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weirdmageddon · 1 year

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i love these tags this person is so right

actually, can you imagine if dave was raised by B1 roxy?

i wanna get into this actually

(ok i had to spend a few hours rewriting this because IT DIDNT FUCKING SAVE AFTER FIVE HOURS OF WRITING WHEN MY COMPUTER UPDATED WHILE I WAS AFK so it would mean a lot to show this post some appreciation. i LOVEEE hearing what other people have to say)

even though these things mom does are presented in an extravagant, kitsch, jokey way, her intentions always came from a place of sincerity. she is simply Funnie

but rose reads too far into it and assumes things that aren't there, that her mother is passive-aggressively feigning interest in rose's interests simply because the things she does are so extra. "why do all of this if not to mock me"

im telling you right now if dave lived in this household he wouldn't assume antagonism, he'd go,

don’t forget who LITERALLY patented tangible jpeg artifacts as their post-scratch adult self and scattered shitty scummed up statue of liberties all over the planet. theres no way some of that overboard artful shit wasnt post-ironic / circling back around to genuine funny sincerity

dave's natural state is funny sincerity like roxy. he's had the natural capacity for this type of humor from the start and this is the direction he goes towards when he grows out of his brother's shadow by the end of the comic. dave and roxy share an earnest “so bad its good” type of humor

(lots more under the cut; the length of this meta analysis just got unwieldly with all the pictures and whatnot)

despite the alcoholism, roxy is a supportive mother. she's not the ideal guardian but hells of a lot more supportive of her kid than bro is. if she knew dave's interests she would totally indulge in them with some over the top silly goofy haha shit as a genuine gesture simply because she loves him

rose isn't too keen on it though. but she is more similar to dirk in her natural state of thinking of overthinking shit and assuming the worst, like the tags said

and yes dave got the sweet cuddly yet sometimes backhanded ouppy gene from roxy, probably even moreso lol

roxy's even said rose "sounds like girl dirk"

side tangent here, but this is something i wanna talk about.

i dont think bro should ever be in custody of children ever but if theres anyone who would be up to the task it's rose probably. i know she'd be able to keep up with him. not only does she have a defined personality (dave is more malleable and absorbs his environment like a sponge), if anyone can pick apart B1 dirk's batshit brain and probably be right on the money it's her. lil cal has been pumping patriarchal nonsense into bro's head and rose would be able to bring the fucking facts to the table without losing her own and being a living example of a badass little girl. i also don't think bro would try to force masculine roles onto rose like he did with dave, seeing as she is a girl, so she would actually have more of a leg up and get some passes that dave was never afforded. and rose wouldn't stand idly and accept any bullshit; she is no doormat. and i think this would earn bro's respect

but anyway, from this, couldn't we conclude roxy "sounds like girl dave"?

yeah okay. we havent even gotten into their penchant for funny typos or misspeaks, deliberate or otherwise

so, dave's environment

the sentiment "god you hope you can be as good as your bro at this some day" might have been genuine at the time when he idolized bro but of course he's not able to express that in any sort of sincere fashion because he's in dirk's fucking household. and this level 10 irony shit isnt doing dave any favors

his role models were the Internet and a vague idea of what Bro was like. So he built up his facade based on irony–not the literary definition of irony, as Rose might be quick to point out, but a popular concept of irony based on the idea that things that didn’t make sense actually made sense in some roundabout way. As a master of irony, Dave probably reasoned, he could see in a way other people couldn’t why a world that was scary and didn’t make sense really did make sense, and could therefore convince those people that he was superior to them. And he would wield his knowledge to maintain the appearance of superiority by calling everything ironic and pretending he didn’t care about things that didn’t make sense, and he would use walls of vaguely rhyming words to keep everyone at arm’s length so they wouldn’t discover his insecurities (source)

roxy's style is the embodiment of post-irony. being raised by mom lalonde would be like being raised by joel vinesauce ok

what can i say ….. (getting meta about this actually, hussie got these jpeg wizard wallpapers from a spyware website. link takes some time to load because internet archive)

rose is quick to read post-irony as actually being a joke/insincere, which in bro's case would be true. but i believe dave's natural instinct, outside of the influence of bro, is to read post-irony as genuine, which is exactly how mom serves it. we see this as early as act 3 from him; he understands her motives better than rose does herself:

and in act 6 intermission 2 i think it's pretty clear

but the thing is, it's always genuine from her. dave wouldn't have to second guess it because he's not one to naturally second guess someone's sincerity; that was learned due to his bro being virtually unassailable

there two types of ironies at play here:

seems like a joke, is actually genuine (roxy)

doesnt seem like a joke, is actually a joke (dirk)

you can make the argument that the second is is more psychologically destructive because it makes you question the reality of what is genuine sentiment and what isn't. dave never knew what was genuine and what was irony so he just sort of existed in this sincerity-ironic limbo and always did the opposite of what he genuinely felt on principle even if it always did originate from a genuine place.

"it just a joke bro i was just being ironic i dont actually x" is so much more trust-breaking and psychologically damaging than "wait are you being serious" / "i am being so fucking fr rn davy gravy" / "ok thats actually pretty fucking awesome. giant ass wizard statue" / "RIGHT"

how much about dave would change do you think? his character arc would be completely different for one thing, i think he'd have it good aside from mom's alcohol issues. he'd be left with the sweet and funny parts of him that we see at the end of the comic. the fake coolguy stuff is out, but this remains. this is dave in his element and we see it as early as act 1

he'd probably have no shades growing up in the lalonde residence* either cause those were given to him by bro straight out of the crater as an extension of his own cool image. and john gave dave ben stiller’s aviators for his 13th birthday to replace them so he could “spread his wings”

dave said he was wearing them for the ironies but i kind of doubt it. maybe post-irony but there was some reacharound to it being genuine because dave never put those pointy anime shades on his face again.

*though... it’s kind of hard to imagine him without his shades at all? B2 dave still got stiller’s shades from stiller himself so maybe getting them is a universal constant. i can imagine mom getting him them as a birthday gift cause shes pretty wealthy and probably could buy it out in an auction. but also itd be cool if john still gave him it as a gift

dave is actually a lot more genuine and easy to read than he lets on even when grappling with his upbringing with B1 dirk (again, see this post). this can be seen all throughout he comic but a good example is the evolution of thoughts about his interest in the preserved dead things in his room:

if B1 roxy was dave's guardian he probably WOULD have pursued paleontology because she wouldve indulged him in it and probably find it cool and worthwhile to pursue, instead of allowing dave to flounder under ironic detachment, being poisoned by irony to the point of gaslighting himself into believing he doesnt actually believe he thinks this shit is cool. even if it was indulged in this such a way; a superficially kitsch and ironic appearing presentation, it comes from a genuine place and inspires genuine interest. just read the comments.

basically, i think if B1 roxy raised dave, their relationship would have a surface level appearance of being bizarre or over-the-top but they’d have an unsaid mutual understanding that it’s completely in earnest and just build on each other's funny and absurd gestures of affection. rather than seeing it as one-upping each other, it'd more like collaboration of some silly bullshit that you take a step back and look at full and just say, "fucking incredible"

speaking of paleontology, mom had the proto-ectobiology lab. maybe they'd be able to use the equipment to appearify paradox ghost imprints of the dead shit to create paradox clones of things from the cambrian era??? sounds like a fun mother son bonding activity. and theyd actually put the sciencey shit in the household to use

oh god i know exactly the kinds of music shed listen too also growing up as a teen in the 80s. she on that (post)-punk/art rock/new wave/new romantic mtv stuff. XTC shit fr. this is a B-52S HOUSEHOLD. maybe the associates for the campy melodramatic flair. so he gets to keep the record on his shirt cause he is an enjoyer of the shit in her vinyl collection. dave would still gravitate towards musical expression and music itself but of more variety outside of just rap, with an 80s-90s, even 70s flavor due to mom’s influence. see this for perhaps a glimpse. she probably visited new york city a lot for business trips and because the music scene was cool as hell around that time, imports came straight from jfk airport, she probably got in on that a bit and have remnants in the form of vinyls and cassettes. in this way she could be distributing void to dave (influencing him with forgotten / presently irrelevant music). now he can REALLY rave about bands none of his friends have heard of. “hey davy grvay watcha listenin to” (he holds up vinyl cover) “omg snakefinger”

btw dave lalonde would look like this to me

#homestuck #homestuck meta #dave strider #mom lalonde #roxy lalonde #hs #strilonde guardian swap

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inlovewitheasefuldeath · 2 years

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i am going to personally fight every academic author who begins their discussion of ode on a grecian urn by saying it should have been named ode to a grecian urn or that the title is just a mistake/miswriting

#keats #john keats #ode on a grecian #ya'll dumb the TITLE IS PART OF THE MESSAGE #literary scholars shouldn't have the liberty of assuming anything is accidental or purposeless

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fuckyeahgoodomens · 1 year

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Neil at St. Louis Literary Award 2023 (Jon was supposed to visit but couldn't so he recorded a video message for Neil :))

Neil: There are things that I have done to Jon Hamm or had other people do or that have happened to Jon Hamm in the Second Season of Good Omens that while I am not at liberty to actually reveal what they are I will say that I'm in many ways glad he's not sitting opposite me getting his own back.

#good omens #gointerviewedit #gos2 #season 2 #jon hamm #neil gaiman #gabriel #St. Louis Literary Award 2023 #oh my what will happen to gabriel #interview #neil interview #neil and jon #s2 interview

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honestsycrets · 1 year

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dedication | young!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | young geneticist!miguel o'hara x scientist!reader

❛ type | oneshot, explicit.

❛ summary | alchemax is a dangerous place to work. miguel's new assistant may be over her head. maybe he can help her, though.

❛ tags | virgin reader, f!reader, shitty science, plot heavy, loose canon references, literary liberties, loss of virginity, overprotective Miguel o'hara, jealous miguel o'hara, some objectification, workplace politics, aftercare (as requested), corruption (is it tho?), bc what bc, Spanish is not translated, young!miguel, heel-foot fetish, somewhat romantic.

❛ fulfilled request | can we please have a miguel x virgin reader and he didn’t even know until he was already putting it in?? And then voila his corruption kink unexpectedly growS? @a--dedicated--fangirl

❛ sy’s notes | miguel sort of works on that whole corruption aspect throughout this fic, but i wanted to meld these two ideas together to create a reader who is entirely dedicated to Miguel. This piece was a bit long for me.

“Miguel, your new assistant is here.”

On paper, you’re an excellent candidate for the genetics program.

An excellent GPA, renowned company internships, decent publications, and a diverse upbringing. It was all good. Great, even. But as the head of the genetics program at Alchemax, he has a little thing called priorities. Interviewing everyone himself was low on the rung of shit he felt like he should be doing. There was, however, one little, itty bitty, tiny problem with bringing you on board.

“Dr. O’Hara? ¿Estas bien?”

That shirt-- is not meant to hold those-- His brain was left field, glimpsing at them. A slightly sheer button-up revealed the outline of your bustier and its inability to conceal your body. They should have been illegal. He was pretty sure they were illicit in the handbook on his table. He should really read that again. Maybe then he wouldn’t be salivating over something as simple as a co-worker-- He needed to get out of the lab. The bleached walls tightened around him, the space smaller than he remembered. He was going to get caught.

Realistically, the lab was full of witty people. Many of them were witty men with subpar looks and stupider dicks. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. Not only because your lips were plump, painted petal-pink, and kissable or because the depth of your sultry eyes went straight in the dick. No, but because that would be improper of a man of his stature to tell one of the only women in his care that she was too gorgeous for the job you were clearly qualified for.

“Sí, coño,” He fixed his glasses, crooked on his broad nose. He stood up from his desk and grabbed his lab coat, swirling it around his broad shoulders. If he wasn’t mistaken, you tracked the movement with your eyes. “Do you want a cafecito? Miss…”

You told him your name. He mulled it over on his tongue, lathing it in a gentle acknowledgment. Cemented it in a place he wouldn't forget. You tinked your head to the side, your lashes fluttering when he cleared his throat. Great, just shocking--

“After you,” he headed for the door. He held it open for you, plastering his back to the wood. It didn't matter. You slid by closer than he’d prefer, your hand catching on his belt buckle with muttered apologies. This wasn’t going to end well.

Cafecito is an excellent excuse to pull his dumbass together.

It also calms his nerves, centers his mind, and allows him to compartmentalize. Whether or not you could hold your own wasn’t his issue, his issue was the necessity of someone he could trust. Ugly, beautiful-- so long as they were efficient, Miguel would make due. The cafeteria was a large and clean space. The many tables were crowded with wrap-around stations for poorly crafted, misery-inducing meals. Miguel paid and took a seat at a creaky table. One where he could see the door open, shut, and keep an eye on the comings and goings of meager scientists and annoying managers.

“You’ll be working with me.”

You pursed your lips around the warm cup of coffee, taking a ginger sip. He noted your lipstick stain that remained as you pushed the cup toward the middle of the table you shared with him. This damn suit vest was stifling. He gave you a long, slow look, tilting his head to the fact that you’d not drunk anything. It’d be rude to acknowledge.

“Delgado told me,” you smiled warmly. “He said you’re a genius. I don’t know that I believe in geniuses.”

Hmph. Delgado, things fell into place. That sycophant knew what he liked. He also knew that Miguel was better than him, always was, and always would be. Miguel offered you a slick smile, convinced he could assure you otherwise if he needed to. “Delgado says a lot of things. I’m surprised he gave you to me.”

“Why is that, O’Hara?” the way his name slipped off your tongue was a hot sin. If only he believed in a god. His eyelids shifted over his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark.

“You’re beautiful. He likes to collect beautiful things,” Miguel tried, curious. Your nails clicked in succession over the table. A repetitive click, click, click. He would be annoyed too if he were no more than a ploy. A distraction. Miguel wasn’t sure that it wasn’t working. His eyes flickered down, catching one of your palms curling into a tight fist, tension rolling through your fingers and up your arms. “He knows I do too.”

You leaned in, close enough that he could spot the unique freckles spread out in a crescent moon beneath a layer of makeup on your face. Beautiful. “I’m not here to belong to you, O’Hara. I hope you know that.”

He was off to a great, fantastic start.

“Understood.” Miguel leaned back in his chair, a smirk creeping up his lips. Or, believe that you believed that. You spared him any more mincing comments. Appeased by his suggestion, you brought your drink back to your lips.

“Good. What are we sequencing?”

“Me.”

You swallowed. “You? You can’t be--”

Mhm, he stared, lips pressed tightly together. “You’ll code my DNA. Then we’ll splice it.”

"With what?"

"You'll see."

“Is this your little,” you swirled your finger in a circle. “Pet project?”

Unfortunately not, he would have liked to say. That information was confidential, and though you worked on the project, there were levels to his willingness to involve you in the delicate flow of workplace politics. Still, you might make a healthy distraction from his work. Miguel took a swig of his cafecito, boring into the black substance.

“Something like that.”

Having a pretty assistant means things don’t always get done according to schedule. Not quickly enough, not by far. There is a time limit to everything at Alchemax. The quicker, the better. Thus this project demanded more hours of his time. The project was spliced between the work required of him by superiors and you, your quirks, and your preferences.

Miguel has learned a great many things about you in a short amount of time. You don’t appreciate misplaced pet names. You actually can’t handle coffee because of the caffeine or the sugar. He also learns things about himself. How little he likes when Delgado comes to check on progress because he isn’t actually checking on shit. He's checking you out.

He likes to weasel his nasty fingers around the door, peering in to try and find out what specimen he’s actually working on. Miguel was much too smart for that. His beady eyes caught Miguel over your shoulder, mumbling up to him about a new finding in tests you ran earlier that day. Your face mask twirled around your index finger, finally free and at a documentation workspace. Funny, because he clearly redacts information from your well-recorded notes on the daily. You refuse to include less.

“Hey Mike,” he said. “How are things… Oh hey, you. You settling in, honey? Mike treating you ok? I can discipline him for you.”

“As if you could,” Miguel huffed.

But Delgado spying on you, the way you record progress by pouting out your lips, shifting between paper and your lab reports, was intolerable. Because... well, he has sensitive information on there. Your nose scrunches in distaste, but you bow your head just slightly as a hello. He might be his supervisor, but Miguel doesn’t need one to know why this asshole is in his lab turning his smarmy brown eyes over the way you sit: one leg over the other. You seem to realize it too, trailing your eyes over his gaudy suit to Miguel’s sinewy hand on your shoulder.

“Stop being a creep,” Miguel complained, “She has actual work to do.”

“Actual work? As opposed to--“

“Yes, what you do.” Miguel spat out. You eschewed a giggle, turning your face over a pristine white lab jacket that thankfully, you had no qualms in wearing. Otherwise, he might not finish any work in the lab at all.

“I supervise--

“You’re still talking but we’re not listening,” Miguel waved him off, plucking up papers by your side. Your eyes snap up to Miguel’s deep chocolate eyes hidden behind the thin frame of his metal glasses, waiting for a proper response. “Goodbye, Aaron.”

Miguel walks to the door, locks it with a click, and returns to your side. You glance at his white lab coat, fluttering around his tapered waist. He loves the way your eyes look at him with a soft, inviting expression, beseeching him to come to sit by your side as he always did. “Not a fan of Delgado, I take it.”

“Are you?” Miguel sits with his legs spread, his fingers threading through his thick brown hair. You set your papers down, swiveled toward him. The wheels of your rolling chair squeak on either side of his thick, black boots. His eye catches your thick thighs, squashed between your midi skirt, its atrocious slip causing him discomfort. His hand leaves his thick hair, dropping in unison side by side.

“I can’t stand being called honey, Mike.”

“Shut up.”

The days proceed similarly. Days filled with brushing past him as he slides in samples and reagents. He might lose a sample, clattering on the floor, and you always rush to help him clean up. Lunch together, because no matter how late he eats, you’re there beside him. Then as night falls, you stay until he has finished whatever he needs to do.

“Time to eat something,” you slipped into his office. The clock ticked past midnight. Miguel flicked through handwritten pages of information that did not need to be recorded in computer files. You watched his eyes scan over the ink on the page, acknowledging you with a grumpy grunt. Not now, not when he was so close to finishing the last section of the project.

“Empanada,” you turned his palm over, placing the flaky pastry in his hand. Caramelized apple. He loved a good apple empanada. He watched as you walked over to the coffee maker, drawing him a warm cafecito just how he liked it. Miguel dropped his pen, stretching out his aching spine.

“Gracias. From where?”

“I made them,” you set down the cup a little harder than intended. The surface rippled, throwing hot coffee drips onto his pages. His eyes flickered up from the pages to your eyes. Without thinking, he blathers:

“That so?” A pause. “Don’t you have a man?”

“Miguel. With this sequencing project, you’re the only man in my life. Shut up and eat the empanada.”

“Huh. Good. I like that.” He swallowed the empanada with a bob of his head, his tongue lathing over his teeth for any more of the sweet sugar. He stood up, finding your expression soft, drawn out by a sense of longing that he couldn’t imagine he saw.

“You like my sad love life?”

Yes.

“No, we have a company event. A ball,” Miguel chided, his tone gentling as he slipped away from his desk, abandoning his steamy coffee on his desk. He backed out of the doorway, “It’s all Stone’s politics. You know how these things are. I have to go. Come with me.”

“Is that a request or an order?”

“A date.”

I’d love to. Your words were the only thing that made tonight bearable. Slinking his tanned skin into a dark blue suit that cinched everything too tight was… unbearable. It clung to his skin like a second skin and choked off his air. But it might be worth it to see your face-- just maybe. He tracked the fluttering tails of fish behind bulletproof glass, following them as they fluttered away into their rock. He wished he could too.

“Miguel?”

“You’re here,” he turned around, dropping the champagne he idly held in his hand. It went forgotten by his boot as you called his name again. His gaze fixed on yours, the slinky navy blue dress caused his heart to thrum through his chest, chasing the sight of your body at his feet, picking shards of glass up with the aid of a worker, apologizing profusely for the mess. A soft puff of breath slipped from his lips as you stood back up, gripping your purse a little harder in your hands. He ran his hand over his jaw, drawing himself back to his senses.

“Miggy,” he husked out. “Call me Miggy.”

“You look handsome, Miggy,” his name felt unreal on your lips until he felt the pressure on his elbow. Your soft hands slunk around his, cradling him for some security in the face of the large doors. He shook himself back to his senses. Right, there was a reason he was here. “But shouldn’t we go?”

He should have-- but did he want to? No, not really. He didn’t want to see Stone’s greasy face, let Aaron take a peek at how you looked dolled up, or any of the rest of these fuckers. What he wanted was something else entirely.

“Listen.” Miguel stopped, his other hand coming to the jeweled bracelet on your wrist. The doors to the ballroom lapsed, groups of older men filtering in and out with their pieces of the night: doting wives, longing husbands, and partners that their wives or husbands probably didn’t know about. “Don’t wander off from me. They’re all snakes. All of them.”

“Even you?”

“Hermosa,” you didn’t leer at him. “I’m the least of your worries.”

He wasn’t wrong. The ballroom was dolled up in lush fabrics, fine china, and a copious amount of food as it was every year. Miguel found the attempt to distract from what really went on behind closed doors at Alchemax a bit cloying. This year the music was at least tolerable. It filtered out into the ballroom in a syrupy melodies driven on by the soft, promises of rich men for the exchange of sex. For much of the night, he could stomach the various men poking and prodding at him about his impending research. So long as you were here.

“Miggy,” you breathed, a hot puff of air against his ear. He leaned down, his hand atop of yours. “Will you dance with me?”

Dance? Miguel had two left feet-- it’s why he was a geneticist. For all the work you did on his behalf in the lab, including this very night, he owed you the benefit of whatever you wanted. He searched out a quiet area, one where the only disruption could be the stream of moonlight in through a window. You preferred it over the wall of vivacious men and over-powdered women. He preferred it over the atrocity of his footwork.

“It’s not much of a date,” Miguel’s hand slid around yours. He encompassed your small palm with his large hand, the other gliding across the soft, exposed skin of your back. You swayed with him, side to side. He was an awful dancer, but there was something endearing about that. He saw it in your eyes, the glimmer of curiosity, gliding your dark heels against the inside of his foot. Damn, he still sucked.

“No,” you agreed, shifting to take the lead. He followed your steps. Right, back, left, up. Maybe he stepped on your long dress once or twice, too. Shock, he cursed again, stepping over your foot.

“You’re remarkably bad at this.” You settled your head on his chest, letting your box steps fade into little more than the shifting of your hips.

“I know. Let’s just-- sway?”

“Swaying is good.”

“O’Hara,” boomed Stone. But of course— peace couldn’t last forever. Like a bullet through the chest, a voice caused him to turn in startle. His tan cheeks flushed with warmth, feeling cut off from the cover of others. He was dressed in the most gaudy of clothes that almost seemed to match the crooked expression on his pale face. No matter how many times he tried to fix it, it always looked… wrong.

Stone’s hands came together, clapping multiple times to force the crowd of politicians, scientists, and bought-in participants to fade away. His voice caused Miguel to growl, a low rumbly noise that you soothed with your breasts pushing gingerly against his arm. He could do it. He could handle this pompous little shit-- “And who is this beauty? A new girlfriend, perhaps? Fiance? O’Hara could do with a wife. Settle him down, y’know.”

Miguel huffed out of his nostrils. “This is my lab partner,” he cleared his throat, leaning forward. “For… the project.”

“Her? A lab partner? Ha!”

Shock. He didn’t have to look at you to know you were insulted. Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing out the tension as you smiled through the interaction, taking over for Miguel. “We have measurable results.”

“That’s what I like to hear, sweet thing. Now, Miguel, Aaron has found a test subject…”

“I’ll interview them.”

“No need! I--”

“Excuse me, Mr. Stone. I’ll let you two talk,” you slipped away, your heels clicking off into the busy crowd. Stone was talking. Miguel knew he should listen closely. His half-formed plan to see what the future held for his research was wafting into the air, wisps of it in his ear. Tomorrow-- test-- can you? Panic blinded his senses. He could find you nowhere in the room, and even if he did, would he be too late?

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, it’s… excuse me.”

The issue with falling for someone was the scythe of his fear. His position was inherently risky. No matter how many groups of people he cut through trying to find you, you weren’t there. No tiny little appetizers of shrimp on half a skewer. No booze, because your head would swim. Not near the bathrooms, either. He rushed down the steps when he found you, just before the large iron gates, staring up at the stars peppering the sky.

At your feet, Aaron. His drunken fingers trying and failing to guide the strap off of your ankle. You, of course, sat there staring dumbly down at his failed attempts to do something as simple as fix your damn heel.

“I’ll take it from here.” Miguel booted Aaron out of the way. Who, with his sloppy sloshed curses, tried to win a fight with him. He eventually won out. Aaron slunk away, somewhere up the steps. Miguel wasn’t counting. “You didn’t listen.”

“Hm?”

Miguel loosened both straps, sliding his open palm under your foot for one then the other. You gazed at him, sliding the black heels off your feet, tutting his tongue at the blistered back of your feet.

“I told you not to wander off.”

“I just wanted to see the stars. Besides, it was just Aaron.”

“It’s never just Aaron. It’s Aaron and Stone.” Miguel’s eyebrows pushed against one another, recording your failure to listen. You crossed one leg over the other, sliding your toes over his silk tie, kept beneath a vest. He knelt before you, searching your eyes for the right answer. “You don’t know… what you’re getting into. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I don’t need you to. I can take care of myself, Miguel. Please don’t--” you sighed. “Don’t be like them.”

He knew what you meant. Like Aaron, peeling off your shoes at the sign of discomfort because you were a pretty woman. Or Stone, who couldn’t comprehend your value as a scientist. Those who doubted you because of your color, gender, or a mixture of the two. His mouth twisted in frustration. He was in deep. Whatever you desired, he wanted to give. It came at a price.

“Are you mine,” the words came out stiff, “or theirs?”

“Miggy,” you turned the word over on your tongue, willing him to stand down. His dark eyes settled on yours, unmoving. “Why do I have to pick?”

“You can’t have both. You’ll have to choose. One day.”

Your mind worked. He knew from the way you pursed your lip out, then in, puncturing its pillowy surface with your teeth. You shifted your gaze to the water, the stream coursing down the unfeeling stone. Miguel's fingers ran across your inner thigh, causing you to gaze down at him. The steps of others on the other side of the fountain, fading into the depths of the night caused you to break his gaze. Miguel offered you his hand, fitting the shoes under his other arm as he walked toward the valet. You took his hand and interlaced your fingers.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” you said, though the words felt thready and thin, nary a whisper. Something in the undercurrent of your voice concerned him. A thread that needed to be snipped, convinced of the vileness of the city-- of who you worked for.

He doesn’t make mistakes.

But he left the project code on his desk. It should have been there, yet, the corpse of a decrepit, awful creature withered on the lab floor proved otherwise. Someone had taken it because he was distracted. As a result, someone lost their life... even if it was Stone's doing.

Now, scouring through his papers, his hands tremored like a common drug addict. He supposed he was one, a druggie, tremoring like a shot hungry, Rapture crazed--

“Miggy?”

He snapped around. His gaze melded your figure into one beautiful blurb, even with the glasses on his broad nose. It was your voice, coded in something close to concern. Miguel ran his hands through his hair, long strands falling messily over his eyes and cheekbones. He flattened his hands out atop his head.

“What are you looking for?”

“The notes,” he weathered a breath. He doddered about the room, throwing a stack of paper onto the floor. They crumpled over the floor, mixed projects, notes on the specimen, but none were his. “Where are my notes?”

“You’re sick,” your voice broke gently, as if speaking them alone helped. A horrid crack of laughter slipped from his throat, drawing into a long lament as he repeated the words after you. Sick, you said, he was sick. If being sick was the least of his issues, he would have been a happy man. Your steps rang into his ear, heavier than before, painful and loud. He crumpled onto the couch in his office, his hands cupping them. Your soft hands coursed over his chest, unbuttoning his starched button-up and sliding it down his muscular upper arms. “This might hurt.”

No kidding, needles always hurt. But the instantaneous relief that flooded his system overrode the momentary pain. As your fuzzy figure came into focus, he recognized the drug that you set aside.

“You didn’t--”

“You were right, Miggy, about the-- Mr. Sims.” Miguel gazed at you, leafing through novels of notes with trembling hands. He cursed himself for subjecting you to seeing that. Not quite human, not quite... The twisted look on the poor man’s face. What months of research with one another had offered. He would fix it. He knew the research was on point. It was the application that was lacking.

“I have a copy of your notes,” you murmured as if someone could hear. They likely could. “¿Ay, puñeta, dónde está? Ah! Here, here it is. Your… profile.”

“You kept it,” he glanced down at the hastily scribbled note attached to the clip. ‘Miguel’s profile’ alongside a soft pink heart. He stopped your hands from thumbing through another leaflet. His eyes traced the dry ink of the heart. His thumb moved to stroke it, catching the sight of bubbling tears welling over in your eyes out of the corner of his eye. The tears slid down your full cheeks, triggering his discomfort to well up in his stomach. Miguel shifted closer, flicking fat droplets off your slight jaw.

“Hermosa,” Miguel shifted his head, cocking his eyebrow. “¿Que te pasa?”

“I should have listened to you Miggy,” you began, inhaling air forcefully through your nostrils. Breathe, you murmured. Miguel's soft hand cupped the back of your neck like a collar. You were happy to be collared by his hand, it felt safe.

His eyes narrowed, thumb caressing the loose strands of hair at your nape. “You should have. You know I'll take care of you."

You nodded.

"You have to be fully dedicated to me.”

“I am.”

“Show me.” You fluttered your eyes, the gears of your mind working to understand what he meant. His hand fell away to trace the bow of your black blouse. He tugged on the knot, slipping the bow loose and running his fingers over your exposed cleavage below. “Take off the blouse.”

Was it necessary? Some might have said no-- but sex, in its connective nature-- was the ultimate dedication. At the end of it all, that's what he craved: your eyes, your actions, all born with him in mind. With trembling fingers, you untucked your shirt from your black slacks. Miguel sat back, tracking the soft lace of your balconette bra teasing his eye. You loitered for a minute too long, enough for him to lift his thick eyebrow.

“Don’t stop now,” he said. Your knees knocked together, slipping the shirt over and off your torso before draping it on the arm of his couch. Your bra followed quickly after, slipping out of the twisted straps. You skimmed your hands over your breasts, holding them for comfort.

"No." Miguel flicked his fingers, motioning for your hands to move from your thick nipples. You pushed your breasts together, allowing him to marvel at them a second longer. “Que maravilla... You have no idea how long I’ve waited. Go on, take off the rest now.”

You suckled in breath, sliding the button of your pants loose. Then the zipper, its cloth scratching your thighs on its way to pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them, joining them too with your shirt. Miguel sat up, running his calloused fingers over the side of your hip and waist. His thumbs hooked in your panties, drawing them down over your pussy, a moist spot on your panties connecting a small string of wetness to your pussy. His palm slid between your thighs, pinned by your thighs pressed together, whether out of an innate need for more pressure or shyness to show him how wet you were. Hm. Miguel melded your ass, striking your skin with his large palm, it jiggled.

“Miggy,” you breathed, shy and intimidated. “I have to tell you something…”

“Lay down,” he told you.

“But Miggy, what if someone…” Your eyes darted away from his, chewing on his cheek as you slid back down beside him. You settled on the couch, your legs thrown over his thighs. The couch was stiff, hard against your neck. You stole a haughty glimpse at his face, focused entirely on coursing his palms over your calves and thighs, then back down to your slight toes. He ground your feet over his stiff cock, obscured by the fabric of his slacks. He felt big-- bigger than you could have imagined from the look on your face.

“¡Basta!” Miguel growled, “No one is going to come in. Let me see you.”

You flushed.

“You want me to…” you glanced down, your curls were soft to the touch.

“Touch yourself for me.”

With your heart strumming in your chest, you shifted your hand down, spreading your lips, soft and wet. You were so wonderfully shy to follow his orders, the pads of your fingers rubbing along your outer lips, massaging them warm and swollen. You buried your eyes into your other arm, dragging up and down, over and over. A delightful sigh greeted his ear, ensuring that though you were too embarrassed to look at him, you loved it. He allowed it for now-- because he was a gracious, forgiving man.

“Shock,” Miguel shuffled at the button and zipper of his pants, freeing himself from his slacks. He spat into his palm, stroking over his fleshy length, squishing his cock against your foot. Your toes curled over his cockhead, engrossed in Miguel’s rumbling pants, the soft pleasure that bloomed from his chest. Your eyes trained on his lips, the slight breath suckled between his teeth. Your fingers glazed over your stiff clit, pausing as though you needed his permission, just how he wanted it. Your sweet submission.

His eyebrow perked. “You can touch it.”

“Oh,” you glanced down, tracing the way Miguel fisted himself, swirling up to his cockhead, along fat veins and the bubble of salty fluid on his tip. His permission seemed to spur something else in you, flicking your swollen clit to the sound of his pleasured growling, your own pleasure growing in tandem with his.

“¡Ya!” he annunciated, watching as you failed to stop. All at once he stopped his ministrations. A sigh escaped his chest as he pushed himself up, smacking your hand away from your puffy cunt. His cock bobbed between your bodies. You wanted to touch it, but couldn’t.

"Wait," you cried out. His cock twitched as he lowered his hips down, drawing sweet lubricant on his cock, stroking your pussy. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a warm kiss. He dipped his hand down, his cockhead prodding and poking, dipping lower with the aid of his hand.

“MiggyI’mavirgin,” you said all at once, his cockhead nudged against your entrance. Miguel’s head about snapped as he looked up, eyes popped wide open in disbelief. Before he could quite form a coherent thought, your hands shot out to grip his suit vest, stopping him where he was.

“¿Qué dejiste? Say that again?”

“I haven’t… I haven't had sex,” you murmured. He hadn’t put it together. Your shyness, the awkward way you shuffled around, loosening your bra and hiding your perfect breasts from his eyes. The words were finally out in the open but didn't register.

"A..." Miguel fisted his cock, once, then twice, shifting back to kneel before you. Your eyes fell on his muscular thighs, the way his hand fisted his dick. “You’re a virgin?”

“I’m too old for this,” you mumbled, hiding your eyes with your palms. Miguel shifted to cast aside your hands from your eyes, his muscular body caging you underneath, looking for an explanation. “I just. Between school, work, I never had time.”

Not that he was complaining.

"No boyfriend?"

You shook your head. He couldn't believe his luck. Not only were you gorgeous, but you were untouched. His, completely and fully. He liked it better that way-- to be the first memory smeared in your head. So that when you looked back on this moment, right now, it would forever be marked by his face.

"It's mine," he blurted out all at once. "I want your first to be mine."

His hand dropped down to your cunt. The pad of his middle finger worked at your entrance as though he were exploring the truth of your statement, stretching you with the aid of his fingers. You were tight, it had to be true.

You nodded, face buried deep in your arm. It didn’t take but moments for him to draw his hand back, suckling the lubricant from his fingertips. You distantly registered his words, “Damn it, you... you don't know what you do to me.”

Before you could say a word more, Miguel positioned the head of his dick against your slippery virgin hole. You clenched, glancing down between your bodies again, as you had a dozen times, anxiously waiting. Miguel hushed you, the repetitive shushing of his lips soothing you into complacency, forcing your muscles to relax. “It might hurt. But the pain won’t last,” he assured you.

He rolled his hips forward. His sharp exhale shook with every centimeter that gave way. Your walls were forced apart, suffocating you on the shock of adjusting to having someone, no not someone, Miguel-- your Miguel, sinking into your tense body. He throbbed, twitching in your body. His hands fisted in the aged couch, catching the breath in his chest.

“Ay, Miggy,” your nails dug into his shirt, loose around his firm muscles. “Miggy, no puedo,”

“You can, you’re so good, eres tan buena,” Miguel swept your lips between his, taking the moment of your surprise to bury himself further, swallowed by your cunt that resisted his intrusion. Your lips fluttered in the kiss, keened out a cry. The pain of his dick, forcing its way through your passage is quelled by the knowledge that he’s here, with you, his girth forcing you apart, stretching you apart, seating himself flush against your womb. His voice was caramelized, sugared over, and so good. “Look at how well you’re taking me already.”

“Coño, that’s a tight pussy,” He slid his hips back, the warm sensation of his withdrawal pulling free before shoving back in, a cry shoving forth from your lips, filling his office and the connected lab with your cries. He might have heard someone draw the door open, his hips driving back in, centered on the magnificent groans that stuttered free from your chest with Miguel’s careful thrusts. You keened his name, a repetitious Miggy, Miggy, Miggy-- it was Aaron, probably. He recognized the way his feet drug on the floor.

He hoped he didn’t just hear it. He hoped he saw it too, the way his balls slapped against your ass, the mess of blood soaking the already unhygienic couch, the way his cock pulsed. You were blissed out, so full and well of him like no one else ever had-- because you were his, and his alone. It wasn’t just sex. It was more than that. From Aaron, whose shuffled steps fell out of his office, to any other little bitch in the office who had their own gain.

“Damn,” Miguel shifted back, hooking his hand around your thigh to drag you back onto his dick. He swirled his thumb against your stiff clit, whirling it around in one circle, then another, and by the third your knees knocked together, bearing down on his cock to hold him still. “I can’t--” you stuttered out, I can’t--”

“You’re going to,” he hissed. “You’re going to cum right here, right now, split open on my dick.”

With another circle, you croaked an ugly cry, a terrible, ugly cry that Miguel couldn’t find any more beautiful as your body buzzed around him, tightening and squeezing your already tight cunt around him. Blissful pleasure radiated there, riding his dick for the friction against your virgin walls, your thoughts fading into a realm of insistent pleasure, where thoughts were space mush.

Miguel withstood the pressure on his cock, clamping his hand down on your hip. His thrusts stuttered, filling your belly with whip after whip with his full hot cum. Your body twitched in the throes of his orgasm. He tracked his eyes down to your body, withdrawing with a bubbly pop of his dick from your abused hole, the intermingling of cum and virginal blood dribbling down your cheeks.

Your gaze tracked Miguel, pressing his lips toward yours one more time. You shifted on the couch, legs pathetically tremoring. Miguel chuckled and walked toward his electric kettle, papers crunching underneath his feet, “Don’t bother moving. Not that you could, anyway.”

He warmed a warm cloth with hot water, testing its temperature on his palm before sitting beside your crumpled legs, spreading your legs to clean his mess and sooth the abrasive way he took you. He spread your lips, ensuring you were clean before he would flip the cloth, dropping it on top of your vulva.

“You know you’re mine,” he asked, though it came out as a statement. With another cloth, Miguel cleaned his soft cock of the mess, exhaustion of the sex and what was to come returning to his gentle, deep voice.

“Sí,” you answered.

“And you’d do anything for me. Only me.”

The words were laced with something more than a suggestion, but an affirmation of your loyalty. Your love. You pushed yourself up, hanging off his arm after he tucked himself into his pants. “Para siempre.”

He leaned down, plucking the bundle with his sequenced DNA information. Your eyes coursed the information on the page, darting up to his tired eyes. You wanted to ask why or what he knew. Miguel knew it didn't matter. You were his now, from the top of your head to the bottom of your gorgeous toes. You trusted him fully. As you should. With the empty vial of Rapture sitting beside him, forgotten, he spared you a mincing smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Good. Let's fix our project.”

#miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #miguel ohara x reader #spider 2099 imagine #across the spiderverse imagine #atsv imagines #atsv imagine #spider 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara smut

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thirrith · 25 days

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A guide to Dream of the Red Chamber for English speakers

I've been posting about a book called Dream of the Red Chamber for a while. I'm kinda obsessed with it but the tags here on tumblr are pretty much barren. I want to get more people to be interested in it, so here's something more informative with minimal screaming.

Dream of the Red Chamber (紅樓夢) is a 18th century Chinese novel by Cao Xueqin. It isn't very well-known outside of the Sinophone aka the Chinese-speaking world, whereas where I come from it's considered a masterpiece and classic and is so well-known and holds so much cultural significance even the people who haven't necessarily read the book make references to it - like, basically everybody knows about the book. It certainly deserves to be known and loved by more people - that's why I'm making a post about it. This post is NOT going to be an attempt to cover everything, though, because there is just so, so much to the book; instead, I am creating a guide to make it easier for people to get started if they are interested.

What is Dream of the Red Chamber about? Why do people love it?

The best way to sum it up is calling it a family saga mixed with a bit of fantasy. It tells the story of the rise and fall of a big and powerful family, focusing on the story of the young girls, the maid servants, and the wives that all live together and run the household. The only male main character Jia Baoyu is a young heir of the family, who grew up among these women and girls. He loves and understands them, loves being surrounded by them, and deeply identifies with them. My dad, who is also a fan of the book, loves saying that Baoyu 'has the heart of a maiden'.

The book is funny and full of drama, and at the same time it's also poetic, tragic and profound, and the tragedy of the characters is written in such a kind way, as if the author wants you to love them and remember how wonderful and alive they are despite the fact that a gloomy fate will claim them all.

The book is also so queer in a way that no other Ming/Qing dynasty Chinese novels can compare. Obviously there are no modern queer labels because it was written in imperial China, but there are characters who are interested in both men and women, characters who are interested in no one, and affairs between boys and between girls; many main characters have the kind of relationships with their gender that make my Chinese transgender heart sing with empathy.

If you want to hear from English speakers who fell in love with the book and learn more about the context and literary/cultural value of the book, I recommend starting with 'Why is China’s greatest novel virtually unknown in the west?' by Michael Wood on The Guardian and 'Why you should read China’s vast, 18th century novel, Dream of the Red Chamber' by Josh Stenberg on The Conversation.

Dream of the Red Chamber is a long novel with many different versions and possibly hundreds of adaptations. How should I begin?

There are two translations that I know have received good reviews:

A Dream of Red Mansions translated by Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang. My partner is reading this version. It's a very faithful translation with footnotes to make up for the language and cultural barriers. (Note: the Yangs finished their translation in prison in China during the Cultural Revolution.)

The Story of the Stone translated by David Hawkes and John Minford. It's a translation that takes more artistic liberties than the Yangs version. For example it differs in the way it translates character names and its writing style. Hawkes wanted to recreate the experience of reading the novel in Chinese for English speaking readers, but it may also be harder for you to talk to those who read the book in Chinese about certain characters and details.

There is also a public domain translation by H. Bencraft Joly, which was first published in the 19th century, and you can find it on Project Gutenberg.

The 1987 36-episode TV adaptation Dream of the Red Chamber is well-loved and considered by many Chinese people to be the best adaptation of the book. Every later adaptation would be compared with the 1987 one and found lacking. I personally love this adaptation a lot, and I think out of all the adaptations I've seen (including TV series, films and Chinese opera) it has the best interpretations of the book and the characters. It also has the best songs, which were adapted from the poems in the book. You can stream the series with English subtitles on the Internet Archive.

If you want something shorter that covers the main romance plot line and includes a few iconic scenes from the book, I recommend the 1977 film adaptation The Dream of the Red Chamber casting legendary actress Brigitte Lin as Jia Baoyu (she also portrayed an iconic classic wuxia character as a trans woman in another film franchise, but I digress). You can find the film with English subtitles on Youtube.

This is not all, but it's a good start. If you ever decide to give it a go, it doesn't matter if you watch one of the adaptations first or read the book first. Don't stress, take your time, and enjoy the ride!

#dream of the red chamber #紅樓夢posting #mur #紅樓夢 #红楼梦 #stuff i make #i may schedule some reblogs of this post because i want people to see it. the tag to block is as always 'self rb'#by ‘hundreds of adaptations’ i mean including all the chinese operas that have been put on throughout the past few hundred years lol #如果有地方說錯的還請紅學專家不要打我我只是來玩的 #chinese #(?)

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shingensokyo · 9 months

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Announcement for ShinGensokyo!

A main story with 2 side story will be released in late April 2024 and all the previous comic will be redrawn and reworked (again!). Older comic will be deleted once chapter 1 is released.

On other notes and a disclaimer... - ShinGensokyo will only use lores and characters from TH6 to TH18 and all the literary material during those period will also be used. I cannot keep up with all these new stuff that ZUN is putting out. - ShinGensokyo is not canon compliant, while I do try to stick closely with the canon, I will take a lot of liberty with my interpretation to add or change the Touhou canon.

Sorry for the radio silence, Hopefully we'll get something done soon once I am finished with my works and projects.

#touhou #touhouau #web comics #alternate universe #comics #touhou rumia #rumia #tokiko #flandre scarlet #cirno #kogasa tatara

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regulusrules · 6 months

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Yo, I saw your post about orientalism in relation to the "hollywood middle-east" tiktok!

How can a rando and university dropout get into and learn more about? Any literature or other content to recommend?

Hi!! Wow, you have no idea how you just pressed a button. I'll unleash 5+ years on you. And I'll even add for you open-sourced works that you can access as much as I can!

1. Videos

I often find this is the best medium nowadays to learn anything! I'll share with you some of the best that deal with the topic in different frames

• This is a video of Edward Said talking about his book, Orientalism. Said is the Palestinian- American critic who first introduced the term Orientalism, and is the father of postcolonial studies as a critical literary theory. In this book, you’ll find an in-depth analysis of the concept and a deconstruction of western stereotypes. It’s very simple and he explains everything in a very easy manner.

• How Islam Saved Western Civilization. A more than brilliant lecture by Professor Roy Casagranda. This, in my opinion, is one of the best lectures that gives credit to this great civilization, and takes you on a journey to understand where did it all start from.

• What’s better than a well-researched, general overview Crash Course about Islam by John Green? This is not necessarily on orientalism but for people to know more about the fundamental basis of Islam and its pillars. I love the whole playlist that they have done about the religion, so definitely refer to it if you're looking to understand more about the historical background! Also, I can’t possibly mention this Crash Course series without mentioning ... ↓

• The Medieval Islamicate World. Arguably my favourite CC video of all times. Hank Green gives you a great thorough depiction of the Islamic civilization when it rose. He also discusses the scientific and literary advancements that happened in that age, which most people have no clue about! And honestly, just his excitement while explaining the astrolabe. These two truly enlightened so many people with the videos they've made. Thanks, @sizzlingsandwichperfection-blog

2. Documentaries

• This is an AMAZING documentary called Reel Bad Arabs: How Hollywood Villifies A People by the genius American media critic Jack Shaheen. He literally analysed more than 1000 movies and handpicked some to showcase the terribly false stereotypes in western depiction of Arab/Muslim cultures. It's the best way to go into the subject, because you'll find him analysing works you're familiar with like Aladdin and all sorts.

• Spain’s Islamic Legacy. I cannot let this opportunity go to waste since one of my main scopes is studying feminist Andalusian history. There are literal gems to be known about this period of time, when religious coexistence is documented to have actually existed. This documentary offers a needed break from eurocentric perspectives, a great bird-view of the Islamic civilization in Europe and its remaining legacy (that western history tries so hard to erase).

• When the Moors Ruled in Europe. This is one of the richest documentaries that covers most of the veiled history of Al-Andalus (Muslim Spain). Bettany Hughes discusses some of the prominent rulers, the brilliance of architecture in the Arab Muslim world, their originality and contributions to poetry and music, their innovative inventions and scientific development, and lastly, La Reconquista; the eventual fall and erasure of this grand civilization by western rulers.

3. Books

• Rethinking Orientalism by Reina Lewis. Lewis brilliantly breaks the prevailing stereotype of the “Harem”, yk, this stupid thought westerns projected about arab women being shut inside one room, not allowed to go anywhere from it, enslaved and without liberty, just left there for the sexual desires of the male figures, subjugated and silenced. It's a great read because it also takes the account of five different women living in the middle east.

• Nocturnal Poetics by Ferial Ghazoul. A great comparative text to understand the influence and outreach of The Thousand and One Nights. She applies a modern critical methodology to explore this classic literary masterpiece.

• The Question of Palestine by Edward Said. Since it's absolutely relevant, this is a great book if you're looking to understand more about the Palestinian situation and a great way to actually see the perspective of Palestinians themselves, not what we think they think.

• Arab-American Women's Writing and Performance by S.S. Sabry. One of my favourite feminist dealings with the idea of the orient and how western depictions demeaned arab women by objectifying them and degrading them to objects of sexual desire, like Scheherazade's characterization: how she was made into a sensual seducer, but not the literate, brilliantly smart woman of wisdom she was in the eastern retellings. The book also discusses the idea of identity and people who live on the hyphen (between two cultures), which is a very crucial aspect to understand arabs who are born/living in western countries.

• The Story of the Moors in Spain by Stanley Lane-Poole. This is a great book if you're trying to understand the influence of Islamic culture on Europe. It debunks this idea that Muslims are senseless, barbaric people who needed "civilizing" and instead showcases their brilliant civilization that was much advanced than any of Europe in the time Europe was labelled by the Dark Ages. (btw, did you know that arabic was the language of knowledge at that time? Because anyone who was looking to study advanced sciences, maths, philosophy, astronomy etc, had to know arabic because arabic-speaking countries were the center of knowledge and scientific advancements. Insane, right!)

• Convivencia and Medieval Spain. This is a collection of essays that delve further into the idea of “Convivencia”, which is what we call for religious coexistence. There's one essay in particular that's great called Were Women Part of Convivencia? which debunks all false western stereotypical images of women being less in Islamic belief. It also highlights how arab women have always been extremely cultured and literate. (They practiced medicine, studied their desired subjects, were writers of poetry and prose when women in Europe couldn't even keep their surnames when they married.)

4. Novels / Epistolaries

• Granada by Radwa Ashour. This is one of my favourite novels of all time, because Ashour brilliantly showcases Andalusian history and documents the injustices and massacres that happened to Muslims then. It covers the cultural erasure of Granada, and is also a story of human connection and beautiful family dynamics that utterly touches your soul.

• Dreams of Trespass by Fatema Mernissi. This is wonderful short read written in autobiographical form. It deconstructs the idea of the Harem in a postcolonial feminist lens of the French colonization of Morocco.

• Scheherazade Goes West by Mernissi. Mernissi brilliantly showcases the sexualisation of female figures by western depictions. It's very telling, really, and a very important reference to understand how the west often depicts middle-eastern women by boxing them into either the erotic, sensual beings or the oppressed, black-veiled beings. It helps you understand the actual real image of arab women out there (who are not just muslims btw; christian, jew, atheist, etc women do exist, and they do count).

• Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. This is a feminist travel epistolary of a British woman which covers the misconceptions that western people, (specifically male travelers) had recorded and transmitted about the religion, traditions and treatment of women in Constantinople, Turkey. It is also a very insightful sapphic text that explores her own engagement with women there, which debunks the idea that there are no queer people in the middle east.

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

With all of these, you'll get an insight about the real arab / islamic world. Not the one of fanaticism and barbarity that is often mediated, but the actual one that is based on the fundamental essences of peace, love, and acceptance.

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familyabolisher · 1 year

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Before electing to name himself for the state to which he owed a significant portion of his family tree, Tennessee Williams toyed with penning his work under the pseudonym of Valentine Sevier. To do so would be to take the name of an ancestor and early settler of the Tennessee frontier who fought both in the American Revolutionary War and in the series of battles against indigenous populations that constituted the process by which the land was claimed and settled by Europeans and their descendants, and naming himself as such would have marked his corpus of work as a continuation of the process that the first Valentine Sevier started — that of negotiating the frontier with ultimate intent to conquer it.

The echo of such an impulse continues to reverberate even in the name he ultimately selected for himself. Williams was from Mississippi — whilst we can attribute his choice of pseudonym in no small part to the common-sense fact that ‘Mississippi Williams’ simply lacks the musicality that ‘Tennessee’ manages to carry, the flicker of the frontier and the desire to posit himself as agentive within a family mythology cannot be entirely disappeared; indeed, such a desire bleeds into his writing in forms that are often weird, and contradictory, and indulgently horrifying. The individual Williams is articulated through and within the land, and the process of individual identity-making (through his infamously heavy autofictional tendencies) is carried out in negotiation with the process of settlement; long after the disappearance of a traditional ‘frontier’ as the whole American continent came under the control of the agents of settler colonialism, the lingering presence of a space which is conquered, ordered, and sustained and a space which exists beyond the processes of ordering and sustention is the key ingredient in articulating anxieties of American sexuality. In name, Williams as the momentum behind such figures as Blanche and Laura and Maggie the Cat becomes not just a man but a body of land; moreso, he becomes the ideology baked into the naming of that body of land as ‘Tennessee.’ As such, Williams’ plays, so frequently preoccupied with the artificial yet brutally enforced social limits of desire against the plenitude of the human spirit, necessarily anchor themselves in the landed space through which those same paradigms of desire that sway their movement must be understood.

What does it mean to read Williams’ plays in such a manner? Certainly his major scholars have shied away from the suggestion that anything of serious political import might be read into his work; Williams was a deeply emotive writer who tended to mete out his appeals to social issues very lightly and sparingly and reserved the best of his grandiosity and conviction for statements about the condition of the individual human heart, and though he was a self-proclaimed ‘Socialist’ in name, he was no political firebrand and certainly no communist. Yet this question of land — lost land, settled land, land that was sacrificed to ‘epic fornications’ — pervades his work and haunts his very particular imaginary, and provides an easy point of reference by which those very same questions of desire and the human heart can be teased out and re-examined from a differently illuminating angle.

Ko-Fi / Patreon

hello, at long last, here is my piece on tennessee williams; questions of desire and literary production and how american writers attempt to uneasily negotiate the land they write on. thanks!

#mine #tennessee williams

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srbachchan · 5 months

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DAY 5917

Jalsa, Mumbai Apr/May/ 30/1, 2024 Tue/Wed 3:34 AM

🪔 ,

May 01 .. birthday greetings to Ef Anat Magen .. Ef Zalina Tidjieva .. and Ef Hitee Arrora .. ❤️🙏🏻🚩

It comes on to the day next and still there is enough within to continue despite the dictat to get to bed early ..

But early be the writing for them that shall never understand the Ef post Blog connect .. and so here we are ..

Last day post was a bit literary and philosophical .. but it gives me pride that I am in the capacity to be able to bring remembrance and the genius of Babuji to all here ..

More shall follow I do hope and wish .. for the legacy of unmeasured capability of poet writer thinker shall ever be eternal ..

"मेरा attitude romantic abandon का है । बादलों को भी मैंने ये अधिकार दे दिया है, की मुझे जहां चाहें वहाँ ले जायें । 'प्रेरे' के प्रयोग पर मुझे बड़ा संतोष है - ख़ुशी भी - कविता का एक काम ये भी है, पुराने - अप्रयुक्त - विस्मृत शब्दों को नव अर्थ देकर नव जीवन देना । इससे भाषा अपनी जड़ों की गहराई के प्रति सचेत होती है । खड़ी बोली सब कुछ नया गढ़ने के आग्रह में सतही हो गई है । उसके शब्द, वाक्य, रूपक, लय, लहजे किसी समय - सम्मानित pedigree ( कुलीनता ?) ( वंशावली, वुप्त पत्ति, उत्पत्ति, शब्द साधन, वंश) का सबूत या संकेत नहीं देते । नवीनता अपने प्रयोगों में अधिक venturesome होती है जब उसके पीछे प्राचीनता का बल या आधार हो ।"

( वंशावली, वुप्त पत्ति, उत्पत्ति, शब्द साधन, वंश ) my additions, because Babuji put a ? after his word mean for pedigree

( a random mention in his Pravas ki Diary )

"My attitude is of romantic abandon . I have given the liberty and the right, even to the clouds, to take me wherever they desire. The use of the word 'प्रेरे' - prayre, (in one of the words in his poem under mention) gives me great satisfaction , and a happiness too - the job of a poem is also that it take the older - words not in use - forgotten, and give them a fresh new meaning, and give them a new life ... in doing so it gives a consciousness, a mindful alert, to the very roots of a language .. खड़ी बोली khadi boli - a form of language speak , pure in its content but ruralised and spoken in the interiors , in its firmed attempt to do something new has become far too superficial .. its words, sentences, its graph , at some point of time, do not give it the pedigree testimony it had .. a freshness, a modernity is greatly more venturesome in its use , when it has the backing of the strength of age and antiquity .."

"... a freshness, a modernity is greatly more venturesome in its use , when it has the backing of the strength of age and antiquity .."

such graceful observation .. not just in the realm of the use of language, but in our everyday existence ..

Is it not .. ?

My love ❤️

Amitabh Bachchan

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indigovigilance · 11 months

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Anthony, Anthony, Anthony

What does your Anthony mean, exactly?

I feel like your Anthony and my Anthony are different Anthonies…

In 1941 we learn that Crowley has named himself Anthony J. Crowley (Aziraphale doesn’t pronounce the H but closed captions write it and Neil Gaiman hashtags #Anthony and also it’s Anthony the script book so I guess Michael Sheen is just doing a thing idk). I haven’t seen extensive discussion of this topic but I’m going to jump in with both feet.

I propose that Anthony actually has a double meaning; that is, Crowley chose this name for one reason, but Aziraphale believes he chose it for another.

(I cite as indirect inspo a wonderful Tumblr meta about how the ineffable blockheads have completely different interpretations of Jane Austen and how this informs their S2 decision-making).

Read or bookmark for later on Ao3 because this got away from me and now it's a 2,888 word meta on people named Anthony what am I doing with my life

~~~

First and foremost, let it be stated that there is no canon for when Crowley anti-christened himself Anthony. Neil Gaiman himself won’t know until he writes it.

Secondly, let it be known that I am not an historian nor a literary scholar of any kind. So people who actually know these stories may find themselves cringing at my surface-level summaries and inaccurate interpretations: I’m just piecing together what I could find easily. I invite someone else to revise and republish if they can delve deeper on these topics.

Part 1: Mark Antony

There is a bust of Marc Antony in Mr. Fell’s bookshop as of S1E1 modern day (2019) which is still there at the end of S2E6, where it features prominently in the center of a shot. In 2019, the bust is adorned with yellow ribbons; in 2023, it is naked. The flashback to 1941 doesn’t give a good view of the part of the shop where the bust would normally be located so I have no idea when the bust actually got added to Aziraphale’s collection. I’m going to assume, for argument’s sake, that Aziraphale acquired this bust after the Blitz. I’m going to further propose that he acquired this bust because he believes that Crowley named himself Anthony after Mark Antony.

Why would Aziraphale think that? Two reasons.

1) Mark Antony was the loser of a civil war for liberty

Mark Antony was a good and loyal Roman citizen, serving Caesar with distinction, even attaining the title of Master of the Horse (Caesar’s second-in-command). See additional metas on horse symbolism seen throughout S2. After the death of Caesar, however, Octavian and members of the senate turned on Antony, starting a civil war. You know, much like a certain someone we know that was involved in Dubious Battle on the Plains of Heaven.

Mark Antony was loyal to Caesar’s political mission, which was to establish a Roman republic, where the voices of the citizens would be heard through their representatives [a suggestion box, if you will]. But Antony’s defeat marked the end of the republic, ushering in an age of autocracy. Octavian, following his victory over Antony, crowned himself the first Emperor of Rome.

2) Mark Antony was a libertine, but also the loyal, ardent lover of Cleopatra

Mark Antony was an infamous, lascivious, debaucherous, womanizing lush. He was also Cleopatra’s lover and closest ally. Though Mark Antony could not often meet with Cleopatra, their affair was allegedly very romantic, and from afar Antony did everything in his power to support Cleopatra politically, expanding her territorial holdings even while they were apart for years.

So legendary was Antony's wanton hedonism that when he went to Athens, he was deified as the New Dionysus, mystic god of wine, happiness, and immortality. Religious propaganda declared Cleopatra the New Isis or Aphrodite (mythic goddess of love and beauty) to his New Dionysus. The ineffable emperors, if you will. [source: Encyclopedia Britannica]

Parallels arising after 1941:

After Antony had officially divorced Octavian’s sister, Octavian formally broke off the ties of personal friendship with Antony and declared war, not against Antony but against Cleopatra. Much like how Shax, after her S2E1 “you scratch my back I’ll scratch yours” proposal, threatened Crowley that if he did not assist her search for Gabriel, Hell would declare war not on him but on Aziraphale.

The legacy of Mark Antony, therefore, is one of hedonism, romance, fighting for a cause that you believe in, and losing that fight. It’s easy to see how Aziraphale drew the conclusion that Anthony J. Crowley took his inspiration from this historical figure.

Part 2: Antony & Cleopatra

How is this a part 2? Weren’t we just talking about Mark Antony and his relationship with Cleopatra? Hear me out.

Crowley has never expressed much interest in politics. Every time something of political import happens, he declares that the humans made it up themselves while also taking credit for it with Hell. This includes 1793 Paris and the Spanish Inquisition. If I forgot any, drop them in the comments.

But Crowley has a deep and pervasive interest in stories, especially romance stories. If he can keep the Bentley from turning it into Queen, he listens to the Velvet Underground. He watches Richard Curtis films (to the degree that he identifies them by director rather than by title). Though book canon is not show canon, it’s worth mentioning that his favorite serial is Golden Girls; while not a romance, it is certainly heartfelt storytelling at its finest and a homosexual staple.

We know, too, that Shakspeare stole a line from him, with an adjustment for pronouns:

"Age Does Not Wither, Nor Custom Stale His Infinite Variety”

Let’s first talk about Crowley’s context for the quote.

Picture it: the Globe Theater, 1601, the house is empty because it’s one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones and an irritated young Burbage, in the role of Hamlet, is droning out his lines like he would rather be anywhere else.

Burbage: To be or not to be. That is the question.

Aziraphale: To be! I mean, not to be! Come on, Hamlet! Buck up!

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, grinning with delight. Crowley stares back at him, shaking his head slightly, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lip. He wants to be embarrassed, but cannot help being charmed.

Aziraphale: He’s very good, isn’t he?

Crowley: Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety.

Crowley is looking up at the stage, and speaks immediately after Aziraphale has made a comment about Burbage. But is Crowley talking about Burbage? Does it stand to reason that age would not have withered, or custom not staled, this twenty year old (yet somehow jaded) stage actor?

I propose that this is a poetic inversion of the S2E1 cold open, wherein the Starmaker, looking out upon creation, says: “Look at you, you’re gorgeous!” and Aziraphale erroneously thinks the statement was directed at him. Here, even though Crowley isn’t looking at Aziraphale, I believe that Crowley is actually talking about Aziraphale when he delivers that iconic line. Unlike Burbage, Aziraphale is old, very, very old, and we know that he has a penchant for custom, wearing the same clothes and listening to the same music for century upon century. Yet here is this precious angel being a cheerful little peanut gallery of one, continuing to surprise the demon after all this time. Neither age nor custom has staled Aziraphale’s infinite variety.

When Shakespeare commits the line to a play written 1606-1607, a few years after this event, Crowley will recognize his own sentiment about Aziraphale issuing from Antony’s mouth about Cleopatra. The actual historical events will not have left much of an impression, but the immortalization of his own admiration of the angel in human romantic fiction will have.

It must be mentioned that Antony & Cleopatra is a tragedy, where the star-crossed lovers are kept apart by warring factions that demand loyalty to the state at the preclusion of each other.

There are also some (as far as I can tell) nearly copy-paste plot points from Romeo & Juliet about a misunderstood faked suicide followed by actual suicide and the lovers dying in each others’ arms. It does not have a happy ending. Anthony Crowley deliberately choosing his “Christian name” from this play embodies not only his deep love but his hopelessness that he can ever get the happily ever after he desires.

In Summary

Crowley was an admirer, in one respect or another, of Mark Anthony, though he relied more heavily on Shakespeare’s portrayal and reimagining of the character than Aziraphale gives due credit. Nevertheless, the difference…

Wait a minute…

What’s that?

Is that…

A piece of canon evidence that completely undermines my argument??

This screenshot will only be visible to Tumblr users (sorry Ao3), but at some point we get a good look at the Mona Lisa sketch that Crowley has hanging in his apartment. It is signed (translated from Italian) “To my friend Anthony from your friend Leo da V.”

The problem with this is, the Mona Lisa was painted 100 years before Shakespeare penned Antony & Cleopatra.

However, Neil Gaiman reblogged this transcription and translation, posing the hypothetical, “I wonder if Crowley knows what the A in A.Z. Fell stands for.”

Could it be that the Notorious NRG is jerking us around and sending us on wild goose chases? Absolutely a possibility. But. Let’s give a little grace for a moment, and assume that this comment was made in good faith. A bold assumption, I know. But humor me.

We know that Crowley and Aziraphale both knew Jane Austen, but from completely different perspectives. It stands to reason that Crowley knew da Vinci the scientist, but that Antonio Fell knew Leo da V., an artist with a heart that yearned for an unavailable lover. I’m just making wild conjecture that Lisa Gherardini (aka Mona Lisa), the wife of Florentine cloth merchant Francesco del Giocondo, was a love interest of da Vinci, but it could be true in the GO universe and would make for a great story.

Aziraphale also collects signed items from famous people; the inscribed books of Professor Hoffman to a wonderful student, and the S.W. Erdnase book, signed with his real name, come to mind. The Mona Lisa draft fits in much better with that collection of souvenirs than with anything in Crowley’s apartment. So it stands to reason that it could actually be addressed to Aziraphale.

There remains the question of how or why Crowley has it, but I won’t subject that to speculation here. All to say. Neil Gaiman’s implication-by-redirect is… possible. So let’s assume that it is the case, just for a moment.

If the Mona Lisa sketch is signed to “Antonio” Fell, then this allows the above theory regarding Crowley’s self-naming to remain intact. But it brings up a few questions regarding Aziraphale, not the least of which is: why did he name himself Antonio/Anthony?

Part 3: Saint Anthony of Padua

Anthony was the chosen name of a Portuguese monk, taken upon joining the Fransican order. Anthony rose to prominence in the 13th century as a celebrated orator, delivering impassioned and eloquent sermons. He is also associated with some fish symbolism, since he preached at the shore and fish gathered to listen. He was, incidentally, a lover of books:

Anthony had a book of psalms that contained notes and comments to help when teaching students and, in a time when a printing press was not yet invented, he greatly valued it.

When a novice decided to leave the hermitage, he stole Anthony's valuable book. When Anthony discovered it was missing, he prayed it would be found or returned to him. The thief did return the book and in an extra step returned to the Order as well.

The book is said to be preserved in the Franciscan friary in Bologna today. [source: https://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=24]

This miraculous incident, wherein the thief not only returns a valuable book but also has a change of heart and returns to the bosom of organized religion, smacks of angelic intervention. But that is neither here nor there.

Saint Anthony is the Patron Saint of the Lost, and is prayed to by those seeking to recover lost things. What is “lost” in this context is usually an item, rather than a person or an intangible concept, however he is also “credited with many miracles involving lost people, lost things and even lost spiritual goods,” such as faith. [Edit: @tsilvy helpfully contributes that "Here in Italy Sant'Antonio is commonly not just the saint patron of lost things, but, maybe primarily, the saint patron of lost *causes*."] He died at the age of 35, and in artwork is typically depicted with a book and the Infant Child Jesus.

It’s a defensible position that the thing that gives Aziraphale the most consternation across the millennia is Crowley’s loss of his angelic status, and it could even be framed such that Aziraphale does not consider Crowley actually fallen, but rather simply lost. It is a fact that he finds difficult to reconcile and, depending on your reading of the Final Fifteen, the offer to restore Crowley’s angelic status is one that is so pivotal to resolving his internal conflict that he cannot refuse. If this conflict is so central for Aziraphale, perhaps he did name himself after a booklover and the patron saint of lost things, hoping that the name would carry with it some of the power of the blessing, and return Crowley to the light, and in turn, to him.

But wait.

Because I googled “St Anthony” to look for some images and….

St. Anthony of the Desert

I shit you not there are multiple St. Antonies and we’re going to talk about another one of them with respect to Aziraphale because this guy is bonkers. The story traces to the Vitae Patrum, yet another fringe biblical text and I cannot even get a quick answer on whether it is canon or apocrypha because it’s so fringe. Anyways. I think the best way to explain St. Anthony of the Desert comes from the wikipedia page on the Desert Fathers:

Sometime around AD 270, Anthony heard a Sunday sermon stating that perfection could be achieved by selling all of one's possessions, giving the proceeds to the poor, and following Jesus. He followed the advice and made the further step of moving deep into the desert to seek complete solitude.

[He] became known as both the father and founder of desert monasticism. By the time Anthony had died in AD 356, thousands of monks and nuns had been drawn to living in the desert following Anthony's example, leading his biographer, Athanasius of Alexandria, to write that "the desert had become a city." The Desert Fathers had a major influence on the development of Christianity.

Let’s all agree that this guy is not Aziraphale; this whole becoming an ascetic and living alone in the middle of a desert thing? Not his cuppertea. But St. Anthony is interesting not just for his decision to go into the desert, but what happened when he got there.

The Torment of St Anthony is a 15th century painting commonly attributed to Michaelangelo. It depicts demons crawling all over and attacking a hermit.

But the first round of demons are scraping the bottom of the barrel, practically the damned. Anthony’s journey continues and he meets another demon. Actually he meets two; a centaur, who is not very helpful, and then a satyr who is. It is much easier to find paintings of St. Anthony and the Centaur than of St. Anthony and the Satyr, so you don’t get an image, but I find the satyr to be a much more interesting character, so you get that story instead:

Anthony found next the satyr, "a manikin with hooked snout, horned forehead, and extremities like goats's feet." This creature was peaceful and offered him fruits, and when Anthony asked who he was, the satyr replied, "I'm a mortal being and one of those inhabitants of the desert whom the Gentiles, deluded by various forms of error, worship under the names of Fauns, Satyrs, and Incubi. I am sent to represent my tribe. We pray you in our behalf to entreat the favor of your Lord and ours, who, we have learnt, came once to save the world, and 'whose sound has gone forth into all the earth.'" Upon hearing this, Anthony was overjoyed and rejoiced over the glory of Christ. He condemned the city of Alexandria for worshiping monsters instead of God while beasts like the satyr spoke about Christ.

St. Anthony, then, is entreated by a demon to ask forgiveness from God upon the demons, and St. Anthony, seemingly, agrees to do it. He’s overjoyed to ask God to forgive demons. In connection to my analysis of the origins of the Metatron, and how Aziraphale and Crowley’s potential beef with him is that, as a human put in the exact same situation, he did the opposite, refusing to take the demon’s petition for mercy to God but instead taking it upon himself to confirm their unforgivability (yes that’s a word now) and damnation.

That seems like it would be pretty important to Aziraphale.

In Summary

I give up. I have no idea what’s going on with this show anymore. Here are two options each for both of our ineffable husbands to have given themselves the same God-blessed/damned name. You guys tell me what you think, I just have a pile of evidence and no spoons to evaluate it.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley

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humansbgone · 2 months

Note

I'm sure this has been asked before, but given the whole series has been 'translated' for human convenience, it can be assumed Sophodra and Rose (and etc) aren't their real names, right?

Rose's name does mean "rose" in their language, but no, they are not speaking English. Since their language is smell-based, none of their literal names can be used, and Gregorsa takes liberties with translation.

Generally speaking, adult insects have names related to their species. Sophodra is no exception, so Gregorsa based her translated name on her genus, Sphodromantis.

And of course, Gregorsa's translated name is a famous literary reference, because he had to get extra with his own name.

#str8aura-no-not-that-one #ask #name #Gregorsa #Rose #Sophodra #lore

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ruiconteur · 1 year

Text

li lianhua's final letter to di feisheng

i hear the official eng subs weren't great so here's my own attempt at a translation (under a read more bc fuck it's Long)

edit: translated qiao wanmian’s letter to li xiangyi as well, which mirrors this one!

十年前

Ten years ago,

东海一决

during the duel of the eastern sea,

李某蒙兵器之利

this unworthy Li made benefit of whetted blade

借沉船之机与君一战犹不能胜

and capsizing boat whilst battling thee but was yet unvictorious.

君武勇之处

Thy martial prowess and valiance

世所罕见

are unexampled in this world.

心悦诚服

Mine heart delights in it, and by mine own will yields to thine eminence.

今事隔多年

The affairs of today are by many years separated.

沉疴难起

By pains alone would a lingering malady be cured.

剑断人亡

The sword hath broken—the man hath perished,

再不能赴东海之约

and can no more honour the accord to duel by the eastern sea.

谓为憾事

Such is the cause for most sincere regret.

余感念君所赠之忘川

I recall in deepest gratitude the flower of oblivion bequeathed by thee,

然终有负君之所望

yet did forsake all thou hadst longed for in the end.

江山多年

The rivers and mountains of this land have many years endured,

变化万千

their changes reckoned in the tens of thousands.

去去重去去

Partings upon partings, farewells upon farewells;

来时是来时

the coming times shall be the coming times.

方多病习我之功法

Fang Duobing hath been studied in my skills,

资质上佳

and his own endowments of the utmost excellence.

不暇多日

Shouldst he not keep idle days,

定不在明月沉西海之下

he shall surely be not beneath the bright moon sinking into the western sea.

君今无意逐鹿

Thou hast not now any desire to pursue the throne,

但求巅峰

but instead to seek the height of skill.

李某已去

This unworthy Li hath since gone;

若君意不平

if thy desire be not appeased,

足堪请其代之

he shall suit, shouldst thou bid him succeed me.

李相夷绝笔

Thus end the last words of Li Xiangyi.

footnotes

i've translated this letter into (my best attempt at) early modern english to try and reflect the formality li lianhua is writing in. also because he uses 君 for di feisheng throughout, which is a literary second-person pronoun, and i wanted to emphasise that. i know thou is actually the informal pronoun, but given how archaic it sounds in comparison to you, the actual formal pronoun in early modern english, i thought it a better fit. (for all the feihuas out there: 君 was also used by women to address their husbands, so actually i thought the informality might work in my favour here LOL)

if you saw this post before, you might have noticed that my translation of the third and fourth lines changed slightly lmao. ty to @/presumenothing for the reminder and ofc my fav @/bat1lau4can4 for talking through it with me and being the 文言文 expert i need <3

for the purposes of my goal in the above footnote, i've had to take some creative liberties in my choice of vocabulary. for example: unexampled is not quite an accurate translation of 罕见, which actually means rarely seen.

i phrased 心悦诚服 as mine heart ... yields but that's a somewhat liberal interpretation of the phrase lol. there is a heart in it; it's just maybe not the thing that's yielding, to be precise. close enough imo though!

江山 literally translates to rivers and mountains but is often used as a metaphor for a country as a whole, hence my translating it as the rivers and mountains of this land.

grammar is not as important as Vibes.

逐鹿, which i've translated as pursue the throne, literally means to chase the deer, and stems from the 《史记》 / records of the grand historian.

绝笔, rendered here as last words, specifically refer to the last words written by one before their death.

#mysterious lotus casebook #li lianhua #li xiangyi #di feisheng #fang duobing #lhl #莲花楼 #rui rambles #look i'm just incredibly impatient okay #this translation may very well change by the time i get around to subbing ep 40 but for now i'm satisfied #mlc fansub

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willowmaidsworld · 7 months

Text

Good Omens s3 clue

I realised I never posted this, although I made it ages ago! So here y'all go!

This is going to be long, and I hope it will make sense. Please bear with me to the end, I will eventually get to the Judgement Day, Armageddon, Death (and four horsemen of Apocalypse) and I will mention goats.

I noticed this tiny clue when watching s2ep3. Aziraphale drives to Edinburgh and the Bentley plays classical music. But not just any classical music – it’s Danse Macabre by Camill Saint-Saëns.

I am a musician and I've played this piece in the past, so I knew there was a lot of symbolism to uncover. And that thing is deeper than I thought. I will be speaking about some music theory, but I will try to make it as understandable as possible.

I think it would be best, if you listened to Danse Macabre: https://youtu.be/…zrJ

I would like to speak once more about the scene in which Danse macabre appears. Aziraphale is driving to Edinburgh in now a yellow Bentley, and he even has his "car sweets". He is quite satisfied. And he plays this, certainly dark-themed, music. It is a major contrast.

Danse Macabre, "the dance of death" is a memento mori. Memento mori is a theme we see in art, and it originated in medieval times as reaction to the plague. It should remind us of our own mortality. “Memento mori” literary translates as "remember death". And mark my words, do remember death!

The composition uses tritones, a special kind of a music interval. (Interval is the tonal distance between two tones, you can play the tones together and/or separate.) Tritone is seemingly dissonant because it uses seemingly inharmonious tones. (You can hear tritones just at the beginning, the violins play it.) Because of its dissonance it was called "the devil in music" and was considered forbidden and associated with Hell/demons/death.

Since the music piece and the poem is based on the theme of Memento mori, I had to look into it as well. Turns out Danse Macabre was inspired by a poem by Henry Cazalis. Here is the poem: https://oxfordsong.org/…bre Memento mori doesn't only remind us of death and our mortality, it also reminds us, that everyone's equal in death. Henry Cazalis, the poet, writes: Long live death and equality! The poem is called, of course, Danse Macabre, but I found that it is also called Égalité - Fraternité (when reading stuff about it in French). This is a reference to the French revolution motto: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité (Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood), but Liberty is missing. Is there then no Liberty in death and we are all doomed to obey someone's will, The Ineffable plan? (Good Omens book and season one also deals with topics of free will, look at Crowley and Anathema. She has been doing only the things her dead ancestor told her to do, she overcomes it in the end. I think it nicely illustrates the problematic of a free will. And Crowley values free will a lot.)

Memento mori says one thing - remember death, no one can outrun it. And there I would like to get back to season 1, because who else we meet here than Death itself.

Death is one of the Four Bikers/Riders/Horsemen of Apocalypse. But I always thought Death has a higher rank than the others. If you think of it, War, Pollution and Famine all lead to one thing- to Death. Why would you need all three then? Isn't Death qualified enough to do its job? Also, rewatch the scene where Adam and his friends battle them! War, Pollution and Famine all get destroyed by the flaming sword. But not Death- it spreads its wings and says (quote from the book): "You cannot destroy me. That would destroy the world." And later he adds that they are never far away. And he flies of. He isn't destroyed.

Death didn't appear in season two and I think people are starting to forget it, but Memento mori! Remember Death!

I would also like to remark that Neil Gaiman says the whole story is plotted out and that he has done this with Terry Pratchett. In every Discworld series book (the magnum opus of Sir Terry Pratchett), apart from two or three, there is the character of Death. And I think it would make sense that Death would appear in Good Omens as well, after all, it is also Pratchett's book. I think we might see Death returning in season three, because the Day of Wrath/Last Judgement/Armageddon is coming. And this music piece could serve as a literal memento mori - remember Death, it has not exited the scene yet. (A lot of Pratchett's humour is based on puns, and this seems like a joke/plot twist he would try to use. It's my personal opinion based on how I know his style from his books.)

And what's next? Armageddon is coming, the Day of Wrath is here! Both sides are pretty eager to do this ending-of-the-world thing and after all, it's what they have been trying to start from the begging of the show. It was delayed by Gabriel's "disappearance", but things are now getting into motion, I think.

But back to the Danse macabre, because it (surprise surprise!) has quite some things to do with the Judgement Day. In the middle of the composition Cammille Saint-Saëns uses a musical theme from a different work, a Gregorian chant called Deis irae ("Day of Wrath").

Here is a link to Wikipedia page about the chant, you can listen to it there. (I didn't find any recording on YouTube, only other musicians using the quite popular words of the chant and not the actual music.) https://en.m.wikipedia.org/…rae

About the chant itself. It is written from the point of view of a sinner/normal person, and it describes how the Last Judgement shall be. Before dealing with the themes of the chant itself, I would like to say, that Saint-Saëns has used the Deis irae in a major key. Allow me to do a quick music theory intermission.

You can play in two keys, major and minor. These are, if I oversimplify things, sets of notes with different intervals. The melody, played one tone at a time, can be used in both major and minor key. The melody isn't the thing that determines the key of the song, the tones played with it do. And depends on what tones you use, you either get major or minor. Major is (in western culture) associated with happiness and good things, while minor with sadness. (It's not always like that, but for the sake of understanding we are going to pretend it is.) Now, the Deis irae is usually written in the sad minor key. Saint-Saëns decided to use the happy major key with this depressing chant, once again creating contrast. I'm stumbling over contrasts more than usually, so this may be important. End of the intermission.

In the third and fourth strophe of Deis irae, it's described how the sound of a trumpet will sound everywhere and the Death will resurrect all dead creations to be brought to the Judge. (Death is back again and resurrecting, that sounds familiar, where have we seen that before?)

In the fifteenth strophe, the writer, a sinner, prays for this: Put me with the sheep and separate me from the goats, guide me to the right side! Goats again, there they are! This strophe of course references the chapter 25 in the Gospel of Matthew, the Separation of sheep and goats. Sheep go to the right and goats to the left. I think the side symbolism is pretty clear in Good Omens. Right is the righteous side and left is the sign of sin. And we also know how Crowley cares about the goats. There is also the Jewish tradition of scapegoat. Either way, goats are connected to Crowley, their symbolism of being “on the left side” is clear. This interesting bit can play part in Armageddon.

In the fifth strophe of Deis irae the Book, that is exactly and perfectly worded and that will judge all world, appears. And this book is no other than The Book of Life.

We know about Book of Life from the season 2, Micheal threatens to force "extreme sanctions" (erasing them form the Book) upon anyone who knows about Gabriel.

Enter a fan theory I read: Nor Heaven or Hell actually have the Book of Life, we never see it on screen. This was mentioned in a tumblr post, and I will probably never be able to dig it up from the depths of the internet, so remember this is not my theory. (Although I find it very interesting.) The post continues and remarks, that when Crowley in the first episode of the second season learns about the Book and the "extreme sanctions" from Beelzebub, he doesn't bat an eye. He is pretty calm and doesn't seem surprised. (He literary says: "That will teach them a lesson", man, we're talking about being wiped from the earth's surface completely!) The writer of the post thinks, this is because Crowley knows that Heaven doesn't have the book and he knows where it is. The writer claims, it was Crowley, who took it as a little souvenir before his Fall, and later has hidden it in Aziraphale's bookshop. ('Cause one single book will definitely stay hidden in all those piles of old books.)

I think this is really interesting because of Crowley’s reaction. He knows what Aziraphale is risking, and he loves that angel, yet he seems so calm. When the bookshop burned down in the fifth episode of season one and Crowley thought Aziraphale died, he went feral: he was angry and furious, and he was destroyed by the fact that he has lost Aziraphale. He mourns and gets drunk. Nothing of this happens in season two!

So, what are my thoughts on season three? It will get really dark and serious, the Armageddon is coming, after all. I think we will see Death return and the Book of Life will appear. The goats may not be used literally, like on screen, but I think we will get some metaphors.

In all of this, I tried to say one thing. All of the cards are laid out, we have all of the clues. It would be pretty cheap trick to use some ineffable "deus ex machina", that's not Gaiman's and Pratchett's style.

I think everything is now foreshadowed; we have been given all the information. We just haven't made the links in-between. Given the uproar the second season has caused, I think people are forgetting the first season a bit. But it must end with what it started with.

I think we should look at both seasons equally and try to pick up as much as we can, after all the third season will not be based solely on the season two...

We have all the clues, now it's Neil Gaiman who plays an ineffable game of his own devising, a poker that nobody has the rules for and the dealer, Neil himself, is smiling all the time. Ineffable, indeed. If you ask me, he's enjoying it bloody-well.

#good omens #neil gaiman #s3 speculation #good omens clues #good omens meta #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fandom #go 2 #david tennant #micheal sheen #good ineffable omens #ineffable fandom

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