#sintir

[nofatclips]

Endangered Species (Wayne Shorter cover) by Esperanza Spalding (featuring Lalah Hathaway) from the album Radio Music Society - Sand art by Kseniya Simonova

[julieschulerart]

Sintir Player 8" x 10" acrylic on hardboard panel $130

[waxcleaning]

misc ocs (mostly just jack and morgan)

[afinidade082323]

Vivêncie o PRESENTE, com propósito de ter toda importância de servir ao próximo.

Trazendo exemplos de ser quem fez por merecer evoluindo como pessoa.

Agindo no futuro sem afligir-se seguro por ter, consciência de toda atitude por bem-querer do próximo e ser. Todas ações têm reações, bom ou mau fazer estar sintir e escolher.

[eucanthos]

Théobald Chartran  (FR, 1849 - 1907)

La joueuse de mandore (The Mandore Player), 1879 [crop]. Oil on canvas: 169.5 cm (66.7 in) x 103 cm (40.5 in)

Egyptian girl playing a long-necked lute. Although named mandore, it bears no resemblance to that short-necked instrument. It is closer to an Egyptian lute, or possibly a Coptic lute. Also resembles a smaller and higher pitched version of the sintir.

thnx constanzarte

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chartran_-_La_joueuse_de_mandore,_1879.jpg

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mandore_%28instrument%29

[dearcici]

Estou perdida, totalmente perdida. Não sinto que estou viva pois viver é sintir tudo e não há nada aqui dentro para ser sentido.

A única coisa que sei é que devo desculpas para a criança de dez anos que sonhava alto, que imaginava um futuro lindo e calmo, um futuro feliz e sem desavenças.

Desculpe por não estar sendo forte o suficiente, desculpe por deixar as pessoas aquelas pessoas me machucarem, me desculpe por não saber mais quem sou.

Me desculpe por estar desistindo.

Você era doce e eu acabei com você. Você era feliz e eu a destruí.

Me desculpe.

- Cintia R.

[omegaplus]

# 4,414

Mahmoud Guinia: self-titled debut (1989)

Reading the Arabic on any given vinyl, disc, or cassette cover means it's serious business. It was only two years ago when Omega WUSB had a great concept and decided to compile its first-ever African sounds expo; a result of being fanatics of Brian Shimkowitz' Awesome Tapes From Africa label. Obvious artists such as Hailu Mergia, Fela Kuti, Oum Kassoum, and William Onyeabor along with the African Scream Contest records and Mogadisco: Dancing Mogadishu comprised a substantial deal of that broadcast. Then you have artists like Essaouiran gnawa musician Mahmoud Guinia, master of the sintir / guembri: a three-string log guitar partially covered in animal skin. His deep bass-like strings and tribal backing band brought literal straight-up Moroccan heat with his debut. I agree with Shimkowitz on this one: it's a great stoner record. I envisioned that notion with catchy rhythms, tempo changes, and other instrumental elements producing baking-hot sounds all throughout Guinia's shouts that could jump out of nowhere at any time. Of the cassette's four tracks, "سَاسْتْ دِيمَانْيُو " was the one we went with and stood out as one of the more memorable ones that stayed with us. The end result? The African finds we ended up with gave us some distinct feels we will never forget.

[doedipus]

jazz

hey it could happen!

credits under break

from the bandcamp page:

Musicians: Brahim Fribgane: oud, vocal, bendir, karakab, cajon, frame drum, dumbek; Mike Rivard: acoustic bass, sintir, electric bass, tamboura (7), chorus vocal (9); Dean Johnston: drums, chorus vocal (9); Duke Levine: guitar (1-4, electric mandocello & 6 string bass (3); Kevin Barry: lap steel (1-4); Paul Schultheis: Rhodes, Wurli, organ, Moog, clavinet, ARP Omni (1-4); John Medeski: Rhodes, Wurli, organ, Mellotron, clavinet (5-10), chorus vocal (9); David Fiuczynski: fretted and fretless guitars (5-10); Mister Rourke: turntables (2, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10); Amit Kavthekar: tabla (6, 8); Andrew Fogliano: tenor sax (1, 8), bari sax, flute (8); Phil Grenadier: trumpet (1, 6, 8); Thorleifur Gaukur Davidsson: harmonica (3).

Produced and arranged by Mike Rivard.

Recorded by Chris Rival at Middleville Studio. Horn overdubs by Will Holland at Chillhouse. Horn arrangements (1, 8) by Andrew Fogliano. Additional recording by Jeff Misner at The Chop Shop, Trausti Laufdal at TLA Studios, and Duke Levine. Mixed by Danny Blume at Hidden Quarry Studio. Edited by Evren Celimli. Mastered by Alan Silverman at Arf Mastering. Face Pelt Records FP 2201

[worldwright]

Isoris Day 3: Skysail Bluffs

Zone C4:

The majority of the center of Isoris is consumed by the Skysail Bluffs. At about 40-50º south, these vast plains are temperate in the north and bitingly cold in the south, where they begin to transition to tundra and permafrost.

The plains are defined by their namesake -- the repetitive series of triangular bluffs that sweep all across the region. These formations are gently sloping and covered with grasses and scrub brush on the east sides, with sheer rocky cliffs of up to 500 feet on the west side.

Small groves of trees often cluster at the bases of the cliffs, as shelter from the plains' other defining trait: the powerful and pervasive wind.

Year round for as long as anyone can remember, a strong and steady wind has blown east to west across the center of the continent. This has not only greatly shaped the ecosystems of the continent, but also the patterns of the people who inhabit the land.

For many hundreds of years, the plains have been used as an express trade route in one direction only. This requires several particular lucky convergences:

First: the ports. Eastport and its sister city of Westport are the endpoints of a very profitable voyage. Traders set out from the high cliffside docks of Eastport, arrive and sell their goods in Westport, and then begin the long trek back via the seas to begin the cycle all over again.

Second: the goods. Sintire Fen, to the east of Eastport, is one of Sairus's most delicate ecosystems, with hundreds of species that can survive nowhere else. The marshy plains are also thoroughly steeped in magic. Every magical herb grown in its water is ten times as powerful -- and twenty times as valuable.

Lastly and most importantly: the sailships. These tiny, light, and fast ships are equipped with enchantments that allow them to skim about 20 feet above the ground while using the powerful wind of the plains as propulsion. After they push off from the top of the massive cliff of Eastport, they glide down toward the bluffs. Then, approaching the ground, they pull up and glide, riding up the gently sloped sides of the bluffs and gliding down over the sheer cliffs. Their holds are small, but the value of their cargo makes the voyage worthwhile. Oftentimes families will travel in caravans of a dozen or so sailships, circumnavigating the continent in an endless loop.

Our section of map today shows the final stretch of plains before the end destination of Westport. Once the sailships make port and make profit, they fold up their wings and get tucked into the hold of a large oceangoing ship, with their pilots joining the ship's crew for the voyage.

They sail north through the fingers, east around Dragonfly Point, and south to Serpent Bay, taking on and unloading cargo all the way. At that point the small sailships leave the dark cargo hold and once more spread their wings -- but this time they must be pulled along behind their pilots on the six-week land journey back to Eastport -- where the half-year-long cycle begins all over again.

Obviously not just anyone is cut out for this sort of lifestyle. Bards may boast that they ran a cycle with the bluff sailors, but most of them likely ditched their "hosts" a month and a half in. Those that have the flexibility, determination, and wits to make it as bluff sailors are highly respected in most of the places they make port.

The lifestyle is also attractive to people who are fond of solitude, or those that feel unwelcome in cities. One of the most famous pods of bluff sailors are the descendants of retired adventurers who got the stink eye from one too many governments and decided to go out and make it on their own. They developed into a close-knit family unit that could take on anyone that got in their way. Not that anyone did.

[heavymetalseries]

A Rhapsody of Rapiers | Chapter 1

1597, Algiers, Algeria

The spray of the Mediterranean left salt on Elyes’ skin. Birds circled overhead, their loud squawks nearly drowning out the music, signalling the approach of large quantities of fish to each other. Fore-and-aft rig vessels moved in and out of the port. Elyes watched them from the corners of his eyes, searching for one ship in particular. 

Though his attention was split, his hands didn’t falter as he plucked the goat gut strings downward with the knuckle of his index and his thumb. The vibrations echoed through the sintir’s hollowed-out wood body, giving it a percussive sort of sound that complemented the rhythm of Laila’s darbuka drum and the melody of Aissa’s bowed rebab. Laila’s voice carried over the conversations as she sang in a clear, half-desperate wail from behind the loose fabric keeping the sand out of her mouth. The light colour made her sun-darkened skin seem even darker by comparison. 

People moved all around them, carrying about their days. Merchants unloaded goods from their ships and carried them to the shops. A group of women buying fruits from vendors laughed loudly at the conversation. A bedouin couple stopped walking to watch a ship go by. A tall man in a white wool gandoura cloak held a sleeping child in each arm. Two young boys ran through the crowded street, stopping every so often to turn and lash out at each other with sticks.

“Surrender your ship! I’m a corsair!” one of the boys shouted.

“Never!”

The second boy parried the first boy’s stick and turned to run at full speed. His foot caught a loose plank of wood. The stick flew from his hand, and a loud yelp escaped his mouth.

Elyes moved without thinking. He lurched to his feet and took a step forward, sweping down to catch the boy around his waist before he face-planted onto the dock.

“Careful, there,” he said.

The boy looked up at him with a sheepish smile. He picked his stick from the ground, and immediately turned to once again face his nemesis.

“I’m the corsair now!”

The first boy laughed and took off running in the other direction, his friend fast on his heels.

“Are we done with interruptions?” Laila asked, bright and teasing.

Elyes gave a small, sheepish laugh. He didn’t look at her, though. His eyes were on the sails. None of them were the one he was looking for.

He tried not to think too hard about it. There were plenty of reasons for the ship he was waiting for to be missing; bad weather, delayed trade. It could have been any number of things that had nothing to do with the war going on between England and Spain. There was nothing to be nervous about.

Aissa put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. Both he and Laila wore similar concerned expressions.

“It’s too early to worry. He’ll be here soon,” Aissa said.

Elyes quirked his lips up into a small, lop-sided smile. It was funny for Aissa to say that as though he didn’t start worrying for their older brother the moment his ship set out the same way Elyes did.

“Who says I’m worried?” Elyes asked.

Laila snorted and rolled her eyes. Though her mouth was hidden, Elyes could picture the way her lips would twist like a sideways letter ya, only without the dots on the bottom. Despite being the older of the two, he was half-tempted to stick his tongue out at her. After a moment, he gave in to the urge.

“Children, play nice,” Aissa said.

Elyes didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to the ship pulling up to one of the docks.

Ishaq’s ship was two weeks late.

It wasn’t unheard of. Two weeks wasn’t much of a difference in the grand scheme of things. But it was still two weeks. If something had happened to him, how long would it be before they found out? Would they ever find out? Or would the Ibn al-Haytham be another one of many ships that left and never returned?

Without saying anything, Laila adjusted the position of her darbuka across her lap. the leather strap slung over her shoulder to hold it in place. It never seemed to matter to Laila whether she was sitting or standing. No position stopped her from the rapid rolls the instrument was known for. The only hindrance to her playing seemed to be singing at the same time. 

She tapped her hands against the skin stretched tight around a wood rim. Her fingers danced from the centre to the outer edges of the drumhead, and her head nodded in time with the beat.

Down, up, up. Down, up, up. Down, up, up.

Elyes and Aissa let her play for a good thirty seconds or so before Aissa drew his bow along the strings of his rebab. A long, wood spike pressed to the ground kept it from moving as he played.

A small, genuine smile graced Elyes lips. He knew this song. It was an easy thing to pluck the strings of his sintir in time with his siblings. Despite the complex rhythms of Laila’s drumming, the song itself was a slow one.

This time, Aissa was the one who sang.

[["Haramtou bik nou’assi ya amirat al rayam.

Haramtou bik nou’assi ya amirat al rayam.”

“I have lost my sleep for you, oh Princess of the Gazelles.

I have lost my sleep for you, oh Princess of the Gazelles.”

The bedouin woman grabbed her partner’s hand and pulled him toward them. Even with her face covered similarly to Laila’s, the brightness in her eyes was impossible to miss. 

[[“Wa bouhtou bika nassi wa sirtou lik ghoulam.

Wa bouhtou bika nassi wa sirtou lik ghoulam.”

“I confessed my love for you to my people and became your servant. 

I confessed my love for you to my people and became your servant.“

Aissa sang with his whole heart, the way their father used to. Though the folksong was about longing for a woman, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that the ache in his voice was a longing for anything else.

[[“Wa sala dam'i kassi ‘eschtou bila ta’am.

Wa sala dam'i kassi ‘eschtou bila ta’am.

Al wahsh jar ‘alaya w-ab’ad ‘anni-l mazar.

Al wahsh jar ‘alaya w-ab’ad ‘anni-l mazar.

Ya rabbi toub ‘alaya e-‘eba’d ‘anni-l ghayam.

Ya rabbi toub ‘alaya e-‘eba’d ‘anni-l ghayam.”

“And my tears have filled my cup, and my body lives without food.

And my tears have filled my cup, and my body lives without food.

The monster came to me and stopped me from seeing you.

The monster came to me and stopped me from seeing you.

God grant me forgiveness, and turn me from the darkness.

God grant me forgiveness, and turn me from the darkness.”

The song, as much as Elyes loved it, was one he never liked to play. It always made his heart ache with a heavy homesickness. It reminded him too much of the life they had left behind.

Elyes had been young when his parents died. He didn’t remember them much. Sometimes, when he focused hard, he could remember details like the way his mother braided her hair or the way his father’s nose would always wrinkle when he sneezed. Sometimes, he wondered if he wasn’t making those details up to fill in the gaps, and make up for the spaces he couldn’t remember. If he’d known how much he would have to rely on his memory to know them now, he would have done better to catalogue all the little things he’d never cared about when he was only a child.

The one thing he did remember was the way they sang.

He remembered the way his mother would smile up at his father, who had seemed impossibly tall at the time, especially by comparison, when she sang her reply to him.

Laila sang it now. The rhythm of the darbuka simplified to an easy pattern. Her voice was much higher than Aissa’s, of course, but no less soulful.

[[“Hin tassfar-l ‘eshiya natwahash-l ghzal.

Ya rabbi toub ‘alaya e-‘eba’d ‘anni-l ghayam.”

“As the sky turns to night, I yearn for my beautiful lover.

God grant me forgiveness, and turn me from the darkness.”

Aissa’s fingers moved over the neck of the rebab. Somehow, the instrument’s high-pitched wail matched the pain in their voices as it took over singing the melody. 

It was a funny thing, the way instruments seemed to talk more than people did. People would never say what they felt the way they did when they played. Watching them was like looking into a tiny, open window usually locked tight.

Elyes wondered what people saw when he played.

The bedouin woman clasped her hands over her heart. Her eyes welled with tears. The man beside her had one hand over his mouth. They both swayed slightly with the music.

He had heard stories from Ishaq about women further up the Mediterranean who’s voices were so beautiful, men would throw themselves overboard to be with them. While he wasn’t entirely sure he believed the stories — sailors were prone to exaggeration — he couldn’t deny that music did something otherwordly to the soul.

Aissa opened his mouth to pick up the next line, but another, much deeper voice cut in instead.

[[“Naawahech-l habayab khowfi mina-l raqeeb.

Naawahech-l habayab, khowfi mina-l raqeeb.”

“I long for my loved ones, yet I fear the guards.

I long for my loved ones, yet I fear the guards.”

Elyes whirled around. It had been many months since he had heard that voice, but it would never take more than that first line for Elyes to recognize it.

Ishaq looked much like he did when he’d left seven months ago. The days in the sun had deeped the colour of his skin, heavy shadows hung under his eyes, and his hair was much longer than it had been, but those were superficial changes. The light in his dark eyes was unmistakable.

It was all Elyes could do to keep playing instead of throwing his arms around his brother the way he wanted to. 

For all intent and purpose, Ishaq had raised the three of them after their parents died. To call it a challenge would have been an understatement. Elyes liked too think he had been a fairly easy child, but Aissa and Laila hadn’t appreciated being told what to do by somebody only a few years older than them. They especially hadn’t appreciated spending so much time moving around. It was the nature of being a merchant. Ishaq could only sell fabrics to people who wanted them. Even though they travelled from one place to another, they always ended up back in their home port city of Algiers. Elyes had never considered any other place home. They stood out, their half-Moroccoan blood making them darker than some Algerians, but they had their places here.

At least, until they were old enough for Ishaq to return to the sea, operating trade ships out of Algiers.

Elyes had never minded the travelling. Why would he mind seeing new places, and learning new languages? He’d occupied himself by marking out the places they ended up in, studying every map he could get his hands on, listening to and learning the way people spoke. He loved it. It was staying back on the shores that got to him.

The music stopped abruptly as all three siblings realized who it was who had interrupted them. Laila jumped to her feet, fumbling with the strap holding her darbuka. Aissa, unencumbered by such a large instrument, let his rebab fall onto the blanket. 

Ishaq laughed gently and caught Aissa in a tight hug. They were the closest in age, their relationship most resembling brothers rather than parent and child.

Elyes set his own instrument down and stood, approaching when Ishaq motioned with one ring-covered hand. Silver cylinders and triangles were raised on the thic bands. Even at full height with his spine completely straight, Elyes was significantly shorter than them, though he was only slightly shorter than his sister. He wrapped an arm around Ishaq’s back to hug him from the side. When he was much younger, he and Laila would hang from Ishaq’s biceps. They were far too big for it now.

Finally winning her fight with the strap, Laila dropped the darbuka and joined the hug.

“All right, all right. You’re all going to smother me at this rate,” Ishaq said.

He ruffled Aissa’s hair and kissed Laila’s forehead. The young child who still lived in Elyes’ heart nearly asked if Ishaq had brought them anything from his trip.

As though reading his mind, Ishaq picked the bag he’d dropped rummaged through it. No matter how old they were, he never failed to bring them a souvenir. A dagger with an ornate handle for Aissa, a silver brooch with blue and opal stones for Laila, and a small wood box for Elyes.

The box was about the size of Elyes’ palm, and made of a wood he didn’t immediately recognize. It was soft and worn against the rough callouses of his fingers. Latin lettering was painted in faded black across the top. He mouthed the shapes of the letters, silently spelling out what appeared to be the names of cities. There were some names that he recognized: London, Paris, Athina. He lifted the lid, and pulled the thin strip of cord to keep it open.

“It’s a sundial and a compass,” Ishaq said.

Elyes knew what it was, though he had never seen one exactly like it. It would certainly be more convenient than trying to guess the time by watching his own shadow. According to strip of darkness, it was somewhere approaching two in the afternoon.

“I love it,” Elyes said.

Ishaq’s smile was small and tired, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. It would have been easy to dismiss it as exhaustion from the long travels, but it was something more than just that. He was distracted in a way that meant there was something weighing on his mind.

Elyes wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“What’s the matter? Did something happen?” Laila asked.

She had pinned the brooch to the left side of her chest, holding the thin veil-like fabric in place over her heart. The stones shone brightly in the sunlight.

“It’s nothing you have to worry yourself about,” Ishaq said.

“We aren’t children anymore, you know,” Elyes said.

Though, the look Ishaq gave him certainly made him feel like he was still a child. At 28 years old, he was far from a child. Aissa and Laila were even older than he was. They could all take care of themselves. In fact, they did all take care of themselves. Both middle siblings were even married with children. And yet, Ishaq never seemed to stop seeing them as the children he’d been left responsible to raise.

The bedouin couple was long gone, having moved on once the music was interrupted.

Ishaq sighed and rubbed his beard. He glanced back over his shoulder for a moment, long enough that he might have been looking for somebody.

There was a scar that hadn’t been there before, running down behind his jaw. 

The slight trace of relief on his face when he looked back toward them disappeared as his eyes caught something in the distance. A cross between panic and annoyance flashed across his face, before he schooled his expression into something more polite.

Elyes turned his head, searching for who or whatever it was that made Ishaq’s posture stiffen. He recognized one of the men approaching, an Ottoman sailor with a large, white beard dressed in bright reds and oranges. A white turban was wrapped around his head, and a sword hanging from his waist. 

Bey Yazid bin Dana Halil had been in command of the Ibn al-Haytham for as long as Ishaq had been a member of its crew. Surely he wasn’t the one who had Ishaq clenching and unclenching his fist.

It must have been the man beside him.

Compared to their family, most people were pale, but the man beside Bey Yazid was the palest person Elyes had ever seen. He might as well have been the complexion of salt. His dark hair was curled short under a black, feathered hat. His dark clothes must have been unbearably hot and stiff under the sun, and the white collar around his neck certainly couldn’t have helped. It was no wonder he looked so unpleasant.

“There you are, Ishaq!” Bey Yazid said.

He threw his arms out, and the white man nearly managed to avoid being hit in the face.

“Bey Yazid, you remember my family,” Ishaq said.

“Of course, of course! Look at you, Aissa. You’re the spitting image of your older brother here. And little Laila! You get lovelier every time I see you.”

“At least there’s something in this place worth looking at,” the white man said in English with a sniff.

Elyes raised an eyebrow. 

Bey Yazid let out a forced, half-hearted laugh that implied he didn’t quite understand what the man to his left had said, but Elyes understood.

Maps weren’t the only thing he had picked up during their travels. He’d always had a childish hope that one day, he would get the chance to accompany Ishaq on one of his trade expeditions. The more time went on, the more times Ishaq said next time, the less Elyes expected there would ever actually be a next time. 

Of course, there wasn’t much stopping him from just going on his own if he wanted to, but that was beside the point.

Still, he never stopped learning as much as he could. One could never tell when it would come in handy. A few dialects of Arabic, of course, Amazigh, some Spanish and French.

And English.

Bey Yazid motioned to him.

“And this is the cartographer I was telling you about. Elyes Joauhari,” he said.

The white man’s eyes flickered down to Elyes.

“Charming. I pictured him taller.”

“Most people do,” Elyes said dryly.

The man’s expression faltered. It was clear from his eyes he hadn’t expected Elyes to understand him, let alone respond in the same language.  The man gave a smile that was just as forced as Bey Yazid’s laugh.

“Well, hopefully you’ll last a little longer than the last one,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

He must have misunderstood. Longer than the last one? What was that supposed to mean.

“Not that I understand why a privateer ship needs another cartographer in the first place. Or— You call yourselves corsairs, don’t you? Either way. They already have another one, but the good captain insists. How are you with a sword? Tell me you’re a better fighter than you look. Otherwise, we’d be better off with a trained monkey.”

Bey Yazid still had that half-confused smile on his face. Laila and Aissa looked fully confused, and Ishaq looked like he was trying to chew his own lip off.

Elyes picked his words carefully, painstakingly translating each word to make sure it was the one he wanted. English grammar was so different from what he was used to.

“I know how to fight with a sword,” Elyes said.

He wasn’t particularly good at it, but he could hold his own against Aissa for a good ten or fifteen minutes when they played with them.

“I hope you’re a better swordsman than you are a liar.”

“Who, exactly, are you?” Elyes asked.

“Ah, right. Of course. This place has me forgetting my manners. I am Captain Shelby Westmont of Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth the 1st’s Royal Navy.”

It was a lot of words that meant almost nothing to Elyes. Still, he gave a polite nod.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain Westmont.”

It wasn’t. Captain Westmont was an ass.

Captain Westmont sniffed again.

“Likewise… Mister Jaouhari. We’ll have you out on the next expedition.” Captain Westmont waved a hand and turned to Bey Yazid to address him in an Arabic that felt as clumsy as Elyes’ English. “Now, Bey Yazid, tell me there’s somewhere around here where a man can get something decent to eat.”

Bey Yazid nodded, though he looked like he had no idea what the conversation had entailed. He pat Aissa’s shoulder, and turned toward Captain Westmont with one hand outstretched.

Elyes watched them disappear into the crowd. He bent at the waist to pick up his forgotten sintir as if it could shield him. He almost wished he had the luxury of having no idea what Captain Westmont had said the way Bey Yazid did. 

His wish to travel was finally coming through, but there was one word that kept creeping up to the front of his mind.

All these years, had Ishaq been lying to them?

Ishaq was supposed to be a merchant, not a—

“What was that all about?” Laila asked.

“It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry about it, it was just— talk,” Ishaq said.

It wasn’t just talk.

How long had Ishaq been a corsair? All those new scars he came back with, one story or another to explain it… Had they come from more than just tavern brawls and crew fights like he’d claimed?

Their eyes met, and Elyes decided he didn’t want the answer.

It didn’t matter.

He was finally getting what he’d wanted. Whether it was what he really wanted or not.

Keep Reading

[julieschulerart]

Sintir Player. Instant Printable Art https://www.etsy.com/listing/1230023898

[waxcleaning]

i don’t do things like ‘have favourites’

[erospendragon]

DEMONESS LÍDIA TÉLARI

⚜️

THE THREE PRINCESSES

REVEALED THAT

THE NUMBER OF

THE BEAST

REPRESENTS

NOT AS AN ALLY

BUT AS AN ENEMY

THE LIE

ONE OF THE

THREE PRINCESSES

BEING THE LIE ITSELF

THAT HAD BEEN TOLD

AND THAT WAS

THE REASON FOR

MAN'S FALL

BEFORE GOD

AND THE REASON

OF HIS EXPULSION

FROM PARADISE

⚜️

ÉRESTER TENER TERSK

VERSTARS THEOSTÓR TARNS

OCH LERS TÉMATES SOHÓROS

AK TARK DESTAHERIS FENTER

SÉNETIS DESTO ONTOSKÓI

DESNOITÉS TARNES TAURUS

DERIGI FERNA SUBTIS

ERSKI TARNES KERS TERK

NOBELE GÓRTENOS

DES TARNS DELEGUE

TIRIS ERNASTES KETOI ORLITIS

TIRNA VERTANSTI LERK

OYSTÉS ERVAK PER NATET

YULGARI SINTIRS TIRNIS

PER TE VINTIS

LERK AKTA PAVENDI

NERT OKTA LORST ARSUNA

LIAS STACA PERFACTA VERES

TAS STOCHI DENSA SCRIVITTI

DELLA BRACCIO

DANSENA LACERATA TRAVIDIRKI

ENTORNA DE ÍDICI TÓI

CONTENTE DE VARTÉS RAÇOLI

UNA VERSE QUELTI VERTA SINA

VECTOR LICTA LINA Y ESTAMA

VERSKA FIRMA DETERMÁNIA

COSÁRIA DIRTES NÓTIGA LETES

ERTE DICE CÓRTILE FERTÓI

FERI CATSA CUNA

VERTERI LASKTA SUMA

SED TÓIT SED TUNA

⚜️

⚜️

"Now promisse us that you will never fight for world peace ever again."

"But, sis, what if I forget and do it by accident?"

"Ooownn. Ok. Listen.

Everything about you has to do with the Goddess.

Girls are possessive about you.

They dont want you to fight but for their love.

So fight for they causes and stay with them. Make them understand that they will never have to share you with men."

"Ok."

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"Quer que eu pule de novo?"

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"Eis aí a resposta à qual procuras, kid brother."

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Rafael F=O

Raoael

Leao Ra

Leão Sol

Lion Son

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[lutes-of-the-world]

This is a very old game. One can see instruments like this - minus the electronics - in ancient Egyptian and Mesopotamian art:

Ancient Egyptian tomb painting depicting players with long-necked, fretted lutes, 18th Dynasty (c. 1350 BC).

Note the frets.

Musician tuning her lute, stretching the string with one hand and holding it in place with the other. Tomb of Rekhmire, 18th Dynasty.

Elamite (W/SW Iranian) long-necked lute, late 14th century BC to early 12th century BC. There were no pegs to hold strings. Strings were wrapped with cords at the end of the neck. Each tassel indicates a string that is secured.

They had small resonant bodies with probably skin heads, like banjos.

Similar instruments are still played in Africa, like the akonting (ancestor of the American banjo) and sintir. Long-necked lutes with wooden soundboards are still played too, like the Greek bouzouki and Turkish saz.

Moroccan sintir

Possibly the first string instruments were hunting bows with resonant hollow gourds attached. Such an instrument is still played to accompany Afro-Brazilian capoeira martial arts dance.

It's a pitched percussion instrument, struck with a stick.

Chug on, keep the tradition alive.

my jaw hit the floor

[sweet-intentiooons]

Estaciones

Durante el verano recostadas en la arena, en otoño ver cómo las hojas vuelan, en invierno junto al fuego de la chimenea, si no te gusta, te juro que valdrá la pena esperar conmigo a la primavera. Todo lo que quieras, con tal de sintir tu toque delicado, pero no me dejes ver pasar cada estación con otro a tu lado.

-beginnertalker

[minhasneuroses]

Sentimentos adversos

Nos últimos dias tenho sentido muitas coisas e ao mesmo tempo nada. É estranha essa sensação e a falta de coragem de me expressar, seja falando ou até mesmo escrevendo e olha que eu amo escrever. Entrei num relacionamento sério em julho e o que parecia ser "lindo e sem complicações" começou a parecer complicado demais, pelo menos na minha cabeça e percepção. Talvez eu tenha me acostumado a ser sozinha. Talvez seja só o medo de dar certo e eu esteja criando coisas que não existem na minha mente ou que realmente existem e eu simplesmente não quero aceitá-las. É díficil depois de tanto tempo sozinha, lidando com toda a carga emocional que eu tenho aqui dentro, trabalhando a "minha criança interior" e sempre procurando ser a minha melhor versão de mim mesma para mim e acabar refletindo dentro das minhas relações em geral: amizades, familiares e claro a amorosa, afinal eu quero ter um relacionamento saudável que me agregue e vice-versa. Porém, ando cansada de repetir sempre as mesmas coisas e acabo ficando calada para evitar conflitos, afinal fomos ensinadas a não enfrentá-los e sim evitá-los durante toda a vida. Sei que conversas difíceis edificam e fortificam as relações, entretanto são quase 4 meses pontuando as mesmas coisas e as promessas de melhoria parecem tão vazias, afinal não vi nenhuma. Eu gosto de atenção, eu gosto de ser ouvida e principalmente ter a certeza de que essa escuta foi realmente ativa e a pessoa fazer questão de demonstrar isso e nos últimos dias não tenho sentido isso. Sinto um descaso e desinteresse. A vontade de conversar e ter mais proximidade estão cada vez menores do lado de cá ao passo que me sinto cada vez mais objetificada nessa relação. Não que eu não goste de sexo, eu amo inclusive, porém tudo são trocas e doações e enquanto entrego o que se "pede" não tenho a minha "recompensa" (vamos assim dizer, pois não estou encontrando a palavra certa para isto no momento). Ainda sobre esse tópico, tivemos uma conversa que me fez questionar se realmente vale a pena seguir, afinal todos os outros pontos que seriam facilmente sanados se o outro tomasse realmente atitudes as quais diz que faria e não estão acontecendo esse ponto é um pouco chave para mim, pois eu não vou entregar o "esperado" do outro nunca nessa vida. Sou mais do olho no olho, do sem pressa, da troca entrelaçando os dedos, tocando, sentindo, beijando, lambendo, explorando de forma mais suave do que "selvagem", muito embora também curta um pouco, principalmente quando estou por cima, mas há tanta reclamação também disso que sinceramente zero vontade de performar. Tenho me sentido esgotada, como segundo plano e por falar em planos até sem vontade de fazer os planos futuros que tanto desejei e visualizei muito embora ainda tenha aqui dentro essa gana... por isso "sentimentos adversos". Talvez seja só uma crise interna minha mesmo ou não, só sei que foi e é difícil por isso para fora mesmo que só para mim, mesmo que talvez nunca nem mostre isso a ninguém...e só sei que de longe ou de perto de certa forma foi e está sendo o melhor relacionamento no sentido de conseguir me expressar e tentar de alguma forma resolver as coisas, muito embora, neste instante eu esteja sendo adversa, afinal soltei uma caralhada de coisas "negativas", porém é só reflexo do que estou sentindo nessa semana. Espero poder voltar aqui com outro olhar, mas sobre tudo posso dizer que o crescimento, amadurecimento vem ocorrendo do lado de cá e movimentos estão sendo feitos mesmo que com passos de formiga e sem vontade. 1% todos os dias não é mesmo?! Que eu possa me abraçar e me acolher todas às vezes em que me sintir assim e saíba me dar o colo que eu ofereço aos outros e a compreensão que também ofertada se extenda a mim primeiro.

D.