#so it has been an exhaustingly exciting day for me in particular

[electrozeistyking]

so has anyone talking about this yet, or... cuz it was in that latest news video on the amazing digital circus. and uh... i took a screenshot of it.

[theshy1sout]

Inseparable - Chapter 1

7th February! What a lovely day to start brand-new trolls Au!

As I promiced, this is part 3 of 300-special This one is again for @starlight-jamy who asked for broppy oneshot. I’m sorry, it’s not a oneshot. It’s the whole frickin fanfiction. It’s also kinda my gitf for you, my followers, cause today is my birthday! I Always wanted to give people things at my birthday, just like hobbits.

Today I post first two chapters. And then I will post a chaper every Sunday. (today is Sunday, right?). Short chapters. Usually 2k words, sometimes more.

Ship: Broppy

Rated: Nope.

Au: Trolls Mythology Au

Type: Slow Burn Fluff :3

Ao3 

Summary:  - There's the guardian of the Night, but no one takes care of the Day - Peppy, the God of Friendship and Harmony, King of the Gods, looks around the big hall to get everyone's attention. Gods listen to him as always, carefully and with huge respect they have to their master. He catches even Branch's attention this time. - I summoned you to discuss this very important topic. - King Peppy raises his hand and turns to the beautiful pink lady in the bright blue dress. - My daughter becomes a full goddess today. And it would be an honor if you all agree that she is a good person to take care of the Day, which means holding the Staff and looking after the whole living world under its Light.

________________________________________________________________

Far, far ago, when the gods walked through the Earth and love didn't exist yet, trolls were like other creatures in the world. They didn't have the awareness, free will, or feelings deeper than the animals have. The only difference between them and critters was some kind of civilization. They worked, played, and bred during the day and rested during the night. They built villages and formed families and communities. But all the things they made were the result of the intervention of gods [divine intervention], who wanted the best for their creatures. Immortals taught trolls all about working, having fun, building villages, and playing music, but trolls couldn't create things on their own. And no one saw anything wrong with that, because nobody knew it could be different.

Day passed by day and nothing has changed. Whenever it's time to rest, Branch, the god of the Night, walks on the highest hill and grabs the Staff Of The Light, making the gold shining Sphere on it glow much less bright than during the Day. In Branch's hand, a magic source of light that trolls call "the sun" beams slightly bright blue. The whole world meets the darkness and the silence; every creature on the Earth can do nothing but sleep and rest. When the day is supposed to be started, the God of the Night walks on the highest hill again to dig the Staff Of The Light on the top, and freeing it from his cold hands puts brightness on the whole world.

- There's the guardian of the Night, but no one takes care of the Day - Peppy, the God of Friendship and Harmony, King of the Gods, looks around the big hall to get everyone's attention. Gods listen to him as always, carefully and with huge respect they have to their master. He catches even Branch's attention this time. - I summoned you to discuss this very important topic. - King Peppy raises his hand and turns to the beautiful pink lady in the bright blue dress. - My daughter becomes a full goddess today. And it would be an honor if you all agree that she is a good person to take care of the Day, which means holding the Staff and looking after the whole living world under its Light.

Everyone's eyes lay on the young pink-haired woman, who stepped shyly onto the middle of the Hall of Parley. She takes a deep breath and smiles, mostly to reassure herself. But when she notices friendly smiles appearing on more and more gods' faces, she feels kind of proud and excited.

-My King, I think there's nothing to discuss - Holly, goddess of Hospitality, points out. - If there's someone who fits perfectly for this job, it is Poppy for sure!

- Hell yea! - Barb, Queen of the Underworld, yells. She always finds a reason to yell.

- I'm not that sure - Delta Dawn, the goddess of Justice, adds. - Isn't that too much for someone that young?

- Poppy, tell us - Quincy, the god of Wisdom, turns to the pink little lady in the center. - How would you feel about that responsibility? Isn't that too overwhelming for you?

- It is, I guess... - Poppy starts, looking down. - But I have been watching trolls and other creatures since I was a child and... I really attach to them. I enjoy making them happy more than anything else in the world and if you give me your trust, then I'll do everything to protect them and give them all I can.

She ends with full confidence and when she looks up again, she sees all the gods smiling at her, nodding. Cooper, the god of Fun, starts applauding with joy and everyone slowly stands up and joins in. Besides one person... But Poppy quickly forgets that, cause the low tone of her dad's voice catches her attention.

- So that's it! - King announces, also standing up. - I have my honor to introduce our new Immortal: Poppy, the goddess of the Day and the Light!

Gods and goddesses start yelling and cheering. Poppy doesn't even notice when she ends up surrounded by them. They all grin and laugh, wishing her the best and congratulating her over and over. She's never got so much attention, it's even a bit overwhelming. But in this crowd of Immortals, one wish sounds a bit different than the other.

- I appreciate you. Good Teamwork!

Poppy turns to the dull face of Barb. Queen of the Underworld doesn't look like she's joking.

- Teamwork! - Pink girl tries to play amused. - With whom?

- Don't ya know! - Barb laughs at her and throws her hand at the corner of the hall. - Him.

Poppy lifts her head to look above her arm. Far from talks and laughs, there's the guy with a grey hoodie on his head, all covered by a long, dark capote. His face isn't visible, but for some reason, Poppy is sure that he isn't looking at any particular thing. He is just here, sitting very still on his god's seat. As if his presence here was enough to call him a part of the event.

- Branch. The god of The Night - Barb accents the word 'god'. - The guardian of the Darkness and the Silence. And the most important for ya: the one holding The Staff of the Light. - Goddess shows her teeth in a kinda creepy way. - Just like you.

- He's um... - Poppy now has so many questions, that she doesn't know from which she should start.

- You'll get to know him - The pink-haired girl feels a hard hit on her back. - Don't worry, I'm just playing with ya! It's just holding some dum' stick! You give it to him in the evening and then he gives it to you back in the morning. Easy!

- But why is he...

- Nobody knows, he's just different! - Poppy is interrupted once again by the energetic Underworld's Queen. - To be honest, I don't even know how he looks like.

- He's never shown his face?!

- No... I just don't remember. But that's enough about this grump, let's talk about a much funnier thing on the Earth! Or should I say: Under the Earth!

Poppy already feels a bit overwhelmed by the goddess energy. All she really wants right now is to talk with her father and start her job. But she thinks, if she was waiting for it whole years, then she can hold a few minutes more. Right?

- What do you mean? - She asks, not even hiding her tiring.

- Girl, you'll see, nights will be so boring for ya there - Barb starts a bit less loudly and less throwing-her-arms-and-legs-everywhere-ly. - Underworld is always welcoming ya. There's a wild, loud party nonstop!

- What's a party?

- You'll see - Barb smirks at her and finally starts moving away from her. - The total opposite of boredom.

- Ok, thanks - Poppy waves at her, trying to smile as wide as she can. - See ya later! ...I guess...

After way too many wishes, pieces of advice, and cheers, after another long talk with her father, after a million little things she has to go through, Poppy finally steps on the hill and faces the Staff of the Light. Don't get her wrong, normally she really enjoys hanging out with others. Well, she was mostly spending time with King Peppy or trolls on the Earth until now. She feels like she should have taken this opportunity of talking with every single Immortal much more than she did. But she was looking for this little moment almost her entire life. She couldn't think about anything but standing here, on the hill, in front of the Staff of the Light and grabbing all of her dreams, the role of her life, her vocation, her...

- You're gonna grab it or not?

Poppy blinks, surprised. She looks around just to notice a silhouette darker than the Darkness itself. She needs a minute to realize who is he. The god of the Night. Of course, he's here. It's his job to be here. It is still the Night after all. But she is a bit upset at him for destroying the magic of the moment.

So once again Poppy glances at the Staff of the Light, takes a really big breath and... She grabs it! And with her very first touch, the sphere on the top explodes with gold light and the whole world is being filled with so many beautiful colors and Poppy has never been happier in her entire life. Even a dry "So see ya later I guess" by Branch can't destroy it. Ah! She is so happy! She runs down the hill with the Staff glowing in her hand, laughing so loud and so long, till her cheeks start to ache and she loses her voice, but even then she is so happy. So happy.

After one day, and then another, and then one more, and then the whole week of enjoying this exhaustingly happy moment in her life, it comes the time to grab the Staff seriously. Poppy knows exactly what she wants and how the perfect Day should look like. She has planned it for years! So the first thing she changes is the start and the end of the Day. She adds so many colors to the sky: pinks, oranges, reds, and yellows. She asks Suki, the goddess of the Music, to make melodies for birds to let them greet every Day's beginnings and ending. With Milton, the god of the Critters, she teaches birds to sing them. She designs with Satin and Chenille, the twin goddesses of Beauty, new kinds of flowers. Every Day she runs through the whole Earth creating new things, changing the old ones, adding colors and light everywhere it is possible.

Until one Day she finishes all of her ideas and she can finally make the last point of her plan: enjoying the brand-new happy world she created.

But after a week of just guarding the Day and taking care of the Light Poppy feels there's something wrong. She has missed something. She is lost in her thoughts, trying to find the missed thing, when she walks on the hill, like every evening. She hears peaceful "Good evening" and feels it when somebody's hand takes the Staff of the Light off her. Poppy blinks like she's just woken up, but before she can answer, Branch throws "Good Night" and walks away.

''Oh. So that is the thing." Poppy thinks, ashamed.

It's been half of the year since her pink hands grabbed the Staff for the first time. The goddess was too busy with her big plans to even notice the Night. After giving back the Staff, barely even noticing Branch, she just falls asleep. She always finds sleeping the most boring thing ever, cause it's just laying down and closing your eyes to open them a few hours later. But although Immortals don't need to sleep, after a whole day of running and creating she was just exhausted.

And now Poppy realizes that the god of the Night was greeting her every morning and every evening and she has never answered him. It isn't even rude or mean, it is a complete disaster! Poppy as a daughter of King Peppy, the god of Friendship and Harmony, should be the one making friendships and building harmony, not ignoring people!

She has to fix that now.

__________________________________________

Special thanks for @livinginithilien-blog for editing the chapter in the middle of the night XD

Chapter 2

[mikkeneko]

Back to the Anders Meets the Inner Circle: The consequences of Blackwall running headlong into a real-life Grey Warden.

  ( Blackwall | Cullen | Cole | Dorian | The Iron Bull | Hawke | Sera | Vivienne )    

Blackwall II

Blackwall confused him. His first impression of the man had been of a gruff, humorless, not-too-bright hired sword; good for holding the lines in a formation but not for much else. It had been a surprise to hear Blackwall openly defending him in the Herald's Rest at Skyhold, and even more of a shock to hear him referred to as "Warden" Blackwall.

Because Blackwall wasn't a Warden. Or… was he? Anders couldn't help but doubt himself. It had years since he'd been around other Wardens; not since encountering Stroud in passing during the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall. That meeting had been so quick, so stressful, that he could hardly remember whether or not he'd sensed the Taint in them. 

Was it possible that over the years he'd somehow… lost the trick of it? So much about him had changed. Maybe Justice was blocking his perception somehow. Maybe his body had altered so much that he was no longer a true Grey Warden himself.  He didn't think that was how Grey Wardens worked, but how would he know? Everything he knew about the Wardens had come from the Warden-Commander, in the brief months they'd worked together. Amell herself freely admitted that her training had been scanty and unconventional, since her mentor had died almost immediately after her Joining. Who was he, really, to say who else was or wasn't a Warden -- a runaway, deserter, knock-off cheap replica of a Warden himself? 

So he kept his uncertainty quiet. At first. As the Inquisition campaign marched on he found himself spending more and more time with Blackwall; Adaar brought Blackwall more than any of the other warriors. While she didn't actively get involved in scraps between her Inner Circle, she did have a diplomat's sense for who could and couldn't work well together. Anders came along together with Solas and Dorian, often; Vivienne and Cassandra, never; Sera and the Iron Bull, rarely. And Blackwall always. 

They'd come out to the Storm Coast, partly to chase down a band of marauding bandits and partly in response to rumors of darkspawn coming out of caves in the cliffs. Anders steeled himself against encountering them with a grim resignation; Blackwall, by contrast, seemed to work himself up into a near frenzy of excitement and anxiety against the prospect. "It's a Warden's duty to defend the world against darkspawn," he repeated over the course of the day, enough times that it almost sounded like a mantra. "The world needs us for this." 

At first they encountered them only a few at a time, in singles and pairs in shallow caves or out on the stony beach. There was no particular need for Warden senses, since he heard the unpleasant chittering in the back of his mind no sooner than they could all spot the dark, oily shadows creeping along the sandy stone. Adaar consulted with them both about the proper measures for sealing the cracked earth, eventually agreeing to block the passages temporarily with stone and wood blockades, then mark the locations with a flag for Inquisition masonry teams to come out later to build real  doors. 

Further north along the coast they came on a real lair at last, a dark, dank cave series that extended far back into the cliffs. Adaar carried a torch high over their heads, which sputtered out an uneven circle of golden light beyond which was only blackness.

Anders stared out into the darkness. "They're out there," he reported, feeling the unpleasant scratching in his head. 

"This is definitely the sort of place they'd be," Blackwall agreed, hitching his shield up higher. Anders glanced at him sharply. 

"How many do you make out?" he said, trying to keep his voice casual. He could sense them, muddled smudges of deeper dark against the darkness, like inverted fireflies; five smaller ones and one bigger, a stronger and more malevolent force of evil. An emissary perhaps, or an ogre. Maker, he hoped not an ogre. 

"No telling," Blackwall replied gruffly. "Could be a whole horde come up from the deep roads. But we've only been encountering a few at a time so far, so there's probably not more than two or three out there." 

Anders stared at him. "You… can't sense them?" he ventured. "My Warden-Commander always told me that most Wardens get better at it the longer they've been a Warden; you've been Joined longer than I have, right?" 

Blackwall looked aside, pretending to look out into the darkness -- in the wrong direction, Anders couldn't help but note -- and his voice was distinctively evasive. "Well, every Commander has their own way of doing things," was all he said. 

The sensation of darkspawn sharpened suddenly -- that could only mean that the layer of shielding stone between them had dropped away. Anders turned sharply down the nearest stone corridor and loosed a fireball into the darkness. An inhuman screech followed the detonation of flame, and the fight was on. 

More fighting followed, and an exhaustingly long trek -- thank the Maker, Adaar did not insist on dragging them into the Deep Roads -- back to Skyhold. Throughout it Anders held his tongue about Wardens and Darkspawn when talking to Blackwall. He was sure of it now: Blackwall was not a Grey Warden.

  (Cole II)

 Surety offered no clear course of action. Anders paced in the infirmary, on his return, trying to think. What should he do? What could  he do? Surely of everyone at Skyhold, the mass-murdering apostate revolutionary was the least placed to level accusations at anyone, let alone the Inquisitor's beloved. 

Yet at the same time, he had to say something.  Didn't he? He knew what Blackwall was not, but he didn't know what he was.  Who he was. What else was he lying about, and why? Anders didn't think  he had any ill intentions towards Adaar -- indeed, he never seemed less than helplessly infatuated in her presence -- but he just didn't know. If he was lying to her about this, then what else was he lying about? 

It was more than that. Adaar, the advisors, they all looked to Blackwall as a Warden to help them shape their strategies; their responses to Warden matters or problems involving Darkspawn. Blackwall clearly knew far less about Wardens than even Anders did. If they relied on answers from Blackwall to shape their strategy, and that foundation turned out to be less than solid… 

He had to tell someone. But who? And how? He had few friends in Skyhold that would tolerate him, fewer who would accept his judgment on any matter. Almost anyone he could tell would disbelieve him; at best, tell him he must be mistaken, at worst, accuse him of malicious lies. The Tale of the Champion certainly hadn't stinted in portraying him as a paranoid, twitching wreck. Even if they didn't think he was lying, they would probably think he was crazy. Andraste's pyre, maybe he was  crazy. Maybe it was all in his own head… 

"You aren't," a voice said, and Anders looked up sharply to see Cole sitting on one of the cots. 

"Cole," Anders said. The spirit boy's sudden appearance startled him, but it subsided quickly. It took him a moment to get his stream of thought flowing again, and to try to integrate Cole into it. "I'm not… wrong? About Blackwall?" 

Cole nodded, the brim of his wide worn hat fluttering a bit. "He says I'm crazy even though he knows I'm true, because he wants me to be wrong," he says. "Crazy means he doesn't have to listen, no one does. That's why they call you crazy, too." 

That was an unsettling thought -- many of Cole's thoughts were unsettling. But for now, Anders was more concerned with the question of Blackwall. "So he's not a Grey Warden?" 

The boy shook his head. "Grey and grieving, denying, deceiving," he said, a dreamy sing-song tone entering his voice as it often did when he was listening to the thoughts of others. "But all the grey is on the outside, for him. It's not in his blood, not like it is with yours." 

"I knew it!" Anders said triumphantly. Then he frowned. "But there really was  a Blackwall who was a Grey Warden. That means this must be another man. If he's not Blackwall, then who is he?" 

Cole cocked his head to the side, as if listening. "The name breaks free, pulls the pain with it," he said finally. "A black wall to shield the self when the sky is rainier." 

Anders sighed. Cole's words were nonsense to him. He knew that wasn't true, that Cole's words were always meaningful, but he lacked the context to make it make sense. Perhaps the man's true name didn't matter, or at least didn't matter right now. "You're sure?" he said. "He's been lying all this time?" 

"Yes," Cole said. "I can hear him because he's full of pain. His own, and others. He's sorry he did it, but he can't undo it now. I have always heard him." 

His frown deepened as he parsed that. "Wait," he said. "If you've known all this time, why haven't you said anything?!" 

Cole looked confused. "I've said many things?" he said. " 'One by one they follow me, laughing, drowning, into the sea.' That's a song. Singing is saying, isn't it?" 

Anders brushed aside Cole's tangents with a sharp impatience. "I mean to the Herald! If Blackwall isn't who he says he is then she needs to know. He could be a danger to her." 

"He isn't," Cole insisted. "I would know." 

He probably would know. Anders frowned, pacing back and forth across the worn flagstones. "But she still needs to know," he said finally. "She deserves the truth. She's bedding the man, for Andraste's sake! If he's wooing her under false pretenses that's as bad as treachery. You should have told her the truth long ago!" 

"If she knew he was lying to her, she'd be so sad," Cole said reasonably. "The truth would hurt her." 

"Well, yes, but…" 

Cole looked straight at him. His eyes were so pale behind his bangs, unwavering, unblinking. "You want me to hurt her?" 

Anders understood. Cole was Compassion, a creature whose being was dedicated to absolving pain. Asking him to inflict it on someone he cared about, even in the name of the greater good, was anathema to all he stood for. 

He sighed. "Sometimes it's necessary, Cole. A small hurt sooner to prevent a bigger, worse one later on," he said, making his voice gentle. "It's like a wound. It might hurt to treat it now, but if you wait it could get infected, or even gangrene. Sometimes you have to hurt in order to heal." 

Cole nodded absently, his gaze wandering off to the side again. After a moment he spoke again. "Lance the boil, let all Thedas see the rot that lies within the Circle. Purge the infection before it spreads any further. Cauterize the wound, cleanse it with fire." He looked directly at Anders. "It has to be true, so that you can live with what you did." 

Anders winced. "That's close, Cole, but you have it backwards," he said, trying to stay steady. "It was because it's true that I had to do what I did." 

Cole looked down. "I understand but... I don't want to hurt her," he said in a soft voice. "She's my friend, and she already hurts so much." 

It would have to be him, then. Somehow he'd always known it would be. "Then I'll do it," he said, and tried not to let his voice ring hollow. "But I'll need your help.”

 ~to be continued... 

[spamzineglasgow]

SPAM Festive Special: tom leonard, 1944 – 2018, i.m.

In this special piece to move us towards the close of the year, Rhian Williams remembers the Glaswegian poet, writer and critic Tom Leonard, who passed away on the 21st December 2018. 

       lower case posits in-the-presence-of        lower case is presence        lower case is company[1]

> my friend, jane, records how, when leading seminars in modern poetry, tom leonard would ‘light a candle at the start in recognition of “the universal human as inclusive and absolute”’.[2] it is that flame – its quality of intensity and of fade, the darkness around the wick, the gold that haloes it, the soft white at its very edges; a trinity of light – that i think of, and that i write by, now, this day in december, as i remember this man of letters.

light, dense, warm, yellow. light, thin, white, attenuated. light, time, presence.

> it was a still, muffled day in december last year, as i was shopping for groceries, in the shop where tom shopped for groceries, when i checked my phone, and read an email from another friend, nicky, who let me know that tom had died the day before. the shortest day of the year. which had not been one of those when the light is bright and intense – the glorious winter sunshine – but one when a lead-like, restrained, grey light had leaked only blankly in the air. a quiet day. a brief interlude, a space between darknesses.  so tom had moved with it, solsequium,[3] a burnished ‘pot marigold’, a mothering light turning with the sun into the darkest space of the year – the edges of a diurnal pausing, according to shetland tradition, when one should set down one’s work for the holiest day, anticipating the miracles and translations of the holy labour, of the returning sun.

       stepping into that space        out of the past        surrounding        this place, become        an accompanying darkness;[4]

leonard’s work – radical, political, fiercely intelligent, sharply, sharply engaged by (and always advancing of) the ideological work of language, of its plasticity, of arrangement on the page ­(‘poetry is the subliminal history of linguistic shape | ahem’)[5] – was profoundly welded into presence. the ‘being here-ness’ of human experience: the light in which it stands (‘seductive bright light | of the evening narrative’)[6] and the breath – the spiritus – that marks its paces (‘poetry is the heart and brain divided by the lungs’).[7] his work was experimental in the most serious way, and i see its legacies in scottish poetry today, its sidelong glances at language, at its mendacities, the tell tales of public life. but also its vitality, its telling of stories, its bloodflow. (tom, a true intellectual, but never bloodless.) leonard’s legacy is clear and important: it is evident in a generation of poets (jenny lindsay, nick-e melville, iain morrison, kathrine sowerby, harry josephine giles, as well as jane goldman, come to mind) who regard poetry and poetics as actions, as interventions, as means of revelation.

> at this time of year – at the marking of the winter solstice, the miraculously burning oil in the temple, and the birthing of a messiah – i find myself thinking about the domestic space ­– the hearth – that fuels that birthing (‘the sacred heart | above the winterdykes | set roon the fire’).[8] of the shifts around presence, being, light and time that i see in leonard’s body of work as comparable to parenting through reciprocity (‘i wish you would touch me more | it makes me feel happy | and secure’).[9] of the vestal work of home-making that i find infusing leonard’s writing: what we might call radical mothering, where mothering is a verb for attentive nurture, for the act of nourishing, for advocacy, for the defence and advance of storytelling. labours which may be (and are) taken up by carers regardless of gender and whose object need not be a child as such. i am talking specifically about the passion contained when leonard remembers his shame at his father’s vocalising during private reading and is encouraged by an audience member to find the use of phonetic urban dialect, ‘rather constrictive’: ‘The poetry reading is over | I will go home to my children’.[10] i am talking about his remarkable feel for the rhythms of daily domestic duty, peeling spuds, going on messages, controlling one’s breath as one walks to the shops. over and again, leonard’s poems mark the habits of a particular class of daily life, intimating the textures and fabric of a life of cooking, laundry, ‘sitting in the garden | behind the toolshed | reading Thomas Mann’,[11] listening to the wireless. fiercely attentive, and alive. now, of course, leonard’s poetics were exquisitely sophisticated – i’m not even remotely saying that his work is ever uncomplicated reportage of private domesticity – but it didn’t surprise me to learn from his sons at his funeral of tom’s presence in the home, of his habit of taking a breather in the day to listen to radio 3, sat on the sofa with tea and a biscuit. or to be gifted his recipe for lentil soup.

       the roar of a lawnmower        pause        the roar of a lawnmower        pause        the roar of a lawnmower[12]

for what i learn from leonard’s poems, and from leonard’s writing about poems and poetry (verse, from vers – to turn – as in ploughing a field, or mowing a lawn), is that there is a selfhood in poetry that is its animus, its means, its occasion, and its strength of expression. that poems come about from there being a story to be told (‘I was really relaxed talking to the young man I know the story of this place | I grew up in it I have eyes and ears’),[13] and the process of that telling may be quite unselfconscious as it drives towards enunciation, or even be ‘mechanical’ in the sense of algorithmic experimentation. but that self – or ‘a’ self – then becomes conscious as it manifests. that the lyric self – by which i mean the sign of presence in poetry – is not absorbed utterly by private experience, but rather it enters the rhythm of the poem and its shape on the page (all poems have rhythm as all living things breathe, and everything takes shape), and thereby intersects with time, with history, and with material records (‘in our own being | but never wholly separate, only a part | of the time we live in, and with others occupy’).[14] it comes into the world (is birthed?) and so it becomes an agential position: the expressive, poetic subject is an action, a vortex, a meeting point.

       But then he began to accept that he was a writer.        It was a matter of language and consciousness. The link between the                                                                                                               two.[15]

even as this process hints at abstraction (‘as he grew older he stood in separate relationship to himself’), it is actually a return to the flesh, in leonard’s beautiful, active verb: ‘he was able to body himself conceptually as a totality’.[16] … so i learn from leonard that poems are things that are done with and for bodies (‘Gin a body meet a body’),[17] and are caught in the dialectic of giving and of standing back, like mothering.

> jane also told me that tom loved the work of psychoanalyst, donald winnicott – i hadn’t remembered that consciously; it was just a feeling of correlation i had when reading leonard’s work and when reading winnicott’s work on physical touch and play, on the parenting labour that is simply, exhaustingly, that of helping our children to find their own pace and breath. but today my copy of leonard’s Reports from the Present: Selected Work, 1982-94 actually falls open here:

Breath, breath, breath, breath, breath. If only Winnicott had gone further with that aside about the baby’s first perception of breath, median between inner and outer, its role as the point at which the defences are down. Maybe he did, I just haven’t seen it. So much of his stuff is great, so exciting to read. All that stuff about the sucking-blankets (his ‘guggie’, mine used to call it) ‘transitional objects’ and their elation to culture, the first experience of symbols in time. That ‘potential space’ where play occurs … ‘It is play that is the universal, and that belongs to health.’ Good on you, Mr Winnicott. A very healthy man.[18]

in Winnicott, in leonard, in breath (that which brings together time with flesh), and in play, then, we find the scene of reciprocity:

        this time         breath

        held         between us

        each time         familiar

        each time         new[19]

so often violated – as leonard’s work distils in startling realisation – by institutionalised aggression and belittling, by militarism, by capitalist ideation (‘jesus christ that cunt was a cop!’),[20] in leonard’s poetics, reciprocity is staged through timely proximity, and is a route towards settling into the ‘now’. ‘we lightly hold hands as we sometimes do | until the first to be falling asleep begins to twitch and tonight it’s Sonya’:

        I am aged 51 years and nine months and nine to ten days[21]

reading of one of the longest days of the year from the dim of one of the shortest, i find the milky light of glasgow at 3am in june (‘the sky in the north is translucent like a lake’) illuminating the ‘now’ as a quiet scene of resistance, outwitting interpellation; an experience of the self, of the body, and of time that has evaded capitalist value. ‘from within he came to realise himself as an instance of the universal human’.[22]

> the calendar turns, light thins out and attenuates, darkness creeps (‘The three wise kings, who have travelled | All the way from Burns & Oates in Buchanan Street, | Peer at the infant under a torch-bulb’),[23] but rhythms and habits persist:

       the future, knitting the future        the present peaceful, quiet        as if

       the same woman knitting        for a thousand years

tom, i miss your voice, i miss your wisdom, i miss your knowledge. i miss your compassion, i miss your understanding. your not here-ness is painful.

> and the world keeps turning, the sun keeps rising. the marigold blooms.

                                                                               glasgow, 16 december 2019

~

Text and Image: Rhian Williams

Published: 23/12/19

[1] Tom Leonard, ‘the case for lower case’, Outside the Narrative (Exbourne & Edinburgh: etruscan books & Word Power Books, 2009), p. 178.

[2] See Jane Goldman’s contribution in Tributes to Tom Leonard, ed. Larry Butler (Glasgow, PlaySpace Publications: 2019).

[3] ‘To follow the sun’ and the term for the marigold in Middle English. It is used in a conceit by Ayrshire poet, Alexander Montgomerie (1550-1598) that is used as an epigram to Leonard’s ‘The Present Tense: a semi-epistolary romance’, Outside, p.110.

[4] ‘respite in the reading’, Outside, p. 107.

[5] ‘100 Differences Between Poetry and Prose’, Outside, p. 63.

[6] ‘Plasma Nights’, Outside, p. 196.

[7] ‘100 Differences Between Poetry and Prose’, Outside, p. 63.

[8] ‘An Ayrshire Mother’, Outside, p. 209.

[9] ‘Nora’s Place (14)’, Outside, p. 156

[10] ‘Fathers and Sons’, Outside, p. 54

[11] ‘Pollok Poster 1’, Outside, p. 13

[12] ibid.

[13] ‘The Fair Cop’, Outside, p. 189

[14] ‘proem’, Outside, p. 65

[15] ‘A life’, Outside, p. 214.

[16] ibid.

[17] Robert Burns, ‘Comin thro’ the Rye’

[18] ‘The Present Tense’, Outside, p. 113.

[19] ‘touching your face’, Outside, p. 182.

[20] ‘The Fair Cop’, Outside, p. 189.

[21] ‘June the Second’, Outside, p. 181.

[22] ‘Three Types of Envoi: A humanist (2)’, Outside, p. 213.

[23] ‘My Parents’ Living-Room at Christmas’, Outside, p. 53.

[itscarlsagantime]

A Thousand Words

“A picture is worth a thousand words.” A thousand, in case your capacity for numerical reasoning is severely hindered, is a lot. Rarely, if ever, do we find ourselves dealing with a thousand single units of anything. We simplify our currency in to larger and larger values to avoid the hassle of lugging around and counting a thousand pennies weighing over five pounds total, opting instead for a thin piece of paper weighing in at about one gram. The average human head is said to have about one hundred thousand hairs on it, but I doubt any one of us has tried and succeeded in counting up to even one thousand of those hairs. Picture your parents in high school all of those hundreds of years ago, when “computers” were humans who did mathematical calculations, counting individual words when their teachers assigned thousand word essays. Even now, as I continually hit CONTROL, SHIFT, C to bring up a word count, I know that a thousand is not a small sum; we are just now approaching two hundred words. I checked, and most of my Writer’s Notebooks are about five hundred words long. So, yes, one thousand words is a lot. But is one thousand words enough to equate an entire picture? All of the possible descriptive adjectives in combination with all of the thoughts and memories and feelings that one picture alone can evoke must be more than one thousand words. Are the eight hundred words I have left enough to describe my last thoughts on the complexity of the relationship between our vision and out linguistic cognition?

 As this image hangs or is more likely projected before you, can you not think of more nearly thousands of powerful and emotionally evocative descriptions to relay your reactions, interpretations, and emotions? Okay, maybe not for this particular picture-- it turns out that while pictures can conjure words, actual words themselves don’t always lend themselves to pictures, especially when drafted on a plain, inexpressive Google document. But think about a beautiful sunset, a picture of a cute little puppy sleeping curled up, a dramatic shot of a racing cheetah. You could write so many about those images--beautiful, cute, exciting. Look at the picture for long enough, and it might seem that you could never really run out of adjectives. If every you managed to exhaust the words that take up over a fifth of the modern dictionary, you could move on to more personal, interpretive words. 

This outline may make you think of words of patriotism or songs of freedom and bravery. On the other hand, it might make you think of inevitable social, financial, and political ruin-- I’m sure any one of us could round up one thousand words to describe our feelings about this single outline. 

This child-like rendition of a flower can be described with more than green and yellow and pink-- is is the memory of crayons and construction paper, or meadows of wildflowers and picnics under shady trees. 

This lemon could make you think of your very own weirdly vibrant childhood memory, make you feel an emotion could easily fill the gap of a hundred words, or remind you of your own encounter with this sour fruit. For example, this single, simple picture of a half of a lemon reminds me of the time my cousin, Mike, dared my other cousin, Cara, to eat a lemon. Past even my own experience, I’m sure that simple synopsis (which I was hard pressed to shorten to just a few words) made you think of many different words that you could apply to this picture. 

This basic starfish reminds me of summer lazy days at the beach, and the guilt I felt when I proudly told my mom that I had found a live starfish in the sand and flung it into the ocean to save it, and she told me that it probably died because they are not deepwater animals. 

This simple snowman reminds me not only of all the joyful and miserable aspects of winter, but specifically of the first snowman I ever made. 

His name was Ned, and he was more a tall pile of snow than an actual sculpture. 

Even these basic green hues can be seen as a kind of modern impressionism, an artist's interpretation of a lush forest, a patch of grass, a green swatch of fabric, the surface of a pear. 

Even this white screen, past the possible description as blank, even boring, if you want, could be as intricately abstract as a rabbit in a snowstorm. If you’re starting to get bored, I understand; we’re closing in on seven hundred words. I hope, however, that you have instead decided to become inspired. 

If you’ve ever been to an art gallery and wondered how the canvas with a blue square and a yellow square separated by a black stripe could be worth billions of dollars, I hope you now understand. It’s more than its face value, more than the artist’s name-- it’s the brilliance of everything out of nothing. At the very least, it’s laziness with good marketing, and even that could elicit a rant one thousand words long. So, sorry, even your likely annoyance and/or argument against me proves my point. I could easily have ended this conversation in under a thousand words, but when we limit ourselves like that, we rob the world of music, art, architecture, literature, even math or history. We all know from experience that Sparknotes can explain any classic story, but there is a reason people still read the full versions. There’s also a reason we manage to write exhaustingly long essays on single excerpts of stories and novels. Anyway, if I haven’t convinced you yet, maybe there’s no amount of words I could use to get you to be on my side. So I’ll put you out of your misery and leave off here, personally unconvinced that a picture is worth just a thousand words.

[carlsagansghost]

A Thousand Words

“A picture is worth a thousand words.” A thousand, in case your capacity for numerical reasoning is severely hindered, is a lot. Rarely, if ever, do we find ourselves dealing with a thousand single units of anything. We simplify our currency in to larger and larger values to avoid the hassle of lugging around and counting a thousand pennies weighing over five pounds total, opting instead for a thin piece of paper weighing in at about one gram. The average human head is said to have about one hundred thousand hairs on it, but I doubt any one of us has tried and succeeded in counting up to even one thousand of those hairs. Picture your parents in high school all of those hundreds of years ago, when “computers” were humans who did mathematical calculations, counting individual words when their teachers assigned thousand word essays. Even now, as I continually hit CONTROL, SHIFT, C to bring up a word count, I know that a thousand is not a small sum; we are just now approaching two hundred words. I checked, and most of my Writer’s Notebooks are about five hundred words long. So, yes, one thousand words is a lot. But is one thousand words enough to equate an entire picture? All of the possible descriptive adjectives in combination with all of the thoughts and memories and feelings that one picture alone can evoke must be more than one thousand words. Are the eight hundred words I have left enough to describe my last thoughts on the complexity of the relationship between our vision and out linguistic cognition? 

As this image hangs or is more likely projected before you, can you not think of more nearly thousands of powerful and emotionally evocative descriptions to relay your reactions, interpretations, and emotions? Okay, maybe not for this particular picture-- it turns out that while pictures can conjure words, actual words themselves don’t always lend themselves to pictures, especially when drafted on a plain, unexpressive Google document. But think about a beautiful sunset, a picture of a cute little puppy sleeping curled up, a dramatic shot of a racing cheetah. You could write so many about those images--beautiful, cute, exciting. Look at the picture for long enough, and it might seem that you could never really run out of adjectives. If every you managed to exhaust the words that take up over a fifth of the modern dictionary, you could move on to more personal, interpretive words. 

This outline may make you think of words of patriotism or songs of freedom and bravery. On the other hand, it might make you think of inevitable social, financial, and political ruin-- I’m sure any one of us could round up one thousand words to describe our feelings about this single outline. 

This child-like rendition of a flower can be described with more than green and red and pink-- is is the memory of crayons and construction paper, or meadows of wildflowers and picnics under shady trees. 

This lemon could make you think of your very own weirdly vibrant childhood memory, make you feel an emotion could easily fill the gap of a hundred words, or remind you of your own encounter with this sour fruit. For example, this single, simple picture of a half of a lemon reminds me of the time my cousin, Mike, dared my other cousin, Cara, to eat a lemon. Past even my own experience, I’m sure that simple synopsis (which I was hard pressed to shorten to just a few words) made you think of many different words that you could apply to this picture. 

This basic starfish reminds me of summer lazy days at the beach, and the guilt I felt when I proudly told my mom that I had found a live starfish in the sand and flung it into the ocean to save it, and she told me that it probably died because they are not deepwater animals. 

This simple snowman reminds me not only of all the joyful and miserable aspects of winter, but specifically...

 of the first snowman I ever made. His name was Ned, and he was more a tall pile of snow than an actual sculpture. 

Even these basic green hues can be seen as a kind of modern impressionism, an artist's interpretation of a lush forest, a patch of grass, a green swatch of fabric, the surface of a pear. 

Even this white screen, past the possible description as blank, even boring, if you want, could be as intricately abstract as a rabbit in a snowstorm. If you’re starting to get bored, I understand; we’re closing in on seven hundred words. I hope, however, that you have instead decided to become inspired. 

If you’ve ever been to an art gallery and wondered how the canvas with a blue square and a yellow square separated by a black stripe could be worth billions of dollars, I hope you now understand. It’s more than its face value, more than the artist’s name-- it’s the brilliance of everything out of nothing. At the very least, it’s laziness with good marketing, and even that could elicit a rant one thousand words long. So, sorry, even your likely annoyance and/or argument against me proves my point. I could easily have ended this conversation in under a thousand words, but when we limit ourselves like that, we rob the world of music, art, architecture, literature, even math or history. We all know from experience that Sparknotes can explain any classic story, but there is a reason people still read the full versions. There’s also a reason we manage to write exhaustingly long essays on single excerpts of stories and novels. Anyway, if I haven’t convinced you yet, maybe there’s no amount of words I could use to get you to be on my side. So I’ll put you out of your misery and leave off here, personally unconvinced that a picture is worth just a thousand words.