#robert plant thirst

[bijouxcarys]

Where are all my 80s Robert stans?!🔥

Such an underrated era. Fantastic solo work. Fantastic hair. Fantastic face. Perfect man.

[teaforqne]

he's so silly I want to squish him with my shoe

...or just kiss him.

[bijouxcarys]

I second this

good morning i’m thinking about that man. good afternoon i’m thinking about that man. good evening i’m thinking about that man. good night sleep tight i’m thinking about that man!!

[another-little-hippie]

does watching videos of Robert Plant’s hair bounce up and down make anyone else orgasam?

[chromations]

Robert page while I was bored, along with a jimmy doodle from setlist

Click for better quality (hopefully)

[theanxiousghostartist]

TMAGP 19 SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT

Gonna try and organize my thoughts and theories here; sorry if I ramble!

Sam/Celia Conversation:

So Celia and Sam are both looking into alchemy. Sam said that he started through the Institute, who was "...pretty deep into all this stuff." Celia, we know, was specifically looking into transference and spiritual substitution of elements (from Sam's recognizing of the symbols). This gives us more support for the 'Celia is Celia from TMA' theory (which I'm on board with). It's nice to have more evidence for that!

Also, the idea that Sam is "going to drop the Institute research???" Buddy, you might try, but I think Chester (rn I've theorized that they're Jon from TMA) has other plans for you 😭

Case:

I was surprised, at first, with the date on this (1684), since Augustus usually does the older cases, and Chester usually focuses on the Institute, however, I feel like it makes more sense with the statement's content. So it seems like Issac Newton was doing some... unethical experiments that involved creating "seeds of knowledge" that resulted in the subject being turned into a knowledgeable tree (?). First off, I love the Frankenstein vibes off this case. Second, this case sorta feels like an explanation of what happened in Episode 3 with Dr. Webber. He stumbled into the garden, ate some fruit, and began turning into a tree/plant. Newton definitely seems to be marked by the Eye, especially with his thirst of knowledge and the experiment's results being described as:

"It lay down as if to sleep whereupon it grew ever more peaceful and still. I almost believed it dead, poisoned by my companion, but then 1 saw something far more distressing. The creature was taking root. Strands of its mottled brown hair were extruding downwards between the floor, seeking the dark earth below. Then, too, its back began to sprout, radiant branches unfurling and thickening before me, reaching upwards towards the sunlight with a seemingly insatiable desire.

The dog then opened one eye and stared at me and this was the most disturbing thing of all, for that orb was also shimmering with that unnatural light, but more than that, it looked upon me and it knew me not as a beast knows its master but as one man knows another and though such a creature must by all natural law lack that essential and ephemeral anima that is required for such awful knowledge tell you here Robert, it saw me and it knew me."

The author of this letter (Robert) recommended that they use "the Protocol" against Newton. He described the Protocol at the beginning of this letter as some kind of way to destroy knowledge. My theory, at the moment, is that the Magnus Protocol stemmed from the "Protocol" discussed in this statement. It was the reason that The Magnus Institute was burned down. The archivist either got too close to the truth (like Gertrude did in TMA), and they (along with the Institute) had to go, or (more likely), the archivist figured out the truth and burned down the Institute aligning with this Protocol (basically what Gertrude was trying to do).

Alice/Sam Conversion:

Sam is finally putting everything together, yay!

I hope that he doesn't spiral like Colin and maybe can get some help from Chester?

Lena/Gwen Conversation:

Honestly, I love Lena's arc with Gwen starting at

"I don't care about you being mean to me. Stay away, please."

and now going to

"Welp, F you too. I'm tired of your crap. But also, I still care about you since I need to protect my staff, which includes you."

I can't wait to see these two interact more!

Alice/Colin conversation:

Colin feels like S2 Jon from TMA. He's very paranoid while trying to figure out the truth. Colin's goal is not to be seen. He doesn't want "him" to know what he's found out. Now, this "him" could be Newton (assuming he is living on through an experiment or by being an Avatar), Chester/Jon(?) (in the computer/technology), Augustus/Jonah (?) (in the computer/technology), Fr3D1 (the system, could be an entity or avatar), or maybe someone related to "mummy and daddy Stasi." After a quick Google search, Stasi is a nickname for the State Security Service of East Germany that existed from 1950 - 1990. Established by the USSR, the primarily worked in surveillance and espionage. I wonder if this is a reference to the Eye? Or maybe a specific Avatar?

Furthermore, in Colin's mini rant, he says,

"Not that anyone cares as long as it all balances, right? Not too much mercury or the world ends, not too much sulfur or we all go mad..."

I'm going to break this down, bit by bit, because he's got a lot of information in here.

"Not that anyone cares as long as it all balances, right?"

This seems to be referencing the property of equal exchange or the idea that no thing can come from nothing.

If you've watched/read Fullmetal Alchemist, you might be familiar with this. My mind immediately went to the scene where Edward is preforming the ritual with Alphonse to bring their mother back. The ritual failed, with Edward losing his left leg and Alphonse's body deconstructing. Edward had to sacrifice his right arm to tie Alphonse's soul to a suit of armor so he would not die.

I wonder if a sacrifice like this will be required by a character to save another or beat a foe.

"Not too much mercury or the world ends..."

This, I think, is tying alchemy to the entities, specifically here, the Extinction. Mercury, a toxic element (in its gaseous form), can cause organs to shut down and impair the nervous system and is one of the seven metals of alchemy.

"Not too much sulfur or we all go mad..."

Again, this seems to be tying alchemy to the entities. Sulfur, in alchemy, represents the evaporation, dissolution, exapnsion, and the soul, and as a chemical, is low toxicity (mainly toxic as dust) and may cause irritation or burning, but, in the human body, it is used to build DNA. At first, I thought this was being tied to the Spiral because of madness. However, this could be tied to the Web, with the idea of building DNA and expanding, like how the web works. They build the foundation of their web, and then they expand their ideas and manipulation, either by handing the job over to other entities or by settley nuding situations in order to get the desired outcomes.

My current theory is that alchemy is going to be used in the rituals for the entities and as a way to create avatars. Basically, it's will be similar to how Leitner's function in TMA.

Anyway, this was a great episode! I really want to do more research on Alchemy now, lol. Sorry for the ramble. 😅

[bijouxcarys]

Robert Plant’s Hands: A Saga

feel free to add to the collection💦

[teaforqne]

I want to fuck 75 year old Robert even more than 20 year old Robert AND I'M NOT SORRY

[another-little-hippie]

we are all “but an orifice” (bijouxcarys) for robert plant… you may enter when you please sir. as you can see, we wait ever so patiently (not).

[snevecel]

My dear friend, who's name I don't know, I don't currently have thoughts on these characters. I'm not familiar with them, please, please tell me about them.

this is so funny frys, my name’s ae or joan or whatever you wanna call me :) but snevecel works absolutely fine, it’s hilarious

one: these boys have no current foundation in terms of lore deriving from the media, meaning it’s all worldbuilt and concept stuff; they exist separately from each other in scenario smp’s canon (unfortunately), so ultimately there’s not much to base on; and vampire shadow has no existence if i recall correctly.

so that’s the preface for the lovely two that take up space in my brain, now for the goods:

my take on these two sets sail during the pirate scenario, as well as the shipwrecked scenario; in which shadow becomes a vampire, how and why? let’s say this stubborn dork went off venturing on his own, no robert to accompany, and no friend to bring; he’s bitten by some freak in the forest he goes off to explore, and kaboom. vampirism commence. what a headache, amirite?

and sneve. well. he’s just an off-putting, really strange pirate guy who’s so happened to be friendly kidnapped by robert and shadow. stuck on a different captain’s ship, one of them is a vampire with an insatiable thirst for blood, and the other one is a possible psych ward escapee; sneve’s stuck with not one of them, but both!

i plant this idea into your brain after that long ramble: before captain kippers picked him up, i’d say shadow and sneve had a long, very lengthy brawl about shadow wanting his blood, y’know? his plasma and stuff. robert doesn’t try to interfere, because one, at least his blood isn’t being taken, and two, because he’ll be stuck with the vampire way longer.

sneve eventually just borrows a plank, dagger, anything sharp really, to bleed a tad bit. not sure where, not even sure how, but yeah. somethin’ like that. it’s in the works!

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Blue Jeans [Chapter Four] Cloudburst [Ace Merrill]

Warning(s): waitressing, OC, Pop is a cheapskate, Castle Rock lore, fluff, wooing, Ace being Ace.

Tuesday morning, Elise got an unexpected call from Nan Roberts. She was in her bedroom, listening to WKIT 100.3 on the radio, a rock station out of Bangor when a knock on the door interrupted her mid-sentence of The Wanderer. Elise almost didn't hear it.

On the second knock, she turned down the volume and hurried to open the door, giving her grandmother an apologetic look. She was still wearing a straw sun hat, having been outside since dawn in the garden; the roses had been planted, but the peonies and tulips had yet to be.

“I'm sorry. Was the music too loud?”

Nana Francine snorted.

“Not at all, hon. But would it hurt you kids to listen to a little gospel or country?” 

The teen was a lot like her father. He loved rock; it drove Nana mad when he was younger, always blaring his tunes as loud as the radio would go.

Elise chuckled. Country and gospel were not quite her bag. She tucked a lace of blonde hair behind her ear and raised a curious brow. Nana got the hint. 

“You have a call in the kitchen. Nan Roberts.”

It was yesterday when Elise put in her application for the luncheonette. She was more surprised that Myra had done as she had asked. It was hard to believe that Ace’s former lover had vouched for her, but perhaps she had. Elise knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Good news I hope,” she mentioned enthusiastically. “I'll be down in just a minute.”

Nana left her to her own devices and returned downstairs for a drink. She had been thirsting for one before she heard the brring - brring of the kitchen telephone.

In the meantime, Elise turned her radio off and sprinted down the stairs. Her bare feet slapped loudly on the hardwood floor as she made her way into the kitchen, taking a moment to clear her throat and the nervousness she felt, then rested the baby blue receiver against her ear. 

“Mrs. Roberts. Sorry for making you wait.”

“It's no problem, hon. Elise, right? I saw your application on my desk.” 

Elise hummed in agreement. 

“Yes, ma’am. I saw the help wanted sign on the door and was quick to put one in. Is the position still open?”

“Sure is,” Nan replied. The line grew quiet for a moment. There was a faint sound of shuffling like the moving of papers, and then Nan hummed. “It says here you have some dining experience, four months worth.”

Waitressing was not new to Elise, it was not her first rodeo so to speak. She worked briefly in a diner in Derry before the move. It was not her first choice of job, but at the time Elise wanted nothing more than to get out of the house. She started in January, then four months later, her parents uprooted her and moved to Castle Rock. 

“Yes, ma’am. I worked part-time cleaning the Aladdin Theater before that, but was mostly paid under the table.” 

Had Mrs. Cole known, she would have been ticked off. She was the ticket booth operator, an ill-tempered woman with unusually large specs. In addition to being paid under the table, Elise could also watch any movie she wanted, free of charge. It was an alright job, but she preferred working with people; the reason she chose to work in a diner. 

She hoped that Nan would find her affable personality a benefit. And she did. 

“Can you come on down and shadow for the remainder of the shift? Fair warning, we’re in the middle of a lunch rush.” Nan warned. 

Elise didn't mind. She was ecstatic. 

“I'll get dressed and be there soon.”

Nan chuckled. The call ended shortly, and Elise sprinted back upstairs, nearly running into her momma, who had been hiding in her room from Nana. 

“Where are you going in such a rush?” Madeline asked. 

“To the diner in town. I think I might have gotten a job!” She had to shout the last bit, having run into her room to change. 

A light gray button-down and jeans was what she chose to wear. Elise knew that there was a uniform involved, but she had yet to receive one so the outfit she had on would do. It was unpleasantly hot out and the light color would be beneficial. 

To top off her look, she put her hair up in a messy bun and tied a floral polyester hair scarf around it. Then she left her room. 

Madeline met her at the door as she slid on a pair of white Skips. 

“I'll drive you into town - anything to get out of this damn house.”

Elise raised a suspicious brow. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Get in the car.” Madeline spoke, sharp as a whip. She didn't like to be looked at in such a way, as though she was being judged, by a teenager no less. 

Elise pressed her lips thin and sauntered out the front door. Madeline could, at last, breathe easy but only for a moment as Nana gave her the same judgemental stare as she passed by the garden. 

About damn time you got out of the house, she imagined her saying. Straighten your act.

She got into the Buick, started it, and then pulled out of the driveway. 

The drive to Main Street was tense and quiet. Elise stared out the window with no interest in mind. She was blank, bouncing her foot to no rhythm. It felt like an eternity, wading through molasses before the Buick pulled into the lot at noon with a shriek. 

The silence between them was unnerving. It reminded Elise of the drive from Derry. Thank goodness the radio was on; her knight in shining armor. She spoke only when she was asked a question. 

Are you hungry? Do you need to use the bathroom?

It was gnarly. And that was putting it nicely. How else was she meant to feel? Especially since it was her mother who nearly tore her family apart. 

That was neither here nor now. Elise had a job to think about. 

“Thanks,” she uttered. She didn't wait for a response - she didn't assume she would get one - and stepped out of the car. 

As she stepped onto the sidewalk, her mother pulled out of the lot and drove toward the mom-and-pop store. Elise lost sight of her as she turned right. She took an uneasy breath, then walked inside. 

Immediately the chatter of the diner turned her to stone. There were so many patrons for a Tuesday. Even the stools near the counter were taken. Elise did not know anyone, not even the waitress running around like a banshee between the counter and the booths. 

Nan was not kidding.  

“Elise. That you?” Nan Roberts asked. Speak of the devil. She stood near the Employees Only entrance near the counter, an early middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back in a polka dot scarf. Once Elise nodded, she grinned. “Thank God. Come on back here.”

Elise sauntered behind the counter and followed Nan through the kitchen which was heavy with the smell of grease and dish soap, to an office no bigger than the walk-in freezer. She tossed the blonde a navy-colored apron and a paper menu that would be easily folded. 

“You're gonna shadow Liza until the shift is over. Learn all you can, then I'll talk to you before I send you home,” she explained. 

Elise understood. Though to be honest, she figured the reason Nan asked her to come down was less about shadowing and more about taking the load off her and Liza. It was fine. She shook her head in understanding. 

Leading her back out into the dining area, Nan left her to attend to the patrons at the counter. Liza was refilling a mug with coffee, so Elise approached her and tapped her shoulder. 

Liza turned and looked at her, then with a big smile she handed Elise the steaming mug. The blonde took it with a raised brow. 

“Um…hi.”

“I'm Liza,” she retorted. She was young in the face, with green eyes and brunette hair that stuck to her forehead from perspiration. “Elise right? Nan told me about you. Nice to meet you.”

Motioning for Elise to follow, Liza instructed her to give the coffee to a lone man named Rudy near the door. He gave her a polite smile as she sat the mug down on the table with a click, asking if he needed anything else. He answered her with a no, and she returned to Liza’s side. 

“You've done this before. Groovy.” 

Elise nodded. “Sure have.” 

Her answer made Liza smile. 

“That sure makes teaching you a lot easier.” 

Elise certainly hoped so. 

For the next two hours, she followed Liza around, listening intently as the voluble brunette explained the routine to her. It was similar to her previous job, in which she took orders and then brought them back to the table; the only difference was the menu. Liza gave her tips to help her remember it and introduced her to the kitchen staff, Jeffrey and Bobbie Alden. She was even allowed to wait two tables on her own at the end of the shift and keep the $30 tip. 

As Liza finished up with a customer, Elise went back to the office. She was met with a look of pride from Nan. 

“You did good out there, hon. I'd be dumb as a box of rocks not to hire you.”

Elise was ecstatic. 

“Thank you so much.” 

Nan grinned. “You and Liza seemed to get along well enough. I'd like you to come in during the mornings.”

Mornings were no problem. Elise preferred them. Early to rise, early to get her work done. The afternoon then would be hers to do whatever she wanted. 

“That's perfect.”

Nan was pleased to hear. 

“Good deal. I'll be seeing you in the morning.”

Elise said her goodbyes and turned to leave but Nan quickly called out to her. 

“You mind doing me a solid before you leave? Have you ever met Pop Merrill?”

Pop Merrill. 

“Pop owns the emporium,” Nana had mentioned with a bite. “He, like most of the Merrill family, is a menace to society. I'd advise you not to get roped in with them. I don't like to talk badly about people but if you see a Merrill coming, it would be best if you turned cheek and ran.”

Elise frowned. 

“I've heard of him.”

“He makes to-go orders regularly around lunchtime but the man is a bit indolent, God help him. The richest person in the Rock. I normally take his order to the emporium, but the afternoon shift manager, Tammy, is gonna be a bit late.” 

Elise could see what she was trying to say. As much as she didn't want to, she nodded.

“I can take the order for you.”

Nan grinned and rested her hand on Elise’s shoulder.

“I'd appreciate it, hon. Don't let Pop try to heckle you into buying nothing. Whatever tip he gives, you can keep.”

The silver lining at least. 

Elise sauntered out of the office and to Jeffery at the grill. He was older than Bobbie by thirteen months, a teen with a businessman haircut hidden beneath a black hair net. 

“Pop’s order?” He asked with a raised brow. 

Elise shook her head. Nan did say he was a regular. 

With the order done, Jeffery put the greasy burger with everything on it into a Dart foam container with a side of fries and coleslaw, then passed it on to Elise to bag it up. She left the diner at 10 past 2 and sauntered up the sidewalk in the direction her mother went. The Emporium Galorium was a square flat-top building with a repair shop attached to it. Almost ancient in appearance, like it had been around for a long time. Its English bond brickwork needed repair, and was cracked in some areas. 

Elise walked in, ignoring the chime of the bell above the door, and took a curious look around. She had never been inside a junk store before, but she had to admit, whoever coined the term was not kidding. Her father’s garage in Derry had nothing on this. There were more house phones, portable TVs, and clocks - so many clocks - than she could count. Did they even work? 

At the front counter, the glass was transparent. Elise saw an assortment of polished jewelry resting on velvet displays. She was in awe at the various colors and designs. A kaleidoscope lay before her. 

“Those don't suit a girl like you,” Pop Merrill claimed. His sudden appearance behind Elise made her jerk in fear. 

She raised a brow, but all Pop did was hum. His blue eyes gauged her a moment before he walked behind the counter.

“What I mean to say is, you're a little too young to be thinkin’ about marriage,” Pop furthered.

He wasn't wrong.

“I was just looking,” Elise admitted. “Never hurts.”

“Then you're in the right shop,” he stated with a grin. 

Elise was a little confused. She expected Pop to be…well older. He was a man in his mid-forties with dirty blond hair streaked in gray. A pair of reading glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, but he didn't seem to need them much to see. Why did everyone who knew him call him Pop?

Elise remembered the take-out container and lifted the bag. 

“Nan sent me.”

“I can tell from your apron…and the whole room smells like grease now,” Pop retorted. 

How nice. Elise gave an awkward laugh. She watched him with uninterest as he took out the receipt, sliding his glasses up his nose as he read it. 

“You new here? You have to be.”

Elise raised a brow. 

“What I mean to say is, I know everyone in this town and I've never seen you around before,” he explained.

“I recently moved in with my grandmother, Francine on Willow Street.” 

Pop was next to raise a brow, peeking at her a moment with sparking blue eyes. 

“Nana? She have plans to come offa that property?”

“I…don't know, Mr. Merrill,” Elise answered. 

What interest did Pop have in Nana’s house? It was a charming piece of property, but she didn't think it had any value in the market. Her grandparents had lived in that 2 story A-frame for a long time.

Pop took a faded brown wallet from his back pocket and opened it. He handed her a crumpled dollar. 

“Keep the change.”

Elise tightened her jaw. Five cents. Was he serious? 

“Thank you, Mr. Merrill.” Her tone was sharp no matter how hard she tried to mask it. 

“Call me Pop. And if Nana is lookin’ to sell, you tell her I'm interested.” Pop grinned, a notion that reminded Elise of a crooked salesman, hankering to own her soul.

She forced a smile and hurried out of the Emporium Galorium. Never did she want to talk to Pop Merrill again. Indolent was an understatement. He was also a cheapskate. Elise felt bad for anyone doing business with him. 

Returning his money to Nan, and his generous tip to the tip jar near the register, Elise opted to go home. As she crossed the street, in front of the diner, a familiar Ford Classic came speeding down Main from the nearest street. Elise tried to act inconspicuous but her eyes locked with Aces��. He pulled to the curb in front of her, as though she was a person he was looking for. 

“Afternoon, darling. What brings you out?” Ace asked with a grin. His blue eyes sparkled as he looked at her, eyes that reminded her of greedy old Pop Merrill.

Elise slid her hair behind her ear and averted her eyes to a crack in the sidewalk. 

“Heading home actually. I got a call from Nan and have been shadowing since noon.” 

Ace hummed. So Myra came through. He was impressed. 

“Need a ride?”

“I smell like grease - or at least Pop claims.” Elise declined. She didn't want to mess up his seats regardless. 

A storm brewed in his eyes. 

“You and me both, darling. I just got off work.”

He was a mechanic, Elise recalled him saying. But that didn't change her mind. 

“I don't mind walking. I really don't want to stain–”

“Elise.” His stern voice took her off guard. She felt like she was being reprimanded for making excuses. His brow smoothed. “I don't mind, darling. If you want a ride, I'm offering.” 

Elise hummed, a tiny bit unsure. But in the end, she agreed.

“Thank you, Ace.”

The sparkle in his eyes reappeared and he waited for her to get in, but instead of heading toward Willow Street, he turned onto Pleasant Road. Elise raised a curious brow, but Ace merely grinned. 

“You wanna see the lake? In Derry, you had a quarry, right?”

He wasn't wrong.

“You remembered that?” She chuckled. 

“Yeah, I did.” Ace was humored.

Dense, towering cumulonimbus clouds hung above them. Elise watched them roll by as the car drove down the blacktop. She was at peace. Her curious eyes turned to Ace when he shouted over the vocals of Skeeter Davis on the radio; he lived nearby, a mile or so before the train tracks. 

As he talked, she listened until Castle Lake came into view. Ace then pulled the Ford through a forest of pines and parked where Elise could see the water. She waited until the whir of the engine died down before she hurried with excitement to the front of the car. It reminded her of the quarry in Derry, of her favorite memories. 

Ace stood by her side.

“It's cool, yeah.” 

Elise chuckled and shook her head. Yeah, it was. 

“Thank you.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, listening to the sounds of nature; the chirp of the birds, and the whistle of the wind. Until Ace leaned into the car and turned up the radio. Stand By Me by Ben E. King began to play.

He offered his hand to Elise, raising a brow. A brief moment passed then she realized what he was doing. Like in a romance movie, he was asking her to dance. 

When was the last time she even danced? Prom at Derry High - wasn't it? With Timothy Davis, an athlete. Her heart raced. No matter how she looked at it, Ace was wooing her. But was she on the make? Elise took his hand. 

Ace led her back a few centimeters, then brought her close, sliding his arms around her and resting them against her upper back. Elise felt faint; her face was warm, and her hands were a bit clammy. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and then leaned her head against his arm.

Ace smelled like an automobile, like grease and motor oil with a faint hint of cigarette smoke. The scent suited him. It was a testament to who Ace was, an obvious red flag. He was bad for Elise. 

And yet, his warmth and attention were intoxicating. Elise relaxed into him. 

A wet sensation suddenly landed on her hand, then another on the back of her neck. Elise shivered. Was it about to rain? Like a faucet, the sky opened up. 

“Well shit,” she heard Ace cuss. 

Elise squeaked as the cool rain sank into her clothes. She stepped back from Ace and did her best to cover her head as he hustled to put back on the hood. A few curses later, Elise joined him in the car. The hair that had fallen from her bun was stuck to her neck and face. She felt like a drowned rat. 

“Bummer,” Ace uttered. His white shirt was stuck to his sturdy frame. 

Elise laughed at his disheveled appearance, she couldn't help it. Her outburst earned her an amused look from the blond. 

“You wanna walk home?”

Elise snorted. She daringly leaned over the emergency break and leaned on his shoulder. Ace grinned and brought her beneath his arm.

“I'll behave,” Elise uttered.

An intense air of satisfaction overcame him. 

“Attagirl.” 

[walks-the-ages]

It's january, which means it's seed-buying time for many gardeners! So, here is your reminder: Do not buy anything from Baker Creek / Rareseeds. com ; they are racist, anti-vaxxers; they steal varieties from Native communities, are friends with Clive Bundy, wanted to invite Robert F Kennedy Jr to one of their seed expos. They've fundraised for the homophobic and misogynistic Salvation Army

They have adopted young children from asian countries to use as free advertising for their "~exotic Asian seed varieties~" by having them pose with all of the (stolen + renamed) Asian varieties as young children-- might have to check the Wayback Machine to see this in action, or look at physical seed packets for this, as they've cut back on it after coming underfire for such a gross practice.

Anyways, would you like to know who you SHOULD support this year when purchasing seeds?

Experimental Farm Network, who has been nothing but vocally supportive of Palestinians and calling for everyone to do what they can to end the genocide Israel is committing.

[ID: A facebook post by Experimental Farm Network, which shows a hand holding three young, fuzzy Yakteen gourds, which are oblong, light green fruits with a visible fuzz on the outside, with dried blossoms visible on the ends. The post reads: "These are 'Palestine Yakteen' gourds at almost the perfect size for harvest. I normally would've waited to pick them about twice as large, when they're still tender and delicious. But the first big frost (a couple months ago) had killed the plant, so these were officially done. The plant was a volunteer in my backyard. I didn't even know it was there until about September, and in November I was enjoying these first — and last — fruit (with garlic, parsley, salt, and Palestinian olive oil). It was, no doubt, the most bittersweet meal of my life. Today is the 100th day of unimaginable violence against Palestinians in Gaza. South Africa is arguing in the International Court of Justice that Israel is committing genocide. Hundreds of Gazans are still dying every day, from bombings, yes, but now also from hunger, thirst, disease, and exposure. From the comfort of our heated homes, with our drinkable running water, working toilets, and well-stocked pantries, in communities with functioning clinics, hospitals, and pharmacies available to us should we need them, it's impossible to really understand what life is like in Gaza right now. It may seem incongruous — or even trite — to post a picture of some pretty vegetables in this context, but the Yakteen can serve as an important reminder of the humanity and beauty of Palestinian people and their ancient culture. They are not nameless, faceless nobodies. They tend gardens, smell flowers, celebrate with family and friends over steaming dishes of lovingly prepared food. They love deeply. They sing and dance and laugh. They are just like you or me. Please do not only remember them today. Take action to help them. Or resolve to take action. Or reach out and ask someone how you can take action. Do something. Please. Because you can. end ID]

This is just one of many posts they have shared on their social medias since the genocide began, and they have been partnered with Palestine Heirloom Seed Library to help raise funds; each packet of seeds from their Palestine collection has 50% of the proceeds going towards funding the Seed Library, and they

If you have friends or family who order from Baker Creek, please let them know exactly who they are supporting -- and reassure them that dozens of other seed companies with much better ethics are out there, offering those exact same "rare" varieties! Seedsavers.org is another great heirloom alternative, with the bonus that they regularly work on seed Rematriation- returning Native heirloom varieties to the indiginous communities who created them

[bijouxcarys]

YOU KEEP PULLING OUT PHOTOS I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE FUCKKKKKKKK FUCK FUCK

[scots-gallivanter]

FOURTEEN

The Stinchar, descending from its interior heights, winds through a vale of which the scenery is, in my mind, unequalled, in wild beauty, by anything else in Scotland; and falls at last into the sea at Ballantrae.

ROBERT HERON, A Topographical Description of Scotland (1797)

AS OUR BUS rattles up the road that hugs the western sea, a large vehicle with four laughing men in it whistles past us towards Kennedy’s Pass, fishing rods sticking out of a side window like aerials. They may well just be off the Irish boat.

Fanning its tail behind it like a hand of cards, a kestrel floats on the breeze above the raised beach of Ballantrae and rides the sky beyond one of the oldest industrial buildings in Scotland, a windmill built in 1696. The weather here on the south Ayrshire coast has downgraded itself from unsettled to changeable and six stolid cows gather at a gate, clearly expecting rain more than the Met Office does.

A madcap aristocrat used to fly a biplane on the breezes here. In March 1928 Time magazine wrote of the daughter of Viscount Inchcape, head of P & O Ferries:

‘Dark, not unattractive, graceful, habitually well-gowned and bejeweled, Miss Mackay was the envy of most women. Her silver Rolls-Royce flashed by at breakneck speed. Her horses invariably galloped.’

Elsie Mackay was born in colonial India and was bred on the family estate at Glenapp castle, a mile and a half south of Ballantrae (the castle is reportedly where Churchill and Eisenhower planned D Day). In 1917 she eloped with Denis Wyndham, a South African actor, and after the war she became the silent screen actress Poppy Wyndham. The marriage lasted five years, whereupon she was welcomed back into the family fold. Her father prayed she would buckle down to the cushy life of an aristocrat, but she gained her pilot’s licence in 1923 and, five years later, she made off with a one-eyed war hero, Capt. Walter G. R. Hinchcliffe, to fly across the Atlantic against the prevailing winds. They took off from snowbound Cranwell aerodrome in England, but they were never seen again beyond the Irish coast. A crowd of 5,000 stood all night at Long Island, New York, waiting for them, but they never landed. Only a slither of debris was ever found. While they were missing, the New York Times stated: ‘Every luxury money commands has not satisfied Lord Inchcape’s daughter in her thirst for adventure.’

Time reported three months later: ‘Since the death of Elsie Mackay is now presumed, her father, mother, brother and sisters presented her residual estate of £500,000 to the British Exchequer, last week, announcing that they ‘have no desire to profit from her death’.’

Shrubs were planted in Glenapp, so that the name Elsie could be read from the sky. Nature has erased her name, but she is commemorated in a stained-glass window in the chancel of the church at Ballantrae. There is the inevitable ghost story. There are some who claim the steel-nerved socialite haunts the corridors of Glenapp Castle. The industrialist James Hunter built the castle as his home on ground he had purchased from the Earl of Orkney. It passed to the wealthy Mackays in 1917. In 2015 the castle was acquired by Paul and Poppy Szkiler. Paul is the Chairman of the Truestone Group. They have upgraded it into a luxury hotel.

As if to pay homage to the late aviatrix, the Monte Carlo rally passed through Ballantrae in 1961. It was the one and only time: the fact that an over-zealous policeman charged 10 drivers with speeding may have had something to do with that.

Nowadays visitors to the hotel can sail up and down the rugged coast accompanied by the resident falconers and Ripley, the resident sea eagle.

Fishing and farming fed the villagers of Ballantrae for generations, as did wholesale smuggling, and Robert Burns met many local smugglers when he was a boy in Ayrshire; he wrote to Dr John Moore, of Mauchline, of the smugglers’ ‘swaggering riot and roaring dissipation’. In his History of the Counties of Ayr and Wigtown (1863) James Paterson tells us boats with 30 guns had once landed their cargoes in Ballantrae, while a hundred ‘lintowers’, some of them armed with cutlass and pistol, conveyed the goods ‘by unfrequented paths through the country and even to Glasgow and Edinburgh’. Cellars were dug in kitchen floors along the coast and there were holes and caves stuffed with contraband. There is an apocryphal story that a farmer’s wife made porridge with brandy one morning and only realised her mistake when there was a noisy demand for seconds.

Ballantrae, whose original name was Kirkcudbright-inner-Tig, is a now a one-horse town along the A77, albeit with a sand and shingle beach and hulking dark rocks haunted by terns, sandpipers, cormorants and kittiwakes. The laybys here attract twitchers in quest of rare birds. Porpoises, grey seals and basking sharks pop up too now and then, but they are hiding today.

I’d a nap in a layby along this bracing shoreline after watching shags shimmying across sea-sculpted stones; I woke to a seabird symphony, and the daybreak splendour of the islet of Ailsa Craig surfacing from the water. Alas, I hadn’t dandered ten yards along the foreshore before I stood on a blackened heap of empty pop cans, wet wipes, polystyrene receptacles, half-consumed packets of a snack called Ringos, and what looked suspiciously like a condom. Who would defile this splendid coastline? What bampottery drives you to set fire to lemonade tins? And what would Elizabeth Anderson Gray have made of it all? It was along these picturesque shores that this local heroine spent her whole life collecting and classifying fossils. By the time of her death in 1925 she had extensive collections in several British museums.

Think The Wrong Turn meets The Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets The Silence of the Lambs and you’re getting close to the tale of Sawney Bean, who, tourism marketeers have long informed us, lived in a cave north of Ballantrae; that he was the head of a family of mutant monsters who waylaid travellers, robbed and murdered them, and then ate the evidence. There are tales of caves full of pickled and salted arms, legs, and other human body parts. Reportedly the male fiends were finally dismembered in front of the women, then the women and girls were burnt in a bonfire, but there is no historical record. There is a theory that the arch-Unionist and English spy, Daniel Defoe, put the story out to disparage Scotland.

An anonymous contributor to the online history group Ayrshire Notes observed in 2002: ‘The story cannot be traced beyond the 18th-Century equivalent of the Sunday Sport, so is it worth pursuing at all? I can think of no sound reason for doing so other than gratuitous and morbid titillation. What is most reprehensible about all this is that the myth is popularized as part of a despicable conspiracy of the heritage industry, tourist agencies and local authorities to turn parts of Scotland into little more than gruesome theme parks. If peddling the Sawney Bean story attracts tourists to Carrick, surely, they are the wrong kind of tourists.’

Ouch!

There is a long history of tramps, misfits, and disillusioned loners giving two fingers to the rat race to reinvent themselves, to become hermits; and several have found their havens in caves along Scottish shores. For 30 years, for example, Henry Ewing Torbet lived the quiet, simple life of a troglodyte in Bennane Cave, which is a stone’s throw from the one associated with the Beans. He was tall, straight-backed, with a long black beard and shaggy eyebrows – a colourful character, so well-liked that the locals put up a small cairn above his beloved shore as a memorial to him when he died of pneumonia after freak weather in 1983. He’d been a refugee from banking (and marriage), who had drifted around Scotland, and been in and out of jail for begging, at one time throwing a bag of flour and two bars of soap at a shopkeeper who had refused to serve him when he did not have ration coupons. At Ballantrae he was treated kindly, although he never spoke much. He lived on rabbits and potatoes, built fires from driftwood, and did odd jobs, although, in his Travels in Galloway, Memoirs of South-west Scotland, Donald McIntosh tells us: ‘He was as cunning as a hill fox and the very mention of the word work was enough to make him physically ill.’

McIntosh had heard that Torbet, who called himself Snib Scott, was offered soup and scones for chopping firewood. He had told the housewife: ‘Missus, when a man’s belly is empty, he doesnae have the strength to work.’ Two plates of broth and 10 cheese scones later, he got up and made off, remarking with a belch: ‘Missus, when a man’s belly is fu, he doesnae need to work.’

It is said that, after trudging across the hills of Glenapp into Galloway, he tried to cadge from a young farmer at Newton Stewart. The farmer and his friends washed, scrubbed, shaved, suited and booted Snib, and plied him with food and whisky. They took this clean-shaven, well-dressed gentleman to the young farmers’ ball and introduced him as a wealthy visiting farmer; and many ladies swarmed about him. The day after the night before, the joke was on the farmer; Snib was off on his wanderings again with four bottles of Johnnie Walker whisky crammed into his haversack.

In a layby down from Snib’s cave stands a monument to the former Russian Imperial Navy cruiser Varyag, which ran aground while being towed near Lendalfoot for scrap in 1920. The first memorial to the crew, who had years previously defied a Japanese siege, was unveiled in 2006 in a ceremony attended by Russian top brass. A year later a bronze monument was added. I’m told the then harbour master fell foul of Westminster for unilaterally inviting the Russian visitors.

Over the centuries travellers have reported screams around Lendalfoot, none of which was ever caused by birds. The ruins of Carleton Castle are reportedly haunted by John Cathcart, a Scottish Bluebeard, and by the eight heiresses he flung from the cliffs in order to augment his estate. His ninth chosen bride and victim, Mary Kennedy of Culzean, escaped by preemptively propelling him down to the rocks below.

 

[bijouxcarys]

Oh sweet Jesus pls breed me father

@celestial-dragoness

Robert Plant

[jonesyjonesyjonesy]

pictured: john paul jones waking up and choosing violence