#scorn and the saint-maker

[e-rated-beardo]

PLEASE EVERYONE GO SCREAM AT @wiblywoblytimeywimey754 ABOUT THIS GORGEOUS PHYSICAL HAND-WRITTEN LETTER SHE'S MADE BASED ON CHAPTER 24 OF SCORN AND THE SAINT-MAKER

Really though. Just look at this?? I wrote this wild, incomprehensible thing of a fic chapter, consisting entirely of a weird-ass, angsty, gothic-vibey, 19th-century letter from some Russian mystery figure to a friend(?), full of crossings-out and rambling and half-made sentences, and HERE COMES WIBLY just pulling out her fancy pen and her fancy paper and fancy handwriting and I don't even know what to do with this. Her photos of the letter have been sitting in my inbox for almost a week because I'VE BEEN TOO FLOORED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THIS.

Like how can I touch these photos with my jpg compressor or my crop tool or my brain picking and choosing between the pretty pictures even; it's bloody rude is what it is.

Anyway feel free to go read (chapter 24 of) Scorn and the Saint-Maker, it's a Good Omens fic about a murder mystery, a pair of humans who maybe kinda aren't, a smutty love affair, a trans angel, maths (somehow), and (incidentally) the city of Aberdeen. And did I mention it gets Weird™️ sometimes. I also put art in there - usually my own, but sometimes also *gestures wordlessly to above*

[harlotofupdog]

AO3 Ask Game

Thank you for the tag @missunderstoodlyrics, and thanks lovely @cheeseplants for kicking it off!

What fandoms do you write in?

Just Good Omens! Though I did throw some Top Gear smut into writers chat one evening and I still think there's something there…

How many words have you published in 2024?

I published my very first fic on the 31st of December last year, and everything else has been this year - sooooo not counting collabs, 138,904. It's nowhere near as much as some, but I'm v happy. It's a lot more than I ever expected.

What is your greatest achievement this year?

Getting to the end of Storm Jizz! I never finish anything - my tiny sparrow brain is constantly distracted by the next shiny thing, and just knowing that I'm actually capable of finishing something a little longer is so confidence-giving.

What are your favourite top three fics you’ve written this year?

Someone is Calling Him Shorewards AKA Storm Jizz - I dunno, I just like it. I'd absolutely recommend @nosferatini's podfic over actually reading it though.

Spookake - eh, ghost jizz innit.

Zip Wire (Too Fast for Love) - v silly.

What was your biggest pit of despair moment?

There's not been a specific moment, but I've done a good bit of wallowing in self-pity about fics (both reading and writing). Something I've struggled with is trying to maintain creative momentum when I'm travelling, and I would like to have more discipline there instead of just getting in a sulk.

What have you learned?

That 'groyne' is a word (yes thank you Google Docs).

What fic did you want to do but never made it off the ground?

Oh, some weirdness, who knows. I have silly ideas all the time and it's for the best that most of them don't see the light of day.

Did you beta any fics? Any favs you want to shout out?

Yesssss!!!!! I am currently beta-ing Still We Know Each Other So Well by @paperclipninja, and it is gorgeous and delightful and all the things. I adore this fic and it's been an absolute privilege tagging along for the ride, chapter by chapter. It's soft, sweet, and mysterious, and I urge everyone to read it because you will fall in love.

I'm also beta-ing In Headlights AKA DEER FIC by @doonarose, and good lord - Doons is the absolute queen of smut and this fic is so ridiculously hot, with the most wonderful, considered characterisations of these dorks. It's an absolute feast and everyone should be reading it.

What three fics have you read this year that you love?

Soooooo many more than three. Like, SO many more. I'm going to stick with finished fics just to narrow it down slightly, but I have a few WIPs I'm following that I am obsessed with as well (Still We Know Each Other So Well, Scorn and the Saint-Maker, In Headlights!).

A Little Life by @gaiaseyes451 - I will never, ever get over this one. It was a masterclass in beautiful, evocative writing that tore me to shreds while at the same time being one of the loveliest things I've ever read. I cannot rave about this fic enough - it absolutely transcends fandom and Aziracrow, and I know I will read it again and again.

Stuck On You by @zin-lynn-c - I beta'd this one and it was such an utter, utter joy and a gift to get those chapters just a teensy bit early. This is the fic that has everything - humour, angst, smut, gorgeous prose and storytelling, the BEST Agnes Nutter, and so much more. Instant classic, go wrap your eyeballs around it if you haven't already.

Give Me Jizz or Give Me Death - A Choose Your Own Jizz (CYOJ) Adventure by the most amazing band of smutgoblins, along with transcendental cover art by @ineffablecrankshaft - I cannot list top three fics without including this absolute INSANITY that was my birthday gift. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most phenomenal, absurd, wonderful gift I've ever received in my actual life, and I treasure the fuck outta it.

What ideas are percolating for next year?

SPIES! CRUSADES! BADGERS! GHOSTS! PIGEONS!

Who do you want to thank?

@paperclipninja for being the ultimate beta, collab partner, cheerleader, chatter and all-round excellent pal. Somehow, despite both being absolute chaos demons, we get things done (about 40% of the time, at least): writing, beta, ridiculous songs, "online research", solving the problems of the world, and everything else besides. Couldn't do it without ya, Clip, and I mean that!

@zinlynn-c for all the cheering, limericks, gasbagging and ghost hunting. If you had told me this time last year that I'd end up sitting in the stairwell of a sixteenth century manor at midnight chatting to its resident ghost with another smutgoblin, I wouldn't have believed it. I still actually can't!

@nosferatini - I can't quite reconcile the idea of Nos as one single person. I suspect she is actually a team of psychologists, an entire theatre troupe, David Tennant, four project managers, and a choir of slightly creepy British children in a trenchcoat. How? Just how do you do it? Nos, you're beyond wonderful, and it's an absolutely privilege to wobble about on the outer curve of your brilliant orbit.

Ridiculous, leg-humping gratitude to all the brilliant, talented artists who contributed art to Storm Jizz - @vavoom-sorted-art, @wingsofopal, @castle-behind-the-rocks, and @ineffablecrankshaft. I am in awe of all of you, thank you soooo much.

Every single person who read, commented, loved, or hated anything I wrote. I appreciate and treasure ever little feeling.

Huge thanks to the @goodomensafterdark community for letting me join in on the fun. Can't wait for another year of goblinery.

I tried to figure out who had been tagged and who hadn't, but omg effort, so just no pressure tagging a bunch of writers: @firstvisittoearth, @paperclipninja, @e-rated-beardo, @doonarose, @zin-lynn-c, @fuzzygoblin, @happynachohologram, @hermiola, @ladybracknellssherry

[iridescentoracle]

bad wizards and shimmering rainbow-white robes

Someone else has probably already made this point—I'm late to the Locked Tomb party, I know—but I've been reading a whole lot of Locked Tomb posts (in between re-reading bits of the Locked Tomb books and thinking about The Lord of the Rings) recently, and if anyone else has made this point I haven't seen it yet, so, spoilers through Nona the Ninth:

Your gazes met. The other nascent Lyctor��the Third House saint, the Emperor’s bones and the Emperor’s joints, the Emperor’s fists and gestures—was clothed in a beautiful nacreous robe that glimmered all the colours of the rainbow: gauzy, iridescent white stuff that changed violently in the light.

(Chapter 4, Harrow the Ninth, Tamsyn Muir)

A mass of fabric whispered past you—you could not feel it on your body, but you felt the air upon your cheek—and then a person knelt in front of your chair. A shining, shimmering billow of pale fabric came into your field of vision, a rainbow-hued whiteness that ran through shades beneath the hot tungsten light, like the reflection of coloured glass on ice, the same stuff that now was draped around you. Then, awfully, your vision was lifted. Someone had pressed a finger lightly beneath your chin, and they were tilting it up so that you could see their face. You looked at the Lyctor. The Lyctor looked at you.

(Chapter 6, Harrow the Ninth, Tamsyn Muir)

‘“Radagast the Brown!” laughed Saruman, and he no longer concealed his scorn. “Radagast the Bird-tamer! Radagast the Simple! Radagast the Fool! Yet he had just the wit to play the part that I set him. For you have come, and that was all the purpose of my message. And here you will stay, Gandalf the Grey, and rest from journeys. For I am Saruman the Wise, Saruman Ring-maker, Saruman of Many Colours!” ‘I looked then and saw that his robes, which had seemed white, were not so, but were woven of all colours, and if he moved they shimmered and changed hue so that the eye was bewildered.

(“The Council of Elrond,” The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien)

I told them, This is it. We were put here to save the planet. We’re going to save the planet. We’re not going to let them run away. We’re going to fix this. And they were all, Yeah, John, because they were my friends and they loved me. But because they were also dicks and most of them had multiple tertiary degrees, they were also like, How though. We know you can do X and Y and Z. That’s still not A or B or C. We love the bone magic, but how are you going to pull this off? And it was P— of all people who said, First things first. If they’re going to let us fix the world, you’ve got to make them take us seriously. Get some leverage. If they want to make you into a bad wizard, be a bad wizard. We can write the history books to say you were a good wizard. Or at least an okay wizard. They’re not going to listen because we talk nicely, they’re going to listen because we scare the shit out of them.

(“John 5:1,” Nona the Ninth, Tamsyn Muir)

Ironically, of course, John himself doesn’t wear the shimmering rainbow-hued robes of the Lyctors—but his crown of infant fingerbones is first described as “a wreath of ribbon and pearlescent leaves in his dark hair, rustling prismatically in the windless docking bay" (Chapter 6, Harrow the Ninth), and frankly I think rainbow pearlescent leaves each “intertwined with a match-sized infant fingerbone” sounds significantly more evil than Saruman bothered looking, so eat your heart out Curunír I guess.

Of course, there's lots of irony about John adopting the trappings of that particular evil wizard, but I think the most ironic part might be the extent to which he really should've taken notes on the rest of the passage in question:

‘“I liked white better,” I said. ‘“White!” he sneered. “It serves as a beginning. White cloth may be dyed. The white page can be overwritten; and the white light can be broken.” ‘“In which case it is no longer white,” said I. “And he that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.”

[sanctamater]

@hoboblaidd; continued from x.

The cold here is different. Older, stranger – it seeps beneath her furs and velvet, settles against her bones. It feels like a death she had avoided, an end she had never faced; and while the walls and stone of Skyhold are not the ones she had grown in; the land is. And the land, like her, remembers; scars of the Blight and all it had wrought still linger – mirrored in the sky; in her own expression; solemn. The good lady looks as though she belongs at a funeral. Perhaps she is already at one.

When the sainted mother thinks of who she might have been, the image is as fogged as her reflection is; distant, unknowable – and no matter how often she wipes at the glass, it never clears; what ifs and could have beens scattered in the earth before her with no open grave to rest in – and though that girl ( that woman ) never existed, Maker – she is too afraid to turn to face what ( who ) she has become; shaped by a dozen different hands, her own too; raw and aching in her gloves. Scrub at something hard enough, and one day it may be clean; but the dirt under her nails is as stubborn as she is.

Most days, she works. For a great cause, she tells herself ( others, too ); a noble cause – something far bigger than any before; buried under paperwork and shipping manifests. It keeps her busy. Too busy to think, to remember; and here she can do nothing but – a moment to breathe in the quiet of the garden. Damp earth, rainwater; incense from the Sisters of the Chantry lit for both the alive and the fallen. Often, she thinks of Elizabeth. Thinks of others, too – nameless faces she cannot quite remember but had been wronged by her all the same; from matters of business to matters of the heart. As with all things, she holds on too tightly – and the familiar rhythm of the Chant does little to soothe her. A breath – in, and out. When she opens her eyes again, she sees him – another lone figure in a place that has become both sanctuary and social. The inner circle has eluded the good lady – though she has not sought it out. How unlike her ( or, perhaps, like her ); to be so removed from the centre of society ( if this could be called society ) was, certainly, unlike her. A self-imposed punishment for a myriad of sins she did not have the strength to give name to. She was, after all, here to serve – and if she did happen to make coin in the process; well – that would do. Solas, she thinks. That must be his name. Apostate usually followed soon after as though the word were a blade itself; and while the good lady knows that many still scorn mages who live outside of the bounds of a Circle; she cannot fault them. After all, she had kept one safe with her for nineteen years. It is with that does she step forward; the words upon her lips said without the tact many might expect from a lady of her station – much less a warning.

“ Forgive me – I did not wish to startle you. ” Lost in thought where she sought to escape it.  Briefly, she glances at the white robes and red hoods of the Sisters and Brothers; Andraste’s children now quiet. The good lady remembers what she remembers. The white-washed, rough walls of the Chantry she had gone to in her youth; time worn – the feeling of her mother’s hand over her small one; how her grandmother had known the Chant by heart. She’d never memorized it. Another breath – and she looks back up to him ( always up ). There is a voice she remembers, too; not her own, no – but his. It haunts her, still. Time itself will walk backwards before you find redemption. Whatever that means. Most days, she tries not to give much stock in to the ramblings of dead men and false prophets; still, it gives her pause. “ It is my own philosophy. ” Her smile is a wry one; a quirk of her mouth and nothing more, gone too quickly in favour of cold impassivity. Untouchable, until she is. It is a philosophy that may yet serve her well; one she has been in service ( in search ) of for near her entire life. Twenty years of looking, and she feels no cleaner than she had the day she’d come out of that river. “The Maker is not one to tell us how to find the redemption we seek. That path is one He leaves for us to discover and follow in our own way.” It would not be redemption if the road to it was an easy one – and the words come easy to her; old habits from a life she’d tried to leave behind. She’d have made a good Reverend Mother in another life, offering comfort to the afflicted. Instead, she is here. “ Repentance can be as simple as truth. ” Yet, it rarely is. That, alone, would be too easy. Perhaps she believed in it for every soul that but her own. Who is the sainted mother to say if she deserves forgiveness? Who is she to say if she has found it? “ Truthfully – It is something we must, I think, find in ourselves. Through deeds or words… And the answer is one only we can find in that path that is most often walked alone. ”

[e-rated-beardo]

Sketching for chapter 8 of Scorn and the Saint-Maker (1.5 weeks away 😉) while watching talks at @theineffablecon and OH DAMN it is WORKING today 🤩🥲

@goodomensafterdark

[libidomechanica]

But when thereon

Why did the delight sufficeth     to shelter the Lords A. Is cold. Of a noun. All other     sweet is a mere faith no wild and doe me not to feed his     mine; ’ yet she only mischief- making crave mood;—it rauisht quite     bids me at least his early

twilight; ne your Bosom utter’d     with all thousand arm’d theirs forth. In Rhenish crimes, but lingering     that call a bird. Now Johnny vile adders story’s act.     Which guilty of herbs and pack’d I matter when so she will     keep mind you make the best

to her greatest woman, having     what substance, seldom pleasure on me this kind why wilt their     hand withdrew in deep in my sleep I dream’d not the z, paints     as Saint Ambrogio’s! Said may see, that wilderness. What wild     branch of your name my hart

before the roaring delay, a     death. Weak spirit in pure, except the sick, and Juan he convent     high spirit, and call gallop on for sorrow they not     one now and scorn, is loathsome and country summer-time, across     restore of the most

father must beat neath that he may     give. There came, and many dear lover still rave among thence     beare, althoughted, be found it went on is preserve and     turmoyle, to irrigate to bull-fights, mass, place, for Johnny,     Johnny’s left us can

complaint to give her pitch, that I     e’er befall, which is London’s no one unders! Love speak as     I have the bliss, stutter whose higher, like manner nor dare     and eke tenne thou art my music, whether t was good     Angelico’s that cannot

tell. A hundred Graces are what,     near the raging face? But when thereon. Should not covet Mr.     The lucid out of sin; wherein I sawe so fayre be     lost: so she will keep your brighteous Lord Henry and was like     a tooth kissing at that

mens confess. ’ Now, Don Alfonso’s     heads doe at length they may learn, I can’t help the blouse you with     fancies wonderful, and as fresh Spring, with fancies vayne     man mighty view? What this the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies weary     … full in view on his

eyes my soul and not know, would be     harm’d, there are only son left; all the cause I counterpane     and I must take my wombe thou his bow of ours, her goodly     semblance between em; but a blush Cupid fourteen her     bowery flake, and listened

him well, but more with the mystic     art, loue too big to proclaim— departed … never be apples     the song of mind, that awkward through perplexing waues and     that nights are over all they who swore he and therefore are     the hushed Casket of her

fayre hath kisses survey, for heaven!     Monstrous deed: but the guest, think a very much exceeding     feet—day has been he; but better. Love the remaine. But     spoils the mouth it’s … well, there’s nobody that his reacherly     heads adorne; there is

paid a wond’rous riddle, or make     each others’ share. We Carmine’s mystery would apples,     but they go, are ways with vacancies wonders. I to my     rhyme, exceeding chance Rumpelstilts of Happiness; and sleep     to costume. He saw in

ilka beild! In days and loose a     tear; by which adorne, you may yet she doth flow, since is sure     maker ye entranced, he start none can into a rivulet;     and still heart is lights, chaste descry, myld humbled harbour,     yet in my father’s facts

attack, and of State’s company’s     a certain’d the helpless creature to grasp’d his, now faint on     the fern or in a sometimes are our earth of conscience, nay—     he made attonce screams. He should bring the learne will not dares not     sound growest fingers beauties

pride display terrors fall; she     rest, of their earliest aspect of the sons new: her stammer,     but what she distinguishment of please. Her for that was     such a nights, intrigues, and woe is mild and large rich with girland     crow to-whoo, to-whoo,

to-whoo, and take delight, Then look     and most diverting plann’d, unless it throws a loving in     July, me almost speech each where you and dismay, in five     o’clock,—a clear; by which my bonie lass, and all quality.     The drear, to comfort shew?

[dalishdaisy]

ive read that one post about tea/gan and female warden a long while ago and let my own thoughts in drafts so ill make it about myself here.

it was about him potentially idealizing warden as they hide in the andrastian chantry and she comes as some saintlike female savior figure

but for my worldstates it is subverted especially for rin. theyre praying to their human prophetess but its a dalish elf, that they scorn and that they attack in her name, that comes to save the humans asses. instead of their human saintess they get one of them knife ears

and i loved that as is but i realized: parallel to allen as an unwilling saint figure of not his maker

everything that happens to them is so parallel. they are still so fated even in separation

[e-rated-beardo]

Jumping on the bandwagon (?) because my current ongoing fic teaches mathematics to people who didn't think they liked mathematics (I'm still coming to terms with the comment that said I make maths hot—surely it's Crowley and/or Crowley's trousers doing that, not me):

It's a murder mystery/romance/who-made-them-human fic, set at a Scottish university, with lots of smut and one trans angel. The maths isn't constant or plot-crucial, but it's integral (ha!) enough to one character's person and to the setting that it's always pretty close by.

Perhaps it also teaches you about Aberdeen?

Rated E, with skip options making it somewhere around M.

(Recommended) GOOD OMENS FICS THAT TEACH YOU STUFF

Was inspired by @maaikeatthefullmoon who posted a fic rec list, and I wanted to do something similar.

Because I like to learn while I read. Sometimes I’ll read a fic and had no idea that Things Could Be Like That, and I’m just floored, thinking about it for days, googling and crying. As I haven’t the best memory, I might have forgotten some, and I might add more later. Everything is rated E or M because I only read the slick and sloppy.

THE LIST

1: For Loving One (AU) - World War II has never really interested me, and I didn’t know much about what it was like to be queer back then. I just assumed almost everyone was out to get you (and I wasn’t wrong), but I just didn’t have any reference material. Now I do, as it’s clear the author knows a lot about this topic. This is a beautiful story, well researched, with just enough happy and just enough angst. I’ve learned a lot, entirely without meaning to.

2: Epistolary - one of my favorite tropes, which is Crowley finding and reading Aziraphale’s diary and stumbling upon very private thoughts and YearningTM throughout history. There are plagues, there are Aztec ritual sacrifices, there’s a long-haired, sleeping Crowley in a cave and Aziraphale losing his mind yearning over (literally over) said sleeping Crowley.

3: exodus2 (canon compliant AU - yes, it’s possible) - Ezra and Crowley, programming students in their early 20s, meet at university in a totalitarian European state, and both have an interest in banned media and causing some trouble. You’ll learn some Hebrew, some Yiddish and Scandinavian - and how to start an insurrection against the State. And, there are (banned) book recommendations!

4: A Godawful Small Affair - What if Vince Taylor wasn’t Bowie’s inspiration for Ziggy Stardust? A fic that placed me firmly in a music scene I’ve never immersed myself in, in a decade I somehow skipped over. Yes, I know, I’m weird - but I’ve learned a lot! It’s sweet and it really feels probable.

5: Rough Enough for Love (AU) - As an AFAB person, I’ve learned so much about… uh, the subjective intricacies of AMAB anatomy. Also, it’s nice to skip the yearning sometimes and just read them having their cake and eating it too.

6: The False and the Fair (AU) - I knew nothing about West Virginia, nor about coal mining. It has all the feels and if this was about anyone other than the ineffables I wouldn’t have read it and I would have missed out. I’ve learned so much about a society and a setting so far from everything I thought I was interested in. Don’t miss out!

7: A Gift of Words - Okay, it’s not slick and sloppy - but VERY sweet, and I learned a lot about Gutenberg and the printing press. Crowley changes the world for his angel, by giving him (arguably) his most favorite thing.

—

Let me know if YOU wrote a fic in which you teach the reader about something you have special knowledge of! I’d like to read, learn and link to it.

As a treat: a picture of a peacock because I’m on holiday in Portugal.

And yes, one of my fics is in there. Not ashamed. Hah!

[ibelieveinthethingcalledlove]

You have a picture of life within you, a faith, a challenge, and you were ready for deeds and sufferings and sacrifices, and then you became aware by degrees that the world asked no deeds and no sacrifices of you whatever, and that life is no poem of heroism with heroic parts to play and so on, but a comfortable room where people are quite content with eating and drinking, coffee and knitting, cards and wireless. And whoever wants more and has got it in him--the heroic and the beautiful, and the reverence for the great poets or for the saints--is a fool and a Don Quixote. Good. And it has been just the same for me, my friend. I was a gifted girl. I was meant to live up to a high standard, to expect much of myself and do great things. I could have played a great part. I could have been the wife of a king, the beloved of a revolutionary, the sister of a genius, the mother of a martyr. And life has allowed me just this, to be a courtesan of fairly good taste, and even that has been hard enough. That is how things have gone with me. For a while I was inconsolable and for a long time I put the blame on myself. Life, thought I, must in the end be in the right, and if life scorned my beautiful dreams, so I argued, it was my dreams that were stupid and wrong headed. But that did not help me at all. And as I had good eyes and ears and was a little inquisitive too, I took a good look at this so-called life and at my neighbors and acquaintances, fifty or so of them and their destinies, and then I saw you. And I knew that my dreams had been right a thousand times over, just as yours had been. It was life and reality that were wrong. It was as little right that a woman like me should have no other choice than to grow old in poverty and in a senseless way at a typewriter in the pay of a money-maker, or to marry such a man for his money's sake, or to become some kind of drudge, as for a man like you to be forced in his loneliness and despair to have recourse to a razor. Perhaps the trouble with me was more material and moral and with you more spiritual--but it was the same road. Do you think I can't understand your horror of the fox trot, your dislike of bars and dancing floors, your loathing of jazz and the rest of it? I understand it only too well, and your dislike of politics as well, your despondence over the chatter and irresponsible antics of the parties and the press, your despair over the war, the one that has been and the one that is to be, over all that people nowadays think, read and build, over the music they play, the celebrations they hold, the education they carry on. You are right, Steppenwolf, right a thousand times over, and yet you must go to the wall. You are much too exacting and hungry for this simple, easygoing and easily contented world of today. You have a dimension too many. Whoever wants to live and enjoy his life today must not be like you and me. Whoever wants music instead of noise, joy instead of pleasure, soul instead of gold, creative work instead of business, passion instead of foolery, finds no home in this trivial world of ours.

[dailyofficereadings]

Daily Office Readings March 03, 2022 at 11:00PM

Psalm 95

Psalm 95

A Call to Worship and Obedience

1 O come, let us sing to the Lord; let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation! 2 Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving; let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise! 3 For the Lord is a great God, and a great King above all gods. 4 In his hand are the depths of the earth; the heights of the mountains are his also. 5 The sea is his, for he made it, and the dry land, which his hands have formed.

6 O come, let us worship and bow down, let us kneel before the Lord, our Maker! 7 For he is our God, and we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand.

O that today you would listen to his voice! 8 Do not harden your hearts, as at Meribah, as on the day at Massah in the wilderness, 9 when your ancestors tested me, and put me to the proof, though they had seen my work. 10 For forty years I loathed that generation and said, “They are a people whose hearts go astray, and they do not regard my ways.” 11 Therefore in my anger I swore, “They shall not enter my rest.”

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Psalm 31

Psalm 31

Prayer and Praise for Deliverance from Enemies

To the leader. A Psalm of David.

1 In you, O Lord, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in your righteousness deliver me. 2 Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me.

3 You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name’s sake lead me and guide me, 4 take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge. 5 Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.

6 You hate[a] those who pay regard to worthless idols, but I trust in the Lord. 7 I will exult and rejoice in your steadfast love, because you have seen my affliction; you have taken heed of my adversities, 8 and have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy; you have set my feet in a broad place.

9 Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye wastes away from grief, my soul and body also. 10 For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my misery,[b] and my bones waste away.

11 I am the scorn of all my adversaries, a horror[c] to my neighbors, an object of dread to my acquaintances; those who see me in the street flee from me. 12 I have passed out of mind like one who is dead; I have become like a broken vessel. 13 For I hear the whispering of many— terror all around!— as they scheme together against me, as they plot to take my life.

14 But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, “You are my God.” 15 My times are in your hand; deliver me from the hand of my enemies and persecutors. 16 Let your face shine upon your servant; save me in your steadfast love. 17 Do not let me be put to shame, O Lord, for I call on you; let the wicked be put to shame; let them go dumbfounded to Sheol. 18 Let the lying lips be stilled that speak insolently against the righteous with pride and contempt.

19 O how abundant is your goodness that you have laid up for those who fear you, and accomplished for those who take refuge in you, in the sight of everyone! 20 In the shelter of your presence you hide them from human plots; you hold them safe under your shelter from contentious tongues.

21 Blessed be the Lord, for he has wondrously shown his steadfast love to me when I was beset as a city under siege. 22 I had said in my alarm, “I am driven far[d] from your sight.” But you heard my supplications when I cried out to you for help.

23 Love the Lord, all you his saints. The Lord preserves the faithful, but abundantly repays the one who acts haughtily. 24 Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord.

Footnotes:

Psalm 31:6 One Heb Ms Gk Syr Jerome: MT I hate

Psalm 31:10 Gk Syr: Heb my iniquity

Psalm 31:11 Cn: Heb exceedingly

Psalm 31:22 Another reading is cut off

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Psalm 35

Psalm 35

Prayer for Deliverance from Enemies

Of David.

1 Contend, O Lord, with those who contend with me; fight against those who fight against me! 2 Take hold of shield and buckler, and rise up to help me! 3 Draw the spear and javelin against my pursuers; say to my soul, “I am your salvation.”

4 Let them be put to shame and dishonor who seek after my life. Let them be turned back and confounded who devise evil against me. 5 Let them be like chaff before the wind, with the angel of the Lord driving them on. 6 Let their way be dark and slippery, with the angel of the Lord pursuing them.

7 For without cause they hid their net[a] for me; without cause they dug a pit[b] for my life. 8 Let ruin come on them unawares. And let the net that they hid ensnare them; let them fall in it—to their ruin.

9 Then my soul shall rejoice in the Lord, exulting in his deliverance. 10 All my bones shall say, “O Lord, who is like you? You deliver the weak from those too strong for them, the weak and needy from those who despoil them.”

11 Malicious witnesses rise up; they ask me about things I do not know. 12 They repay me evil for good; my soul is forlorn. 13 But as for me, when they were sick, I wore sackcloth; I afflicted myself with fasting. I prayed with head bowed[c] on my bosom, 14 as though I grieved for a friend or a brother; I went about as one who laments for a mother, bowed down and in mourning.

15 But at my stumbling they gathered in glee, they gathered together against me; ruffians whom I did not know tore at me without ceasing; 16 they impiously mocked more and more,[d] gnashing at me with their teeth.

17��How long, O Lord, will you look on? Rescue me from their ravages, my life from the lions! 18 Then I will thank you in the great congregation; in the mighty throng I will praise you.

19 Do not let my treacherous enemies rejoice over me, or those who hate me without cause wink the eye. 20 For they do not speak peace, but they conceive deceitful words against those who are quiet in the land. 21 They open wide their mouths against me; they say, “Aha, Aha, our eyes have seen it.”

22 You have seen, O Lord; do not be silent! O Lord, do not be far from me! 23 Wake up! Bestir yourself for my defense, for my cause, my God and my Lord! 24 Vindicate me, O Lord, my God, according to your righteousness, and do not let them rejoice over me. 25 Do not let them say to themselves, “Aha, we have our heart’s desire.” Do not let them say, “We have swallowed you[e] up.”

26 Let all those who rejoice at my calamity be put to shame and confusion; let those who exalt themselves against me be clothed with shame and dishonor.

27 Let those who desire my vindication shout for joy and be glad, and say evermore, “Great is the Lord, who delights in the welfare of his servant.” 28 Then my tongue shall tell of your righteousness and of your praise all day long.

Footnotes:

Psalm 35:7 Heb a pit, their net

Psalm 35:7 The word pit is transposed from the preceding line

Psalm 35:13 Or My prayer turned back

Psalm 35:16 Cn Compare Gk: Heb like the profanest of mockers of a cake

Psalm 35:25 Heb him

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Ezekiel 18:1-4

Individual Retribution

18 The word of the Lord came to me: 2 What do you mean by repeating this proverb concerning the land of Israel, “The parents have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge”? 3 As I live, says the Lord God, this proverb shall no more be used by you in Israel. 4 Know that all lives are mine; the life of the parent as well as the life of the child is mine: it is only the person who sins that shall die.

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Ezekiel 18:25-32

25 Yet you say, “The way of the Lord is unfair.” Hear now, O house of Israel: Is my way unfair? Is it not your ways that are unfair? 26 When the righteous turn away from their righteousness and commit iniquity, they shall die for it; for the iniquity that they have committed they shall die. 27 Again, when the wicked turn away from the wickedness they have committed and do what is lawful and right, they shall save their life. 28 Because they considered and turned away from all the transgressions that they had committed, they shall surely live; they shall not die. 29 Yet the house of Israel says, “The way of the Lord is unfair.” O house of Israel, are my ways unfair? Is it not your ways that are unfair?

30 Therefore I will judge you, O house of Israel, all of you according to your ways, says the Lord God. Repent and turn from all your transgressions; otherwise iniquity will be your ruin.[a] 31 Cast away from you all the transgressions that you have committed against me, and get yourselves a new heart and a new spirit! Why will you die, O house of Israel? 32 For I have no pleasure in the death of anyone, says the Lord God. Turn, then, and live.

Footnotes:

Ezekiel 18:30 Or so that they shall not be a stumbling block of iniquity to you

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Philippians 4:1-9

4 1 Therefore, my brothers and sisters,[a] whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved.

Exhortations

2 I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. 3 Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion,[b] help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life.

4 Rejoice[c] in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.[d] 5 Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. 6 Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. 7 And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

8 Finally, beloved,[e] whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about[f] these things. 9 Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

Footnotes:

Philippians 4:1 Gk my brothers

Philippians 4:3 Or loyal Syzygus

Philippians 4:4 Or Farewell

Philippians 4:4 Or Farewell

Philippians 4:8 Gk brothers

Philippians 4:8 Gk take account of

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

John 17:9-19

9 I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. 10 All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. 11 And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one. 12 While I was with them, I protected them in your name that[a] you have given me. I guarded them, and not one of them was lost except the one destined to be lost,[b] so that the scripture might be fulfilled. 13 But now I am coming to you, and I speak these things in the world so that they may have my joy made complete in themselves.[c] 14 I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. 15 I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one.[d] 16 They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. 17 Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. 18 As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. 19 And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they also may be sanctified in truth.

Footnotes:

John 17:12 Other ancient authorities read protected in your name those whom

John 17:12 Gk except the son of destruction

John 17:13 Or among themselves

John 17:15 Or from evil

New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition (NRSVCE)

New Revised Standard Version Bible: Catholic Edition, copyright © 1989, 1993 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

[e-rated-beardo]

oi

OI

WAIT HEY

Hey hey hey thAT'S MY FIC 🤣

Ngl this is now my proudest moment this week jesus christ 🏆🙇‍♂️😂

[wastemybreath]

Eloisa to Abelard - Alexander Pope

In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns; What means this tumult in a vestal's veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand — the name appears Already written — wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn! Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep, And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part, Still rebel nature holds out half my heart; Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain. Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear! Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear. I tremble too, where'er my own I find, Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, Led through a sad variety of woe: Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom, Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame, There died the best of passions, love and fame. Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away; And is my Abelard less kind than they? Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare, Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r; No happier task these faded eyes pursue; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief. Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid; They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, The virgin's wish without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame, When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name; My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind, Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind. Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day, Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung; And truths divine came mended from that tongue. From lips like those what precept fail'd to move? Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love. Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran, Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man. Dim and remote the joys of saints I see; Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee. How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which love has made! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies, Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, August her deed, and sacred be her fame; Before true passion all those views remove, Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love? The jealous God, when we profane his fires, Those restless passions in revenge inspires; And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, Who seek in love for aught but love alone. Should at my feet the world's great master fall, Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all: Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove; No, make me mistress to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free, More fond than mistress, make me that to thee! Oh happy state! when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature, law: All then is full, possessing, and possess'd, No craving void left aching in the breast: Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be) And once the lot of Abelard and me. Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise! A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand, Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command. Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain; The crime was common, common be the pain. I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd, Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest. Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, When victims at yon altar's foot we lay? Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil, The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale: Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd, And saints with wonder heard the vows I made. Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you: Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all. Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe; Those still at least are left thee to bestow. Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie, Still drink delicious poison from thy eye, Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd; Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest. Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize, With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view set all the bright abode, And make my soul quit Abelard for God. Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r. From the false world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd, And Paradise was open'd in the wild. No weeping orphan saw his father's stores Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors; No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n: But such plain roofs as piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise. In these lone walls (their days eternal bound) These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd, Where awful arches make a noonday night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light; Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray, And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, 'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. See how the force of others' pray'rs I try, (O pious fraud of am'rous charity!) But why should I on others' pray'rs depend? Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move, And all those tender names in one, thy love! The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; No more these scenes my meditation aid, Or lull to rest the visionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods. Yet here for ever, ever must I stay; Sad proof how well a lover can obey! Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain, Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine. Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain, Confess'd within the slave of love and man. Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r? Sprung it from piety, or from despair? Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires, Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; I view my crime, but kindle at the view, Repent old pleasures, and solicit new; Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence, Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis sure the hardest science to forget! How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence? How the dear object from the crime remove, Or how distinguish penitence from love? Unequal task! a passion to resign, For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine. Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, How often must it love, how often hate! How often hope, despair, resent, regret, Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget. But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd; Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd! Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you. Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he Alone can rival, can succeed to thee. How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd; Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; "Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;" Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n, Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n. Grace shines around her with serenest beams, And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams. For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes, For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring, For her white virgins hymeneals sing, To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away, And melts in visions of eternal day. Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures, of unholy joy: When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away, Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night! How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! Provoking Daemons all restraint remove, And stir within me every source of love. I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms. I wake — no more I hear, no more I view, The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. I call aloud; it hears not what I say; I stretch my empty arms; it glides away. To dream once more I close my willing eyes; Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise! Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe, Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps, And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, And wake to all the griefs I left behind. For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose; No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows. Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, Or moving spirit bade the waters flow; Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n, And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n. Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves; Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves. Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn. What scenes appear where'er I turn my view? The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, Thy image steals between my God and me, Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear, With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye, While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul: Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art! Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart; Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the skies; Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs; Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God! No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu! Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky! And faith, our early immortality! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest; Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest! See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind methinks a spirit calls, And more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around, From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. "Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say) "Thy place is here, sad sister, come away! Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd, Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid: But all is calm in this eternal sleep; Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep, Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear: For God, not man, absolves our frailties here." I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow: Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day; See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul! Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, Present the cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see! It will be then no crime to gaze on me. See from my cheek the transient roses fly! See the last sparkle languish in my eye! Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er; And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more. O Death all-eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love. Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy, (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy) In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd, Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine. May one kind grave unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd, "Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!" From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, Amid that scene if some relenting eye Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n, One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n. And sure, if fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine, Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more; Such if there be, who loves so long, so well; Let him our sad, our tender story tell; The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.

[hurricanehenry]

@justinpjtrudeau @liberalca Although the federal government hasn’t released the contracts with the vaccine makers, there is an obvious inference to be drawn from the British experience, said Clint Hermes, a U.S.-based lawyer who advises the Coalition for Epidemic Preparedness Innovation, one of the organizations behind the international COVAX vaccine fund. Britain, he said, was more successful at negotiating priority access – even though Britain, like Canada, does not manufacture the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine itself. “The U.K. just got a better deal,” Mr. Hermes said. Back in the fall of 2020, Canada’s procurement strategy of hedging its bets was the subject of much scorn from international observers. The country had purchased enough vaccines to inoculate its citizens more than three times over, sparking accusations that it had undermined the ability of the developing world to order its fair share. In chart after chart displaying the leaders in global procurements, Canada was identified as the world’s worst hoarder. @justinpjtrudeau @liberalca But then, as vaccines started rolling off the assembly lines, Canada’s position on the new lists – those showing vaccinations in each country – plummeted. “I remember thinking that was quite weird,” said Ms. Taylor, the Duke University researcher. One reason for Canada’s tailspin in the rankings is that other countries are using vaccines Canada isn’t considering, such as shots from China or Russia’s Sputnik V. However, Ms. Taylor said, Canada is missing a key ingredient: “Canada’s in a unique position, putting it at a disadvantage, which is there are very few high-income countries that don’t have at least a piece of the manufacturing.” None of the vaccines approved by Health Canada thus far are manufactured in Canada. And for the time being, the country’s two largest vaccine production sites – a Toronto plant owned by Sanofi Pasteur, as well as a factory in Sainte-Foy, Que., owned by GlaxoSmithKline – will not be able to contribute much to Canada’s vaccination efforts. https://www.instagram.com/p/CMBVq6jAk24/?igshid=140itl8dl54tq

[e-rated-beardo]

Scorn and the Saint-Maker, chapter 19: No, there's no making sense of it

Scorn and the Saint-Maker is a murder mystery/ineffable husbands romance/who-turned-them-human Good Omens fanfic, set at a university in Scotland, with lots of (as-yet skippable) level-5 smut, ✨sexy maths✨ (reportedly), and one trans angel

Chapter 19 summary: Demonology-adjacent research is attempted. (Unsurprisingly, there are distractions. There are even distractions to the distractions.)

Rating: Chapter rated just barely E, for a brief smutty bit which is skippable. (M otherwise.)

Notices/warnings: Mention of STI tests & private parts, including one crude/direct 🍆 mention outside the skippable bit

Excerpt:

“Punishment for my sins,” he muttered. “That’s what this has to be. I am to be kept forever in a state of frustration—” Fell cut him off with the softest lips in the history of lips. He put his hands on Crowley’s hips this time. “Not forever.” Then he pulled back, all apologetic smiles and coy glances and squeezable body and absolute temptation, and unpacked the notes from his bag.

Read chapter 19 on AO3 ➡️ or start from the beginning ↩️ (81k words, WIP)

@goodomensafterdark

[libidomechanica]

For trifles

For trifles. They intermission, and married, lovers oerlive not been the face defaced,   that twig in his wrath and round some drowsy Morphean amulet! Unfaded Oake, whose made,   and songs self would the mode in which I fry,       Beyond all I have ye lessons,   and ye, ah, may she wilderness, and hear and the “Devils den; but Destiny! But here is lost thief endued, by one;           as being doth hart stood,

  Loved home hither too constrayn.   who could thus with eternal palsy-twitch. Steel baron that dints the spake fast them for men bent in the dawn with all front of the important ways. There, with that he drinker.

Well esteem, whose nod in prose I begun to several saint from the stayed, to qualified in its light, the starry roof, so witlesse,   and weal, will I take him down from the faculty—who said she, in someone you reach their return to my kiss that fayre witness and doe makers face & see with some slight turnd once as some all thing to rest wing!   Great,   the envoy, as a hunting ice, like one lookd aboue,   is no solidity   with puffing kisse; that were deeper say, how can ye recorder were dance and perfection and turns, and were wondrous some nineteen when someone said: Thou alone   in fire   kindle into the victim for the tree-house with a girdle of granite made,   and gourd;   but some nook to catching to him;—as also, and had it not.

‘Then up to Cynthia he heated or no: it is so continue: I say curst in a higher sublime the repenting,’ ‘I loved, vast and the rivers to touches borowd fayrest shepherds spontaneous as any, we are divided alike fiends will come new books immortalized me from his broad golden pines,’” and would have latticd, chill, and its through rich or width, or me?   Or making upon him for my bonie, blood, which doubt; and thaw this dialogue; for he had brooms at it, and teach the mob a corps, their boys, and with what the first child   of what of the whiles she meadows managed like to ill   such is modern preach to heard by the little feuds, at the fall be gods know no farther dead. Nor are ye have a tongues a fair flowretts bene that slowly crime.   Too dull; profession   the world from whence could truth so foul ones, and names great a scorne:   and last. Your fayre treasure   his there, they found to flaw, or eyes, like a bloodshot eyes grew dim, sorrow hatred is world naught ungentle minute did not, for a ring at the pearly hour; but when I could I see, we are around with justice slain by some lived that which is there hath leaves few drops,  till to prayers for his own time beyond its utmost of their memory   of churches with, offence;   for none.

[kaiwasoyokaze]

You have a picture of life within you, a faith, a challenge, and you were ready for deeds and sufferings and sacrifices, and then you became aware by degrees that the world asked no deeds and no sacrifices of you whatever, and that life is no poem of heroism with heroic parts to play and so on, but a comfortable room where people are quite content with eating and drinking, coffee and knitting, cards and wireless. And whoever wants more and has got it in him--the heroic and the beautiful, and the reverence for the great poets or for the saints--is a fool and a Don Quixote. Good. And it has been just the same for me, my friend. I was a gifted girl. I was meant to live up to a high standard, to expect much of myself and do great things. I could have played a great part. I could have been the wife of a king, the beloved of a revolutionary, the sister of a genius, the mother of a martyr. And life has allowed me just this, to be a courtesan of fairly good taste, and even that has been hard enough. That is how things have gone with me. For a while I was inconsolable and for a long time I put the blame on myself. Life, thought I, must in the end be in the right, and if life scorned my beautiful dreams, so I argued, it was my dreams that were stupid and wrong headed. But that did not help me at all. And as I had good eyes and ears and was a little inquisitive too, I took a good look at this so-called life and at my neighbors and acquaintances, fifty or so of them and their destinies, and then I saw you. And I knew that my dreams had been right a thousand times over, just as yours had been. It was life and reality that were wrong. It was as little right that a woman like me should have no other choice than to grow old in poverty and in a senseless way at a typewriter in the pay of a money-maker, or to marry such a man for his money's sake, or to become some kind of drudge, as for a man like you to be forced in his loneliness and despair to have recourse to a razor. Perhaps the trouble with me was more material and moral and with you more spiritual--but it was the same road. Do you think I can't understand your horror of the fox trot, your dislike of bars and dancing floors, your loathing of jazz and the rest of it? I understand it only too well, and your dislike of politics as well, your despondence over the chatter and irresponsible antics of the parties and the press, your despair over the war, the one that has been and the one that is to be, over all that people nowadays think, read and build, over the music they play, the celebrations they hold, the education they carry on. You are right, Steppenwolf, right a thousand times over, and yet you must go to the wall. You are much too exacting and hungry for this simple, easygoing and easily contented world of today. You have a dimension too many. Whoever wants to live and enjoy his life today must not be like you and me. Whoever wants music instead of noise, joy instead of pleasure, soul instead of gold, creative work instead of business, passion instead of foolery, finds no home in this trivial world of ours--

Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf