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alexandreaiteiaabronia · 26 days ago

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The Lotos-Garland of Antinous

by John Addington Symonds

Behold a vision of the world-old Nile—

Of porch and palace-tower and peristyle

Glassed in the oily current smooth and calm,

With many a fringéd mile of sultry palm

Shimmering in noonday sunlight! O the roar

Of the full-voiced swart-visaged swarming shore,

As the gilt barge, with flash of oars, and cry

Cast on the waters of shrill minstrelsy,

Down the broad tide bears Adrian the king,

Lapped in luxurious ease and winnowing

All husk of hard thought from his heart this day—

So men surmise—to laughter given and play!

Lo the full sails of Tyrian silk out-spread

Like wings of wildest plumage overhead;

The cedar masts with crusted pearl and scale

Of Indian beetle rough; the bellying veil,

Star-sprent, gold-dusted, hyaline in hue,

That tempers like a mist the burning blue

Ofthose bronzed heavens; the heavy-scented flowers,

Plucked from what dim mysterious temple bowers

Deep in the dewy twilight—tuberoses,

Starred jasmines, lotos, crimson chalices

With myrtles woven! Mid that bloomy sea

Are girls, half-seen, reclining dreamily;

Some white as swans unruffled, pure and cold;

Some glowing with the delicate dim gold

Of amber, warm on throat and neck beneath

Black heavy coils of lustrous curls that wreathe,

Snake-like, smooth temples. O the subtle stir

Of laughter and of little feet, the whir

Of fans like night-moths fluttering, mid the wild

Voices of choiring boys, that naked piled

On Persian broidery, to the sound of flute,

Viol and fife and soul-subduing lute,

Make music, piercing shrill and sad and clear

With yearning memories the drowsy ear!

On glides the flashing galley. But the king,

In Roman strength austere, each goodly thing

Serenely reckons. He hath felt the glare

Of shadeless deserts; by the Libyan lair

Of lions hath out-watched the fiery day,

Patiently waiting for his royal prey:

The clash of arms he knows, the thirsty march

O’er sands with wormwood set, where fevers parch

Black lips and tongue, and hollow eyes grow dim:

No Syrian wreath or crown of rose for him

The circlet of the Empire! And behold,

This morn in Theban temples dusk with gold,

While spiry flames from smoking altars flew,

And incense clouds voluminously blue

Sun-proof involved those columned aisles, the seer

Foaming with eyes fixed on the unseen Fear,

A rede of death enwrapped in riddling gloom

Had uttered:—yea, that even for him the doom

Of icy death, unless some spirit free

Of man or boy, unbought, might willingly

Yield life for life, amid the dance and feast,

When hollow-eyed grim Death seems last and least,

Lurked shadow-like. So spake the shuddering priest.

And Adrian heard; yet trembled not, but read

As in a book the doom of Rome dismemberèd:

For on his life alone the Empire hung;

And to his single strength the nations clung,

As clings a vine with leaves and weighty fruit

To some strong pine’s stone-circling massy root.

And none but Adrian heard—save one who stayed

Beside him; one in whose quick pulses played

Fire of free life imperious; a boy

Of nineteen summers, framed for power and joy.

Crisp on his temples curled the coal-black hair;

White myrtle flowers and leaves were woven there:

His eyes had solemn light in them, and shone

Flame-like ‘neath cloudy brows: his cheeks were wan

With passion; and the soul upon his lips,

Smouldering like some fierce planet in eclipse,

Breathed fascination terrible and strong,

As though quick pride strove with remembered wrong.

But oh! what tongue shall tell the orient glow

Of those orbed breasts, smooth as dawn-smitten snow;

The regal gait, processional and grand,

As of a god; the sunny-marble hand,

Grasping a silk-enwoven cedar-wand?

He heard, Antinous! and in his breast

His heart leaped, and his flaming eyes confessed

The fervour of his spirit; still and calm

Standing the while, like some full-fruited palm

Tall by a river-bank. Then forth they went,

The youth divine and royal victim, blent

In silent awe and blind bewilderment.

Down to the Nile they came, and eager men

Pressed round them myriad-voiced with wonder: then

Taking their barge, upon the stream sailed forth,

Downwards all day steering by West and North.

All day the lazy ripple to the prow

Whispered; and all day long by palms arow,

By cities populous with blazing quays,

By tracts of flowering bean and verdant maize,

They glided. Towers and temples sunny bright,

Like mirage in the desert, swam from sight

Behind them; and the wild tumultuous noise

Of nations shouting with a single voice

Grew fainter on the current. All day long,

Lulled to a slumberous symphony of song,

Sails flapped, oars flashed, and boys and maidens made

Cool music in the silken scented shade.

But Adrian dreaming lay, and at his side

Antinous with large eyes blank and wide

Lay dreaming. Thus adown the sleepy tide,

As in a trance toward Lethe through still air,

Lost to the joy of living did they fare.

But now the sun who all day long had driven

His glittering chariot o’er the enamelled heaven,

Began to wester. Level smote his rays,

A furnace-fire of splendour; and the blaze

Burned upon stream and city: in its fire

The pillared shrine and solitary spire,

Tall cypress or thick tamarisk-tangle, swam

Like clouds you scarce can see amid the flame

Of sunset; and the whole vast concave through,

Across the light-irradiate airy blue,

Ran conflagration. Then, ere day was dead,

The slaves who had that service came and spread

The Emperor’s table; and Antinous rose,

For his it was before the banquet’s close

To bear the wine-cup, at his master’s knee

Like Ganymede serving imperially.

He rose, and from his shoulder’s ivory

The veil fell fluttering to his rounded thigh:

Naked he stood; then on his forehead set

A crimson wreath of lotos, cool and wet,

Fresh from the tank, with ivy mixed; and bound

Roses about his breast; and from the ground

A tendril-tangled thyrsus raised, and flung

The quivering leaves aloft that clasped and clung.

Next half the lustre of his limbs he hid,

Like some night-reveller or Bassarid

Fresh-flown from Indian thickets, with the fur

Of panthers streaked and spotted, sleek with myrrh

And musky-fragrant. In his hand a bowl,

Carved of one beryl, soft as if a soul

Throbbed in its flush, he took, and called his crew.

They to their Bacchus with loud laughter flew,

Tossing flame faces, twinkling tiny feet

In measured madness to the timbrel’s beat—

Wild hair behind them flying, loosened zone,

And flowers about their flanks for girdles strewn.

Girls were they, girls with vine-leaves garlanded,

Or jasmines white as their own maidenhead!

Boys too; ye gods, the beauty of those boys,

Lithe as young leopards! the soul-thrilling noise

Of their shrill voices!—Bells are at their feet,

And silver armlets, tinkling as they meet,

Make the air mad.

Behold, in such wild glee,

With dance and music and with witchery,

Paced forth the youth, for whom it seemed that all

His life to come might be one festival.

Yet in his soul was sadness. Well he knew

That ere those lotos-flowers had lost their dew,

He forth would fare upon the dismal way

Of dying.—Thus of many thoughts that day

This one had triumphed: he would die to shield

Adrian from death, if so the doom revealed

By god-sent oracles might be withdrawn

From that great head.—Like Phosphor in the dawn,

Solemn he was and tender; larger eyed,

Of more majestic stature; and his wide

Bare bosom swelled with nobler weight of thought

Than e’er within his heart had yet been wrought,

Since from his fields Bithynian and the play

Of childhood, on a lustrous night of May,

He had been borne by pirate hands, and woke

To weep his mother.

Through the awning broke

The clear-voiced choir; but Adrian in good sooth

Rose from his pillowed couch to greet the youth,

So proudly paced he: and the dying sun,

Shooting that moment from low vapours dun,

Transfigured all his face; and in the glow

The ruddy lotos-flowers upon his brow

Blazed ruby-like, and all his form divine

Blushed into crimson, and the crystalline

Bowl of the gleaming beryl flashed, and dim

With dusky gold the fur that mantled him,

Spread tawny splendour. So he stood and smiled,

Bending his crowned head, like a god who, mild

To mortals, will be worshipped. Such a sight,

So framed, so sphered in music and sunlight,

Had ne’er in court or theatre or grove

Fashioned by Nero for his insolent love,—

Nay ne’er in Syrian valleys where the Queen

Mourns for her lost Adonis, on the green

Of Daphne or of sea-girt Tyre been seen.

He spake: ‘To thee, in semblance of a god,

To thee supreme, who Jove-like with thy nod

Scatterest states and kingdoms, lo! I come

Bearing strong juice of Bacchus. See the foam

Leaps in the crystal for thy lips, and red

As rose or maiden in her bridal bed,

Glows for thy kisses! Health for thee, my king,

Health and long life within the cup I bring.

Yea, were it mine, this youth thou thinkest fair,

(Fair in thy thought, for verily whate’er

Thine eyes have praised, is fairest,) were it mine,

Brief as it is, scarce worth one thought of thine,

(For lo, it blooms to-day, to-morrow dies,

Nay even now is fading, as the skies

Fade after sunset)—were it mine to give,

Thinkest thou, king and master, I would live?

Were it not well to die for thee, and know

There in the scentless myrtle bowers below,

That thou wert living this new life? What breath,

How sweet soe’er, were sweeter than such death?

Nay, Lord, I flatter not. This is no smile

Of hollow semblance on false lips to wile

Kind speech from thee, much prized by us who serve

For could I, from this will I would not swerve!’

Thus spake Antinous, and the table round

Murmured approval; for the honeyed sound

From those calm lips on idle ears like dew

Fell with fresh fragrance and a pleasure new.

Sophists were there, whom Adrian fed, and they

Clapped loud applause, averring the long day

Had kept till eve her flower of perfect speech:

For such fine flattery, like the perfumed peach

Most subtly flavoured, could no palate cloy.

Thus clamoured they, wine-wanton; but the boy,

Bending his lilied brow beneath the wand,

And kneeling to his master, with one hand

Lifted the cup:—a lotos falling stirred

The wine refulgent; then, without a word

Or smile, he raised the sunlight of his face.

But Adrian drank, keeping the flower to grace

His wreath; and bade Antinous take the bowl

Of beryl. Then he turned with graver soul

To some grey counsellor beside him placed;

And the cup-bearer with his revel passed

Forth from the tent imperial.

Lo, the West

Bathing with liquid lustre brow and breast—

Lustre of orange, amber, green and blue,

Glassed on the waves, and gemlike in the dew

Of heaven translucent; the cool breeze that flew

Past silken sail and tent-roof; the black bars

Of palm-groves and of porches; shimmering stars,

And the low moon to eastward, pearly pale

Mid roseate refluence! In one woven veil

Of varied hues the universal world

Seemed by some hand omnipotent enfurled,

Where in the midst the barge, a moving spark

Herself of light, yet mid such splendour dark,

Slept on her shadow. And was this the night,

Centre of all things fair, for thee to blight

Thy blossom with cold frost of death—to die,

Sweetest of all sweet things beneath the sky?

The decks were vacant, as at even-tide

Of chills and sudden dew-fall. Free and wide

The sandal planks thick-matted with bright wool

And furs and flowered embroideries beautiful,

Spread for his pacing; and the lazy plash

Of rippling waves that round the galley wash,

Cooled the clear air. He went as in a dream

Forth to the prow, land o’er the luminous stream

Leaned; and behold, a golden lamp up-borne

By Isis (on her brow the sacred horn,

And at her waist the lotos, leaf by leaf,

And flower by flower, twined in a jewelled sheaf

Of lilies) cast a glimmer pure as pearl

On the veined marble of the watery swirl.

Here stayed Antinous, while the darkening west

Deepened from crimson into amethyst,

From fire to blood-red orange thin and still,

Under faint streaks of tenderest daffodil

Which faded. Soon, as drops of fiery dew

Gleam on a withered primrose, so there grew

Forth from this pallor the intensest glow

Of Hesper’s love-star: tremulous and low,

Poised o’er the palms, he panted; and his beam

Danced like a living lamp upon the stream.

Then spake Antinous: ‘My hour is nigh!

Night cometh, and the guardians of the sky

Illume their cressets!’ So he rose and spread

The panther skin and thyrsus, and the red

Wreath of dead lotos laid upon the ground:

Next in his hand the bowl of beryl, crowned

With roses, from a gleaming golden jar

He rilled; and gazing at the level star,

Thrice made libation, crying: ‘Father Nile,

And Isis and Osiris! ye who smile

On mortal births and burials! lo, I give

My life for Adrian’s! Wherefore should I live?

Have I not learned to trail my manhood’s pride

In the world’s golden gutters?—Like a bride,

Sumptuous with sacrifice and pomp and choir,

Forth from the doors I issued; and the fire

Of Flamens shone to light me: now, alone,

With saffron veil unbound and broken zone,

My blossom withered, lo, a wanton’s doom

Awaits me, or the purifying tomb!—

Nay, even now I weary. Day by day

It irks me to consume the hours with play;

Hearing soft speeches, propped on pillowed down,

To gather smiles; or, when I choose to frown,

Drink womanish tears. Better I ween were strife

With lions than this fulsome flower of life!

And when the flower is faded, what remains?

Yea, heaven, I thank thee: lo, the little pains

Of dying bring me guerdon of great gains!

For in my bloom I perish, having bought

Unending honour. What I give, is nought

But a mere piece of boyhood thrown away:

While he, the Emperor, lives. Even so. This day

Dates a new aeon in the age of Rome;

Wherethrough, a name for ever, in the dome

Of people’s praises, I shall pace, and be

Equalled with heroes in mine infamy!

Nay, what on earth more godlike? I have heard

Of soldiers dying at a general’s word;

Of patriots who drained their hearts to save

A nation: they beside their fathers’ grave,

Before their city walls and smoking shrines,

Fell on the long resounding foeman’s lines

And perished: this was easy; yet they bore

Victorious crowns and hymns for evermore.

But I, what city or what home have I?

What duty, dear or sacred, bids me die?

A slave—the toy and bauble of a king,

Picked from the dust to play with—a cheap thing,

Irksome as soon as used—a cup to sip,

Then fling with loathing from the sated lip!—

Therefore I die more nobly. Where are ye,

My father and my mother, and the glee

Of brothers and of sisters, who were dear

Far off in years forgotten? Not one tear

Shall your calm unfamiliar eyes let fall

For me.—How like a gilded dream is all

The life that I have lived in glorious Rome!

How like a dream it leaves me!—Lo, I come,

Ye awful, soul-exacting, pitiless Powers!

Prepare your laurels and the moony bowers

Of myrtles! Not ignoble, not a slave,

I perish, but of mine own will, to save

The Father of the Empire.—I have seen

In Roman theatres the dying queen

Of weak Admetus, pale Polyxena,

Cheiron, Menoikeus; and the people, ah!

The people how they shouted! Tears and cries

Greet even an actor when he nobly dies:—

Will not the people of the unnumbered dead,

Showering their pallid crowns upon my head,

Nobly receive me noble, dying thus,

Calm in my strength, young, proud, luxurious,

Not torn by pangs, not wasted, not outworn,

But in my splendour?’

As he spake, a horn

Shrilled through the twilight; and he saw the tower

Of Besa, where that night they tarried, lower

Dusk o’er the champaign. Speechless from the bark

He dropped: she onward glided o’er the dark

Breast of the glimmering Nile with lamp and light:

He through the mirrors of the cool black night

Unruffled, dying drifted; and his death

Was seen by no man. Nay, there lingereth

Old legend in the town Antinoë,

Called by his name, a fair town and a free,

How that a flight of eagles from the sky

Down swooping, bore him, rosy breast and thigh

Lustrous like lightning on their sable plumes,

Up to the zenith, where, a star, he blooms

In that bright garden of the grace of Jove,

The martyr and the miracle of love.—

Of this the truth we know not; but we know

That in the town of Besa, where the flow

Of Nile is stayed upon the eastern bank

With wattles and with osiers, for a tank

That draws therefrom through sluices deep and wide

The living waters of the sacred tide,

There in the morn was found as though asleep,

The perfect body of the boy; and deep

Around him, known not till that day, there grew

Great store of lotos flowers, red, white, and blue,

But mostly rose-red, flaming in his hair,

And o’er his breast and shoulders floating fair,

And with his arms enwoven, pure and cool,

Screening his flesh from sunrise. Thus the pool

Burned with a miracle of flowers; but he,

Raised on their petals, pillowed tenderly,

And curtained with fresh leaves innumerous,

Smiled like a god, whom errands amorous

Lure from Olympus, and coy Naiads find

Sleeping, and in their rosy love-wreaths bind.

https://paganreveries.wordpress.com/2012/09/06/the-lotos-garland-of-antinous-by-john-addington-symonds/

Picture: My Antinous

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scotianostra · 9 months ago

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On February 1st 1918 the author of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Muriel Spark was born in Edinburgh.

Spark did not publish her first novel until she was almost 40, but she quickly gained admirers for her taut, comically disturbing works that often depicted odd, malevolent forces insinuating their way into the lives of ordinary people. She was best known for "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie," her 1961 novel about a charismatic schoolmistress.

Originally Muriel Sarah Camberg, she attended the James Gillespie's High School for Girls. There she met educator Christina Kay who became the inspiration for one of Spark's most famous characters.

At the age of 19, she married Sydney Oswald "Ossie" Spark. The couple sailed to Africa soon after they wed. The union proved to be a brief and turbulent one. She had a son, Robin, with her husband before the pair split up. For a time, Spark supported herself doing odd jobs. She returned home during World War II, leaving her son in Africa in the care of some nuns.

Back home, Spark became involved in London's literary world. She served as editor of the Poetry Review from 1947 to 1949, and published poetry, short stories and critical biographies of figures like William Wordsworth, Mary Shelley and Emily Brontë. In the 1950s, Spark suffered a nervous breakdown and converted to Catholicism. Her first novel, The Comforters in 1957, earned critical acclaim from such established British writers as Graham Greene and Evelyn Waugh.

While she largely considered herself a poet, Spark built up an impressive career for herself as a novelist. After The Comforters, two more novels soon followed —Memento Mori and The Ballad of Peckham Rye . But it was her tale of a teacher at a girls school that really brought her widespread commercial success. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie became a best seller when it was published in 1961. The book began the basis of a successful London play starring Vanessa Redgrave in 1964. This production later moved to Broadway with Zoe Caldwell as the title character. In 1969, Maggie Smith starred in the film version, which earned Smith an Academy Award for best actress.

By the end of the 1960s, Spark moved to Italy. She lived in Rome for many years. There Spark met artist Penelope Jardine. The pair became inseparable, eventually setting up house together in Tuscany. Jardine acted as Spark's aide and companion. While some have speculated that their relationship was a romantic one, Spark told reporters that it was an "old-fashioned friendship," according to The New York Times.

As her career progressed, Spark continued to explore both the dark and light sides of life in her work. Not everyone knew what to do with this odd balance of the comic and tragic. Scottish writer, Allan Massie (Who I met several times at a writers workshop when at school) described her as "a comic writer with a sense of evil, a metaphysical in all sense of that difficult word" in the Spectator. Another critic for New Criterion wrote that "what first seems like caricature often passes, on closer reading, as unvarnished reportage."

Spark turned her mighty pen on her own life with the 1992 memoir Curriculum Vitae. In 2004, Spark published The Finishing School, which proved to be her final novel.

Muriel Spark died, aged 88, on April 13,th 2006, in Florence, Italy and is buried in the cemetery of Sant'Andrea Apostolo in Oliveto.

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #author #witer #strong woman #literary figure

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ddejavvu · 10 days ago

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Just wanted to let you know that you're fan fucking tastic. I read ur cm fics when the came on my dash, and your fics convinced me to watch the show. Tempted to have a star wars movie marathon now I've read some of that anakin smut...

I love your writing so much, it got me back into writing after I stopped for a while. Take a break if you need to honey because a haters gonna hate, but youre great <3

THANK YOU!!!! that's all so very sweet, i'm always flattered when my fics convince someone to watch a 17-season show or a massie behemoth media empire like star wars. i hope you're thoroughly enjoying them if you've started/finished them and i appreciate your understanding of my hectic schedule! I don't want to take a break, in fact, i want to write more now than i have in a few months, but I do have to balance my schedule out </3 luckily the most rigorous course I've ever had in my entire life is ending in 2 weeks and i'll be FREE <33

#mei's mail

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filmmakersvision · 1 year ago

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Jawan Review

November 17, 2023

by Inakshi Chandra-Mohanty

In the 1970s, Amitabh Bachchan’s entry into Hindi cinema gave birth to the “Angry Young Man.” He was a hero, who fought against the system, who fought against injustice, and became a voice for the subdued people in society. It was one man against the world. Through the 80s, this phenomena continued, but as the new century neared, the romantic hero emerged and the action hero became an afterthought. People either no longer wished to change the system, or they no longer trusted a lone hero to do it. With the birth of a new generation, softer male leads became the norm with Shah Rukh Khan at the height of romantic stardom.

Though Hindi films let go of this concept, South Indian Cinema, continues to celebrate its heroes through films on injustice with a male lead as savior. So it is only natural that Atlee, a South Indian filmmaker, brings back to Hindi cinema the heroic mass entertainer, ironically starring the very actor who had originally taken away the limelight from the “angry young man” of the 70s and 80s. Jawan follows a man who strives for justice, who wishes to correct a system which favors those who are guilty over the many innocents, and for that, he resorts to vigilantism putting him in the crossfire of both the police and an evil arms dealer.

I did not have great expectations from Atlee. Though his films are entertaining, they have never risen to greatness, barring Raja Rani, which is the best of his work. However, he has great mass appeal and Jawan promises the same.The plot is intricately woven with an amalgamation of elements that tackle many relevant issues in society today. From farmer suicides to hospital inadequacies, by blending real stories into a fictional universe, writer-director Atlee appeals to the struggles of the common man and attempts to raise awareness regarding the flaws in the system that governs Indian society. Alongside important themes, the film’s strength lies in its strongly choreographed action sequences with women at the forefront. Shah Rukh Khan as the man of many names is the hero, but he is surrounded by powerful women fighting for themselves and for others. It is exciting, entertaining, and visually captivating with a thoroughly ‘massy’ feel.

However, my biggest issue with Jawan is the same problem I’ve had with Atlee films in the past, particularly Mersal and Bigil. They’re all over the place. The shift between present and past, the placement of flashbacks, too many characters, too many plot points, everything is a disjointed mess. There isn’t a singular arc keeping the story moving. In an attempt to create suspense, using non-linear storytelling, the makers sacrifice emotions. We begin to connect with a character, or get interested in a certain plot point, but a sudden shift in the story, leaves us hanging. By the time it returns, our emotions no longer remain the same.

Nevertheless, it is entertaining and much credit for that goes to the performances. Every single actor in the cast does a tremendous job: the army of six girls (Lehar Khan, Sanjeeta Bhattarchaya, Priyamani, Sanya Malhotra, Girja Oak, Aaliyah Qureishi), Deepika Padukone in a cameo appearance, Seeza Saroj Mehta as the little girl Suji, Sunil Grover, Ridhi Dogra, Eijaz Khan, and even all those in small bit roles. As for the central trio, anything I say in their praise would be less. Nayanthara is enigmatic and powerful as the law-abiding officer in search of who she believes to be a problematic vigilante. I am glad her stardom is finally extending beyond the borders of the south. Though Vijay Sethupathi has already made his mark on the Hindi audience through Farzi, it is through Jawan his versatility comes forth. I have seen so many actors struggle outside their comfort language, but he doesn’t let his difficulty with Hindi get in the way of his menacing performance. And last but not the least, is the star of the show, Shah Rukh Khan. Comedy, romance, drama, action, there is no genre in which he lacks and Jawan touches upon it all. Such a strong, versatile range of emotions is displayed through one character. This film is a reminder that Shah Rukh Khan’s stardom and aura are unmatched.

Jawan is not perfect, it is not without its flaws. But its entertaining nature, the larger-than-life characters, and Shah Rukh Khan’s explosive comeback make it a worthwhile watch.

#bollywoodreviews #jawan #atlee #shah rukh khan #nayanthara #vijay sethupathi #netflix india #hindi cinema #indian cinema

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mymusicbias · 2 years ago

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#black boy joy #steel pan #downs syndrome #massy trinidad all stars #Daniel #mmb

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queenslver · 2 months ago

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Anna Jernigan better known as AEW's Anna Jay. At just 26, she holds the world effortlessly within her grasp.

A captivating southern belle with an alluring figure and a fierce demeanor, Anna is undeniably a rising star. Though her television persona may come off as brash, beneath the surface lies a gentle spirit, often shy when the cameras are off.

Outside the ring, she relishes the sun-kissed shores and the art of modeling, all while cherishing her beloved Great Dane, Navy, who holds a special place in her heart.

Connections and storylines can be discussed via DMs!

CONNECTIONS

BOYFRIEND:

Nicholas Massie - @nicholasjacksonevp Anna never imagined herself ending up with Nick but, after her breakup from Jack, Nick gave her a shoulder to cry on and she gladly accepted. The two have been inseparable ever since.

FRIENDS

• Tay Melo- @taytayaew The other half of #TayJay and one of Anna's best friends. She considers her to be her road wife.

• Mariah May - @ohglamour Mariah and Anna instantly clicked when the young British Bombshell arrived in AEW. Ever since then, the two girls have been friends.

• Baylin Moloney - @baylinbaby ; More soon

EXES:

Jack Perry - @thegoatperry Jack and Anna dated for what seemed like forever. However, once Jack changed his ways and began acting more like his in ring persona than the man she fell in love with, Anna ultimately called things off. She still holds a special spot in her heart for Jack but, she doesn't think they can ever be together again. They remain friends however and are fairly civil at work.

#wf.intro #wf.pinned

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goodremdaily · 4 months ago

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hatcmedia: @deltagoodrem covers issue 16 ✨

Pre-order her print issue and poster online. www.hatcmagazine.com/store

Issue 16 features @hexterandbaines

Delta Goodrem had her life changed when she released her debut album Innocent Eyes at 18 years old. And the Aussie is still on the run 20 years later! Her iconic multi-platinum pop album was just the start; going on to write her debut book, star in romcoms, and deal with health issues throughout the years, all whilst the crowds sang back the lyrics to ‘Lost Without You’. Having joined Shania Twain on her summer tour, giving us the oldies and her new single, ‘Hearts On The Run,’ and serving incredible vocals. Delta takes a moment to talk about what’s happened in her life in the spotlight and what’s happening now in her busy life on the road.

Photography Jess Gleeson Styling Emma Cotterill MUA Steph Lai Hair Styling Heath Massi

#deltagoodrem#hatcmagazine#hexterandbaines#heartsontherun#editorialmagazine#magazine#magazinecover

#delta goodrem #socialmedia #press

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tmntstorycomp · 5 months ago

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The Rooftops

Massy leapt up to the top of a tree, leaning up against the top part of the trunk as he started to scribble words down onto the notepad. The trees were all nice, and everyone seemed to be having fun, but he found himself growing bored.

Bored? Impatient.

The turtle watched as all the trees started to sink into the ground. His notepad and pen were snuck into his waistband as he too started to lower to the ground. The flora all disappeared, the dirt floor started to coat in various forms of asphalt. Roads, sidewalks, foundations. It all started to take shape beneath his feet.

And then with some rumbling, the ground started to ascend from the Earth. Buildings, nothing but solid columns of brick and glass, rose from the concrete. They grew taller and taller and Massy held onto the edge of one of the buildings as it rose. As they settled at their proper heights, fire escapes started to form.

Massy pulled himself up onto sturdy ground, looking around at what looked to be the rooftops of his hometown. New York City.

Looking up, what used to be foggy gray skies would shift into an inky black void dotted with stars.

It.. It felt a lot like home.

The young turtle looked around at all his competitors. They seem to be caught off guard, still dressed in their woodsy attire. Massy grinned, spinning for a moment.

Massy started to sprint, leaping over the gaps in the buildings. He raced through the faux city, and it was eerily silent. Massy wasn’t used to the city being this quiet.

So as he ran, without a care of falling, he whipped out his notepad and scribbled some words down on it. Within moments, the distant sound of traffic filled his ears and the city around him came to life.

It came to life.

Massy skidded to a halt and looked back at the city behind him. His shoulders sagged.

#tmntstorycomp #tmntstorycomp lore #tmntstorycomp masaccio #the rooftops propaganda #R nrhh nb wzw R zn hliib uli vevibgsrmt

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healerqueen · 5 months ago

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50 Favorite Children’s Books

Inspired by Studio Ghibli director Hayao Miyazaki’s list of his earliest literary influences. This list is limited to books I read in childhood or youth. 50 Childhood Favorites

Caddie Woodlawn and sequel by Carol Ryrie Brink

Winter Cottage by Carol Ryrie Brink

The Saturdays, The Four-Story Mistake, and sequels by Elizabeth Enright

Enemy Brothers by Constance Savery

The Reb and the Redcoats by Constance Savery

Carry On, Mr. Bowditch by Jean Lee Latham

Derwood, Inc. by Jeri Massi

A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder

Heidi by Joanna Spyri

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield Fisher

The Wheel on the School by Meindert De Jong

All-of-a-Kind Family by Sydney Taylor

Family Grandstand by Carol Ryrie Brink

Baby Island by Carol Ryrie Brink

Cheaper By the Dozen and sequel by Frank B. Gilbreth, Jr. and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey

Rebecca’s War by Ann Finlayson

The Lost Baron by Allen French

Snow Treasure by Marie McSwigan

Number the Stars by Lois Lowry

The Winged Watchman by Hilda Van Stockum

A Single Shard by Linda Sue Park

By the Great Horn Spoon by Sid Fleischman

Captive Treasure by Milly Howard

Toliver’s Secret by Esther Wood Brady

Silver for General Washington by Enid LaMonte Meadowcroft

Emil’s Pranks by Astrid Lindgren

Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by Robert C. O’Brien

Hitty: Her First Hundred Years by Rachel Field

Twenty-One Balloons by William Pene du Bois

Freddy the Detective and Freddy the Pig series by Walter R. Brooks

The Cricket in Times Square by George Selden

Mr. Popper’s Penguins by Robert Lawson

Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White

The Borrowers by Mary Norton

The Wombles by Elisabeth Beresford

Homer Price by Robert McCloskey

The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin

Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne

Sir Cumference and the Dragon of Pi by Cindy Neuschwander and Wayne Geehan

Tuesdays at the Castle by Jessica Day George

The Bridge and Crown and Jewel by Jeri Massi

The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis

The Gammage Cup by Carol Kendall

Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart

The City of Ember by Jeanne DuPrau

Young Adult:

The Eagle of the Ninth and other books by Rosemary Sutcliff

The Bronze Bow by Elizabeth George Speare

The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

Ranger’s Apprentice by John Flanagan

Dragon Slippers by Jessica Day George

Buffalo Brenda by Jill Pinkwater

The Arrival by Shaun Tan

Small Steps: The Year I Got Polio by Peg Kehret (a nonfiction memoir)

Picture Books:

Make Way for Ducklings and other books by Robert McCloskey

Go, Dog, Go by P.D. Eastman

Sam and the Firefly by P.D. Eastman

Robert the Rose Horse by Joan Heilbroner

Ice-Cream Larry by Daniel Pinkwater

Mr. Putter and Tabby by Cynthia Rylant

Discovered as an Adult: Seesaw Girl by Linda Sue Park

The Ordinary Princess by M.M. Kaye

The Armourer’s House by Rosemary Sutcliff

Urchin of the Riding Stars and the Mistmantle Chronicles by M.I. McAllister

Princess Academy by Shannon Hale

Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes

Escape to West Berlin by Maurine F. Dahlberg

Listening for Lions by Gloria Whelan

The Angel on the Square by Gloria Whelan

Courage in Her Hands by Iris Noble

Knight’s Fee by Rosemary Sutcliff

Victory at Valmy (Thunder of Valmy) by Geoffrey Trease

Word to Caesar (Message to Hadrian) by Geoffrey Trease

The Letter for the King by Tonke Dragt

The Thief by Megan Whalen Turner

The Reluctant Godfather by Allison Tebo

Seventh City by Emily Hayse

Escape to Vindor by Emily Golus

Valiant by Sarah McGuire

The Secret Keepers by Trenton Lee Stewart

#children's books #children's classics #20th century classics #favorite books #books #reading #favorites #childhood #book recs #recommendations #book recommendations #influences #childhood influences

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eclvpses · 7 months ago

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introducing; geordi quinn massacre

welcome to marina, GEORDI QUINN MASSACRE ( cis man, he/him ) ! they are a THIRTY-ONE year old WITCH who resides in HYLAND PARK. They work as a MUSIC TEACHER at MARINA HIGH SCHOOL and are said to look a lot like HENRY ZAGA. People around the island find them to be +SANGUINE and +CONSCIENTIOUS, but also -HIGH-STRUNG and -COWARDLY. what do you think?

stats.

name: geordi quinn waldo massacre.

supernatural relation: cradle witch from his father's bloodline.

sexuality: gay.

birthday: march 11.

star sign: pisces.

myer-briggs: isfp.

occupation: music teacher at marina high school.

place of birth: marina island.

last played on spotify: unknown / nth by hozier.

general disposition: nurturing and anxious.

background.

geordi was born to an up-and-coming rock star / legend, and his number one groupie at the time

his mum was only 15 when he was born, she still had a whole childhood she wanted to live, and of course his dad didn’t stick around to do any parenting - he was already having multiple other children with multiple other women - so it resulted in geordi raising his mum more than the other way around

by the time he was a teenager his dad was firmly out of his life, his band finally taking off and leaving behind all the families he’d created and destroyed in the blink of an eye to do world tours

the best thing he ever got from his dad was his little sister olive, her own mum and geordi’s close friends that bonded over their hatred for the man that uprooted their lives without even hesitating or caring

growing up already used to taking care of his mum, geordi didn’t hesitate to help raise his sister too, who he still considers his best friend and is fiercely protective of even tho now she’s more his guardian angel than the other way around (she’s sm cooler and he’s just a loser with anxiety problems)

geordi realized he was a witch at a young age, it became sort of obvious when things around him began to set on fire at the slightest increase of any emotion, but it definitely came as a surprise considering his mum is 100% human with no magic whatsoever, so lo and behold his dad cursed him with something else

he never really gained control over his abilities and therefore gets nervous ever using them

just wanted a normal life for himself - the only similarity geordi would admit to having with his dad was their love, passion, and natural gift towards music, so he took this talent and ran, a music teacher now at one of marina’s public schools

most of geordi’s life was as mundane as it could be and he loved it, until his fiancé lark woke him one night in hysterics, a headache so bad he struggled to speak, walk, basically exist -

a simple slip at work that no one thought anything of had led to a burst aneurysm, he was gone before doctors could even diagnose the issue

geordi waited weeks, but lark never returned to him as a ghost the way he’d hoped, so in a fit of desperation, he turned to his sister and begged her to help him bring lark back - of course olive helped, and while for a week or two at best it seemed like the reanimation spell worked, the malevolence some ghosts possess began to manifest in lark and then some, until he became actively violent, attacking geordi in their home and begging to be put to rest again

geordi doesn’t talk about that particular incident (that took place around two years ago) and he doesn’t talk about lark anymore, and he especially refuses to touch on his magic - probably ever again

details.

he doesn’t actually believe in nicknames, when he introduces himself he says his name’s geordi quinn and will pull a face when people call him geordi, gq, etc. but mostly grin and bears it

his students call him mr. massy, kind of hates the association his last name gives him with his dad and frankly doesn’t particularly think it. appropriate for his students to go around saying Massacre 24/7

he’s developed a barbarically keen sense of mind-reading from growing up and talking to olive in their heads, sometimes a flash of someone’s inner thoughts will go through his mind and he hates it but it’s uncontrollable

just. an awkward anxious fool LKSDHGKLHSDGHSDGLKH he means well but he never rly got to be a kid and had a life of tragedy, he just doesn’t know how to relax rly

there’s been hook up and dating attempts since lark, but he wasn’t much of a Hook Ups person before his fiancé and he is Far from it now, and dating just hurts a bit bless his heart

so grossly loving and nurturing its definitely got him hurt in the past, putting all his attention and trust into people who didnt deserve it / didn’t reciprocate but it hasn’t stopped him from doling out all his kindness

a loser pathetic pushover frankly</3

connections.

he’s lived in marina his whole life so friends!!! childhood friends, teacher friends, just friends from any walk of life rly i need it all

exes from before lark perhaps/first love situation??

friends of olive’s he sees as siblings / family too :)

awkward hook up attempts as of recent or in the past…….

also dates. he’s tried to go on n it failed OR

dates that went well n he got anxious about feeling something?? :eyes:

ppl who know of his dad, this connection cld go anywhere rly but some juicy ideas could come from his painfully loserish lame ass dad n screwing over more ppl in town etc.

i’d love to see lark’s family?? we can talk over whether geordi is still close w them or if their relationship is more strained after lark’s passing</3

anything else that anyone wants :D

#marina:intro #anxiety tw #death tw #grief tw #violence tw #an actual proper intro fr my new bebe :D

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