#marcel's musings

[marceldaemonelix]

i am tired of being tested

not of learning, never of learning, but of being tested. i get it, i'm in a profession that is highly regulated, but i'm paying twenty thousand dollars in tuition and four years of my life, and i think i ought to not be tested like this. multiple choice. short answer. long answer, double spaced, 500 words maximum. i wish i had more time. i wish i had all the time in the world. i wish i could learn everything, like a dragon hoarding knowledge, and when people ask me what i know, it's not a test but an invitation. come partake in this joy of learning with me. please don't test my patience while we're at it.

[lovedeluxe4540]

angelina jolie by marcel indik / 1995 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

[kwebtv]

Warner Brothers Presents Season 1 Episode 9

Casablanca - The Return - ABC - November 8, 1955 (Episode 3)

Drama

Running Time: 45 minutes

Written by Robert Yale Libott

Produced by Jerome C. Robinson

Directed by John Peyser

Hosted by Gig Young

Stars:

Charles McGraw as Rick Blaine

Maureen O'Sullivan as Helen Randall

William Hopper as Wilson Randall

Marcel Dalio as Capt Renaud

Dan Seymour as Ferrari

Clarence Muse as Sam

Don Randolph as Rudolph

Ludwig Stossel as Ludwig

Michael Fox as Sasha

Lewis Charles as Borrili

The only video I could find of this series was quite sub-par and thus the contrast in the images is quite poor.

[3rdwaveca]

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[sollitaire]

Reading a book on Proust and love the thought of someone else looking at the mundane and coming up with full narratives making it anything but.

Life is so much more nuanced than headlines and sound bites.

I’m also quite fond of some of his quotes:

“Desire makes everything blossom; possession makes everything wither and fade.”

Ah this - it’s one of those things I actively work against. Gratitude goes a long way toward lasting fulfillment over fleeting happiness.

“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily remembrance of things as they were.”

Our perceived reality colors all things. Two people doing the exact same thing at the exact same time will walk away with two different experiences. Brings to mind the idea that we are all just different manifestations of the universe experiencing itself.

Book: How Proust can change your life

[sandcrafted]

but anyway, while i've finally got muse - like for a starter or to just plot ideas for later if you're interested?? please specify a muse you're interested in if possible, though!

[blogdemocratesjr]

Muses Watch Me Dance by Marcel Antonio

If a man cannot dance, he cannot pray. Angels have mouths but lack the power of speech. They speak to God by dancing.

—Nikos Kazantzakis, Report to Greco

And the god of the Muses, above all the god of song and the art of music, is Apollo. Why is this? Because through the power of song and string-music he brings thinking, feeling and willing into harmony. We have only to keep firmly in mind that in Apollo there was a projection of what had happened at the end of the Atlantean time. Something had then worked from spiritual heights into the human soul, and a weak echo of it could be heard in the musical art cultivated by the Greeks under the protection of Apollo. They knew it as an earthly reflection of the ancient art which the Angel-Being, permeated by the Christ, had cultivated in the heavenly heights in order to bring thinking, feeling and willing into harmony. They did not say so openly; only in the Mysteries was the meaning of it understood.

—Rudolf Steiner, Christ and the Spiritual World, The Search for the Holy Grail: Lecture III

[prerodinu]

Marcel Novák Aesthetic

Art is not a C R I M E

[sunderedscript]

"I hope I can a lot of friends, Anya!"

A small pat on the girls head. "I am certain you will, my sweet."

[moreferarum]

but in the end , i guess i had to fall . @abditvry

[marceldaemonelix]

my sister's hair is the same colour as the neighbour's cat

we have lived here for eight years. she purrs every time she sees me. every time i go home my sister is the first person to hug me. she is taller than me now, and her hair is twice or even three times as long as mine.

in the sunlight, her hair is fiery and red. we think she gets it from our father. i got our mother's hair: black, like ink. beautiful in its own way. it's an ombre now, from the time my blue hair dye turned it brown. however does that happen? either way, it's not as beautiful as hers. she's always been a doll; it's only fitting that her hair is like a doll's too. played with. a little unkempt, a little wild. frizzy, like our mother's. she's taller than i am, but only a bit. we had a bet running and she has won it, but we both know she'll never really collect.

sophie's an old girl now. she was four when we moved here and we've lived here eight years. i'm twenty-two now. there's a little white diamond on her chest, like the perfect charm to her faded purple collar. when i went home this weekend, i didn't meet her. my sister says her owners changed her collar, at long last. she likes to wander onto nearby streets. i wonder if she'll wander here someday, if she'll recognize me. i wonder if i would recognize my sister on a street full of strangers.

[pink-karnery]

@weatherquest ;w;

fallin and marcille

[pcpulr]

⋆˙⟡ 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐘 // @mcrshmcllow

marcel scoffed softly. " i mean yeah." he wasn't mad if that was all he had to receive but he didn't think that dara would up and leave after that. " i didn't know i was only a piece of meat to you." no pun intended. " dars, stay a lil longer."

[miraculousmortalsx]

Scene: The Unexpected "I Love You" – Marcel Gerard’s Confession

Setting:

Late at night in New Orleans, the Quarter is quiet except for the occasional hum of distant nightlife. Prudence is sitting alone on a rooftop balcony, her feet resting on the edge as she gazes out over the city. She’s always been drawn to the quiet, the solitude, to give herself space to think. Marcel finds her here, his footsteps soft on the old wooden deck as he steps up behind her.

Prudence (sighing, almost to herself):

“It feels like the world’s been spinning faster and faster, like I can’t catch my breath.”

Marcel (stepping closer, his voice gentle):

“You don’t have to catch your breath alone.”

Prudence glances at him but doesn’t immediately respond. Marcel is always there—calm, steady, and a little bit of a mystery to her. He’s someone she trusts, someone who’s proven time and time again that he cares. But this… this feels different.

Prudence (half-smiling):

“Is that what you think? That I need someone to catch my breath?”

Marcel (pausing for a moment, his gaze softening):

“No. I don’t think you need anyone, Prue. You’re the strongest person I know. But even the strongest need someone to lean on from time to time.”

There’s a moment of silence. Prudence shifts slightly, uncomfortable with how vulnerable his words make her feel. But she doesn’t dismiss them—because in truth, she knows there’s some truth in what he’s saying.

Prudence (looking away, her voice guarded):

“Maybe. But I don’t do well with people getting too close.”

Marcel (his tone turning more serious):

“I know. I’ve always respected that about you. You’ve got a fire, Prue. But you’re not alone, not if you don’t want to be.”

Prudence looks up at him then, her heart beating a little faster. The way he says it, the sincerity in his eyes—it’s different from how he usually talks to her. This isn’t just a comforting friend anymore. It’s something more.

Prudence (her voice soft, almost hesitant):

“Marcel, what are you saying?”

Marcel steps closer, his eyes never leaving hers. He’s always been the one to keep his feelings hidden beneath his tough exterior, but in this moment, it’s clear that he’s done hiding. There’s no turning back from what he’s about to say.

Marcel (his voice low but intense):

“I’m saying that I care about you, Prue. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. And I can’t pretend anymore that I don’t feel this—this pull between us. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long. But I’ve always been afraid it would ruin things, that it would change everything between us.”

Prudence’s breath catches. She doesn’t know how to react. Her initial instinct is to deflect, to brush it off because she’s not used to having people in her space like this, not in a romantic way. But Marcel’s presence is steady, calm, and he’s not backing down.

Prudence (voice trembling slightly, her emotions running high):

“You’re my friend, Marcel. I don’t… I don’t want to lose that.”

Marcel nods, stepping even closer now. His voice is quieter, but the emotion behind it is unmistakable.

Marcel (softly):

“I’m not asking you to lose it. I’m asking you to let me in. To let me love you. Because I do. I’ve loved you for a long time, but I never knew how to say it. I just want you to know, Prue. I love you. And I don’t expect anything from you right now. I just… needed you to hear it from me.”

There’s an awkward pause, and Prudence feels her heart beat harder against her chest. She wasn’t expecting this—she had never considered Marcel in that way, but as he stands before her, waiting for a response, she realizes that his words have shaken her.

Prudence (still processing, her voice barely a whisper):

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

Marcel (gently, with a small, understanding smile):

“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to feel the same way, Prue. I just wanted you to know. I care about you. More than I ever let on.”

For a moment, Prudence stays silent, overwhelmed by the raw honesty of his confession. She’s used to people fighting for her, protecting her, but this is different. This is a love that’s not about saving her—it’s about wanting her.

Prudence (sighing, her voice shaky but sincere):

“I didn’t expect this… But I’m glad you said it. You’re right. I’ve kept everyone at arm’s length. I’ve never let anyone get close enough to see me like this.”

Marcel nods, his eyes never leaving hers. He doesn’t push her, doesn’t try to force an answer.

Marcel (smiling warmly):

“I can wait, Prue. I’m not going anywhere. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here. No pressure. Just... think about it.”

Prudence looks at him, her heart still racing, and for the first time in a long time, she feels something softening inside her—a crack in the walls she’s so carefully built around herself. She’s not sure where this will go, but Marcel’s words, his patience, his sincerity… they’ve left an impression on her.

End Scene:

This confession changes the dynamic between Prudence and Marcel. She’s used to being the strong one, the independent one, and having someone—especially someone who’s not family—admit that they love her forces her to confront a side of herself she’s not often comfortable with: vulnerability. It creates a complex situation where Prudence has to come to terms with her feelings and what it means to allow someone into her life in this way.

[aarinxvaughn]

aarin and marcel get married!

special mentions go to

@marcelvaughn the groom @steviexwagner matron of honor @sawyervaughn maid of honor @alliannahvaughn bridesmaid @lailaxmir for getting their wedding moved to valentine's day

[arylleth]

They told us that memory was a shrine, a vessel for the sacred. They lied. Memory is a butcher. It chooses what to carve and what to abandon, and it loves to feast on grief.

There is a peculiar cruelty in the architecture of memory. It is not a repository of what dignifies us, but rather a mausoleum for what wounds us. As Proust knew, remembrance is a trembling — a fevered grasp toward that which we have lost, not what we possessed in plenitude.

Deprivation scars; joy evaporates. Freud named it the death drive. Freud taught that pain etches itself more deeply upon the psyche because it threatens the organism’s very survival. And thus, as Simone Weil wrote, "affliction has the power to introduce a person into the kingdom of necessity," while joy — fragile, incandescent — remains exiled to the realm of grace, visited only fleetingly, and never at our command.

Sociology too conspires against the permanence of happiness. Durkheim saw that in the collective life of society, rituals of mourning outweigh those of celebration; the wound binds us more surely than bliss. We become citizens of sorrow before we learn to speak. Society feeds this too.

Adorno, writing after the camps, said that to survive suffering is itself a form of guilt. What then of the joy do we betray by forgetting it? What of the laughter that dies before it can find a tomb?

I find it obscene, how the mind cradles its own violation, how we tenderly preserve the moments that undid us. Like Bataille said, "ecstasy is not a clean thing, but a wound, a filth." Deprivation is the first ecstasy, the primal law: to lack, to hunger, to bleed, to ache.

I do not distrust my memory for its cruelty. I distrust it for its fidelity to pain. Deprivation sears itself into the nervous system, a black script more enduring than any moment of tenderness. Like Camus's exile in The Myth of Sisyphus, we are condemned to roll the stone of absence uphill, again and again, while the soft instances of joy slide back into the dust, unmarked, ungrieved, unmourned.

And so I carry my deprivations like relics, each burn more vivid than a thousand vanished mornings. For memory, too, has its tyrannies — and we are all, in the end, its most willing accomplices.

“It’s easier to remember the deprivation than the joy. One burns. The other fades.”

“It’s easier to remember the deprivation than the joy. One burns. The other fades.”

— Viet Thanh Nguyen, A Man of Two Faces