘grammatical’ variations that were not even documented in Egyptian hieroglyphic texts until 2012. And as hieroglyphics (like any language) evolves over time, the specific style of script used offers a linguistic time-frame that suggests there was an Egyptian presence in Australia at least 2,500 years ago — 500BC or earlier. The translated text is even so detailed as to identify the ancient scribes, by name and occupation.

A team from Egypt’s Khemit School of Ancient Mysticism visited the the site, AGAINST: Australian Egyptologist, Professor Naguib Kanawati firmly believes the “intricate” set of hieroglyphs  are not authentic, saying how ancient hieroglyphs within the same panels were of widely different periods in history and some of them were even carved backward. And on it goes - four decades later! The Glyphs Translation?.. THE EGYPTIAN HIEROGLYPHS ON THE EAST WALL: FOR HIS HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE, from this wretched place in this land, where we were carried by ship. Engraved for the Crown of Lower Egypt, according to God’s word. My fellow Egyptianscall out from this place in this strange land for the god SUTI.  I, NEFER-DJESEB,Son of KHUFU, king of Upper and Lower Egypt(beloved by Ptah),has brought the god SUTI. The Prince was kind and benevolent,follower of the SunGod Ra. For two seasons (eight months) he directed us eastward,weary, but strong to the end.  Always praying, joyful, and smiting insects. He, the servant of God,said God created the insects to protect his people. I myself am hardened, have gone around hills and deserts,in wind and rain, with no lakes at hand,blessed by the falling nights, when I hide myself,completely out of reach. In our last camp I cooked fowl on hand, and brought rain,but hurt my back carrying the Golden Falcon Standard, crossing hills, desert and pools of water along the way. Plants are withering, Land is dying.  Is this our lot from the highest God of the Sacred Mer? The Sun is pouring down upon our back!  Oh mighty Khepera, this is not what the Oracle has said.  Our Harts are overturned, but not broken. This Regal person NEFER-TI-RU came from the temple of God in Penu, Egypt.  He came from the House of God.He was the Son of KHUFU, king of Upper and Lower Egypt. He, who died before, is here laid to rest.  May he have life everlasting. He is never again to stand beside the waters of the Sacred Mer.  Then clasp him, my Brothers Spirit to thy side, O Father of the Earth. THE EGYPTIAN HIEROGLYPHS ON THE WEST WALL: The snake bit twice.  We, followers of the divine king KHUFU, mighty one of Lower Egypt, Lord of the Two Adzes, we shall not all return. However, we have to continue; we cannot look back. All creek and river beds are dry, and we are dismayed.  Our boats are tied up with rope.  Death was caused by snake. We gave egg-yolk from the medicine-chest, and prayed to Amun, the Hidden One, for he was struck twice. It was a hard time for all of us, weeping over the dead body, and keeping to the protocol. Seated all aside, our men watched the funeral, with concern and deep love.  How the mummified body was buried in the Red Earth Section. Then we recovered ourselves. We walled in the side entrance to the chamber, with stones from all around.  The chamber was aligned with the Western Heavens. I counted and impounded the daggers of our men. The three doors of eternity were connected to the rear end of the Royal Tomb, and sealed in. Source of the translation: Burial site of Lord Nefer-Ti-Ru, by Dr R Jonge

A few facts While there are claims the glyphs were found at various stages throughout the 20th century, the first official discovery of the site, made by the National Parks and Wildlife Service (NPWS), was in 1983. Geologists have stated the sandstone in which the hieroglyphs were carved erodes quickly. Furthermore, 250-year-old Aboriginal petroglyphs, which are located nearby, show considerably more erosion. In 1983, geologist and rock art conservator of the NPWS, David Lamber, discovered some clean cut glyphs at the site which he estimated to be less than 12 months old. In 1984, Neil Martin, a NPWS ranger who was performing fire management in the area, discovered an old Yugoslav man at the site chipping away with a Sidchrome cold chisel. He said, “because he was mentally handicapped, we took no further action, but I later gave the chisel to the local historical society.  We never saw the old man again.” A sphinx and pyramids are known to have been carved on sandstone in the vicinity by an Australian soldier. There are literally thousands of articles about the Gosford Glyphs on the internet.  Some are by proponents and true believers in their Egyptian heritage.  Most are dedicated to debunking the theories put forward by those believers.  I guess, when all's said and done, it's up to you to decide... Sources: https://www.travellingtype.com/egyptians-among-the-eucalypts-the-gosford-hieroglyphs/ https://megalithicmarvels.com/2017/04/04/3-ancient-anomalies-discovered-down-under/ https://wakeup-world.com/2014/10/14/hieroglyphics-experts-declare-ancient-egyptian-carvings-in-australia-authentic/ http://www.khemitology.com/ http://karionghieroglyphs.blogspot.com.au/p/page-one.html http://listverse.com/2013/12/20/10-amazing-stories-of-australian-paranormal-phenomena/ Click to Post