#the night ocean was born the aurora borealis was out

[soulthesimmer]

big bros approve of lil bro. ✅

[marsprincess889]

NAKSHATRAS AS GODDESSES

2/27

👄🥀BHARANI🛶

DISCLAIMER: This is based solely on my research and the patterns that I saw. I can't promise that I'm gonna be sure in all the coorelations, but I'm going to attribute each nakshatra a goddess that I think fits it the closest. If you're dissapointed, to make up for it, I'm going to list some other deities in the end that I think also fit the nakshatra. Don't come for me if you think I'm wrong, be respectful in the comments if you think so and have fun 🤍

For Bharani I chose a goddess that I love personally and while I definitely see her connection to Bharani, I still hesistated when putting her here. Not much research was needed while writing as I had already researched almost everything that I could find about her and knew tons. Without further ado, let's start.

Freya

Pantheon: Norse

Name meaning: Lady, mistress

Associations: Love, sexuality, beauty, fate, death, war, magic, cats, gold and amber.

Symbols: Cats, swines, falcons, amber and gold, daisies, swords, romantic music, strawberries, aurora borealis(northern lights)

Freya is a strong, powerful Norse goddess of love, sex, war and death. She has a chariot pulled by gray cats, a loyal boar_ Hildisvíni, that she rides on when in battle, a cloak made of falcon feathers that allows her to shapeshift and the most beautiful piece of jewelry in the world: her necklace Brisingamen.

Her brother is Freyr (lord), god of fertility, agriculture and male virility. Her family comes from the tribe of gods called the Vanir. They're peaceful gods, connected to all civilised earthly matters. The other tribe- Aesir, are said to live in Asgard, away from them. A war broke out between the two tribes. Eventually, a peace negotiation was settled: Freya and Freyr would go to the Aesir as a gesture and would live with them. Despite being Vanir, Freya is debatably the highest standing Norse goddess, comparable in power only to Frigg- the queen of the gods. Some sources say that she taught the Aesir the magical art of seidr, the act of seeing and influencing the future.

Unfortunately, there are not many sources available that would desctibe Freya in greater detail, and this is true for all norse gods. Despite this, some key details about her have been preserved, enough for me to coorelate her to Bharani.

Despite being a love goddess and having a husband, she's very independent, having an iron will and being particular about her preferences. Like the Greek Aphrodite and Roman Venus, her origins are associated with the sea, but in a different way. She's not born from sea, but her father is the god of the sea, oceans and commerce- Njord. Despite this venus associations, she's also a maiden goddess (not unlike Persephone) associated with death and war.

It is known that viking warriors who died in battle had the privillege of entering Valhalla- a kind of heaven presided over by Odin, the chief Norse god. While that's true for half of the warriors, the other half went with Freya in Fólkvangr, where lies her hall- Sessrúmnir. Moreover, it was Freya who had the first pick, Odin had to be content being second.

Her husband, Odr, was frequently away. Missing him, she would cry tears that would turn gold when falling on the ground, and amber if they fell into the sea. She loved her husband, but also had untamed sexuality that was notorious. It was rare in those times as a woman to express yourself sexually and to do so with so much passion and courage, so, it's no wonder why this goddess survived as an important figure for many women.

There's a myth about Freya and her desire being so strong, it causing her pain. The desire was for a necklace made by the dwarves. It was of gold and amber and immidiately captivated her. She went to acquire it but the only price the dwarves would offer was her spending one night with each of them. Feeling like she had no choice, Freya agreed. When her husband found out about her betrayal, he left her and went to the sea. Freya cried and cried but he was nowhere to be seen. After some time, she learned he that he turned into a sea monster and went to him, still loving him unconditionally. Somebody saw the monster and killed Odr, not knowing it was him. Furious, Freya demanded a place for him with the Gods, so they could be together and she got her permit, so that they were reunited in the end.

Freya's names and epithets: Gefn (the giver), Hörn (flaxen_reference to her hair), Mardöll (sea shaker), Sýr (sow), Valfreyja (lady of the slain).

If you read my post about Bharani, it should not be a surprise that I coorelated Freya to this nakshatra. She rules over love, sex and death, all things Bharani. When reading about Freya and Freyr being twins, Yama (Bharani's god) and his twin sister_ Yami came to mind, especially considering that Yami was said to be free and unrestrained, just like Freya. This is also true for real life Bharani natives, because Bharani is a natural place for females, women tend to find themselves comfortable in these energies while males act restrained.

Freya's desire for her necklace and it causing her problems is also very Bharani, as explored in my Bharani post. The theme of her crying because of her love and ultimately love conquering everything is also closely connected to this nakshatra.

I also avoided choosing either Aphrodite or Persephone, because they're so polarized from each other. I do think Bharani is more Persephone, but I don't think that either of them represent Bharani completely. I see Bharani as having traits of both: Ruling over love/ sexuality but also being a maiden. Freya seemed perfect. I debated whether she was better suited for Purva Phalguni or not, but the death association made Bharani the better choice.

I'm well aware that some people think that she and Frigg are the same Goddess and they're definitely similar and there's a great possibility that they originated from the same goddess. I really don't think they're the same though. To me Freya is fire, Frigg is ice, Freya's the mistress, Frigg is the wife. Freya is the maiden, Frigg is the mother, and so on...

Deities that I attribute to Bharani other than Freya:

Persephone- Greek goddess of vegetation, spring and the underworld, "Queen of the Dead"

Bhairavi- Indian goddess, "awe-inspiring" "formidable".

Hel- Norse goddess of the dead, who's half dead, half a beautiful young girl

Inanna- Sumerian goddess very similar to Freya. Also a love/sexuality goddess and also a maiden. "Queen of the Heaven", she also decended into the underworld.

Gwenhwyfar- Queen Guinevere, Welsh goddess of sovereignity and the Earth, representing the land itself. (This one I hesitated to put but the vibes are matching, to me at least).

EDIT: So, obviously, Hades, Pluto or whatever god of death any culture has is also coorelated to Bharani, ig I forgot about them cause Bharani is so female-centered lol.

So that's it! I hope fellow Bharanis and everyone else found this entertaining and insightful. You're welcome to research all these goddesses if you wish and let me know if u think I'm right. Being my moon nakshatra, Bharani was extra pressure, but what's done is done. LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS, PLEASE 🤍

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

Beneath the Northern Lights

"Þar sem norðurljósin skína á himni

og töfrandi veturnætur endar aldrei,

þar fæddist ást okkar."

Placid night, it was.

Serene.

Quiet.

Only the soft sound of waves lapping against a solid body could be heard, as the sea itself seemed to be peacefully asleep that night.

Aura was laying on her back, hovering above the dark surface of the sea as she gazed deep into the night sky, staring so intently she thought that, with a small movement, she could fall from the cold waters and fly down into the endless abyss.

Her eyes were trained toward the figures the stars painted against the wide blue yonder.

She could see the Archer and the Snake, the Bear and the Wolf… and focusing even deeper, she saw the little Selkie, playing with her celestial pod.

The sweetest smile spread on her face when the dancing colours of the Northern Lights set the whole sky ablaze, a kaleidoscope of green and red and pink flaring up in a dance as old as time itself.

She could hear them sing, too, the sweet lullaby of her childhood.

“Aurora Borealis,” she remembered Shay saying their name was.

She scrounged her nose, trying to shape her lips the same way she had seen Shay doing, forcing the sound out of her throat, but all she managed to produce was a low chirp.

She giggled.

Apparently, the language of the human was bound to remain a mystery for her.

“Aura,” she heard a deep sweet voice calling her name.

She turned her head, and the smile she had on her face widened even more, her cheeks growing warm from the joy she felt.

Standing tall and strong, his dark eyes gleaming in the night, was Shay, slowly walking toward her, the small waves crashing against his thighs.

Shay.

Her human.

Her love, she thought, her heart going pitter-patter when he saw him smiling at her.

She tilted her face when she noticed that he wasn’t wearing anything, not even his breeches, and chirping, she disappeared under the surface, gliding effortlessly to close the distance between the two of them.

She poked the surface with her head and smiled at him when he disappeared underwater, only to resurface beside her, his own face a breath away from her.

Her eyes fell on the small talisman around his neck, the only protection he had against the chilly waters of the North Atlantic...the only way for them to be together in the ocean.

“Where’s your sealskin,lass?” he whispered, giving her a small peck on her rosebud lips. She chirped and pointed toward the beach.

“Is it hidden away? Did you make sure to find a suitable place?” he asked, starting to pepper her sweet round face with kisses,  one of his rough hands cradling the back of her head.

Frowning her brows, she pouted, offended.

“Oh, come on, lassie, don’t give me those pouty lips,” he chuckled, kissing her frown away. “I know you're always careful with it…but we can never be too careful, now, can't we?”

She raised her eyes to the sky, snorting, and Shay couldn’t help the laugh that was born from his chest.

He kissed her once more.

His strong arms found their way around her waist, pulling her against him, skin against skin: a wide joyous smile spread on his lips when he felt the warm softness of her womb pressing against his own stomach.

His children were growing there, protected by their mother that already loved them more than life itself.

"What do you think the babes are doin', lass?"

The selkie pointed at Shay, and closed her eyes, letting out a loud snore.

"Ah-ah, Aura. Very funny." He said, pretending to be annoyed. "I don't snor-".

But the pointed expression on the selkie's face stopped him in his tracks.

He couldn’t lie to her.

He did snore.  

“Fine. I snore like a bear,” he chuckled, brushing his thumb on her cheek. "But you're not without fault yourself, las-"

He paused.

He felt a small nudging against the hand resting on her womb, and his heart skipped a beat.

"It's them?" He asked, his eyes wide with surprise, an elated light dancing in them.

Aura nodded with a giggle. Their little ones knew their papa was there.

Shay rested his hand for a moment longer, and once again he felt another nudge, stronger this time.

A soft light filled his eyes, as a smile stretched on his lips.

His mind flew ahead, as his thoughts began to wonder about the little ones that the love he had for Aura had helped to bring into this world.

He could see them so clearly in his mind, sons and daughters alike, their features a perfect blending of their mother and father.

Suddenly, the smile on his face died when a question popped in his mind, the one question he had tried to ignore as much as he could ever since he had discovered Aura was with child.

“Aura...what will our children be? Will they be human?” his heart trembled in his chest for a moment, courage evading him. “...or will they belong to the ocean, just like you?”

The young woman looked into his eyes for a moment, her own stare as ageless as the sea itself and just as inscrutable.

After what seemed an eternity, Aura shook her head.

Much like him, she didn’t know what the future held for their children.

Chirping with a sweet tune, she took his hand again and brought it to her chest. She did the same with her own smaller one, her finger dancing over his strong heart.

He knew what she meant.

Selkie or human, their hearts beat the same melody, the same rhythm, the same song.

Their children would be no different.

They would be the sons and daughters of Land and Sea.

And so long they were cherished by both of them, that was all that truly mattered.

Shay smiled, as he pulled her close to his chest once again, floating together in the shallow waters.

“You know that I love you, Aura?” he murmured against her lips. “Always had. And always will.”

She smiled, her heart leaping in her chest.

"ég elska þig" she murmured back, wanting nothing more than to melt in his kiss.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hi there everyone! Not dead, just have been busy working and writing the Syndicate story.

BUT.

Due to spring being here (and the seasonal depression it brings with it) I found myself in dire need of a healthy HUMONGOUS dose of pure fluff.

So, I went my sweet Aura the Selkie, the oc I created almost a year ago to be Shay’s partner in crime life, and wrote a small ficlet and a moodboard to go with it.

Much like with my Federico and Lucia’s ficlet, this one as well is a one-shot, because I don’t truly have a plot for them, just lots and lots of willingness to write a crapton of fluff because my heart needs it like it needs air.

Well, I hope you will like it!

--NemoTurunen

(I also have posted it on my AO3 account:  https://archiveofourown.org/users/NemoTurunen )

[goldeneyedgirl]

charity fic: all in the stars

So, some of you might be aware of the Move to Higher Group fan-zine that was being put together. It is an awesome project and I cannot wait to see the final product. 

I’ve decided to release my fic independently, with the same goal of raising money for the Quileute Tribe’s Move to Higher Ground Project. There is an amazing post right here by lemonadebottlecap that covers the history of the tribe and the misconceptions that Twilight spread - I’ve also reblogged that right below here. 

So I will cheerfully suggest and implore you to donate to the Move to Higher Ground Project - even just $1 would be amazing. 

I’m not asking for anything for the fic, but in the spirit of the zine and the fandom renaissance, please consider it. <3

Onwards to the fic

all in the stars.

Mary-Alice doesn’t speak much. She hasn’t for a long time. Mostly, she rocks and murmurs and stares. Sometimes she cries or shrieks, but that happens less and less since the doctors started her on the shock treatments. She shivers and stares and mutters, and the staff leave her well enough alone. Mostly.

(Matron hopes she dies this winter, she heard her say it to the nurse; she’s a fragile thing, all bird bones and sharp edges from her body eating away at itself. Her lungs rattle and her chest aches and her head always hurts and she knows that, one way or another, death is coming. It won’t take much to send her on her way.)

The nights are bitterly cold, and she shivers as she stares out the tiny barred window at the stars. No one knows what she’s looking for, or looking at; she’s been having treatments so long, and lived in the dim gloom of her cell for so many years, that her eyesight is greatly degraded - if she were free, she would be considered legally and irreversibly blind. But she stares, right at the stars, as if she’s searching for something.

(Her sight in the real world is nearly gone - she sees shapes and the shift of shadows, but everything is quite smeared, like looking through deep, murky water. But her other sight, of things that are to be and things that could be, that is still as sharp as ever, even if it doesn’t always make perfect sense.)

When she eats, she struggles to focus on her tray, to judge space and distance. Some of the orderlies laugh at her fumbling (hands shaking, eyes squinting, tiny body hunched over her singular meal of the day) and she is left to try and feed herself, barely managing to consume half before she has spilt it everywhere, or she gives up out of frustration and exhaustion, out of disgust of the taste of turning milk, of cooling animal fat and rancid vegetables. When she is taken to her treatments, and sessions with the doctors, she tries to guide herself with one thin hand on the wall. Mostly, she’s manhandled - dragged into the rooms with the report she was being ‘difficult’ and the unspoken promise of punishment, or ferried about in an ancient wheelchair.

(She used to count her bruises like the constellations in the sky, blooming black and blue, purple and green. Her very own Aurora Borealis. Back then, they were just needle sticks. Then they stretched out, wrapping painfully around her torso, her thighs. They swelled with blood and kept her from sleep. They made her easy to manipulate, fingers roughly pressing down on a raw spot to make her bend to their will. Now the bruises don’t fade, they linger - overlapping and constant, and it’s too hard to see them to bother counting them. She cannot tell the difference between a shadow and a bruise now, anyhow - her cell is dark, her eyes are dying, and there is always pain, no matter where she touches on her skin.)

Elias arrived (arrives? Sometimes the passage of time is hard to track) sometime ago. He was… he simply was, in the beginning. Another set of hands moving her around, sticking her with the needles, frowning and judging and damning her. And then one day, for no reason at all, he brought her an extra blanket and wrapped her up tight against the cold. He brought her cold tea, over-steeped and bitter on her tongue, but insisted she drink it. He looked at her with eyes that had seen too much, had tried and failed and run right through every ounce of hope and benevolence he could manage, so he had given up. Until now (then?).

(She knows she would have died that night, from the cold of the night and the shock of the ice bath, for want of a blanket and something to drink. Except he swept in, with his red eyes and the clean blanket and bad tea and held her hand in his, his gloves warming her skin. He stayed, she lived, and the future went spinning off into a kaleidoscope of possibility, lighting up her mind. She’s already lost her words by then, but she wants to tell him, however this all falls together, she forgives him and thanks him for his kindness. That she knows what he is, what he has done, and it is not her place to pass judgement on anyone, man or immortal.

That any kind of light in the dark is a beautiful thing, no matter how long it is lit.)

—

To say she dies when Elias bites her, when he presses venom into her wrists and throat and prays to a god he hasn’t believed in for many years, is a fallacy. It is a polite lie, a bedtime story for children. It is fiction designed to absolve the villains of the piece - doctors in clean, white coats; nurses with shark-smiles and vindictive natures.

(She has died a little every single day since her parents sent her to the asylum. That is true, if quite dramatic.)

What killed her, truly? It might have been the distracted nurse, overzealous in her dosage; it could have been the blow to the head when she fell against the desk in the doctor’s room, shoved by an irritated orderly in charge of shepherding her around. It might have been the addition of an imprecise voltage or two from a dismissive doctor. It might have been all those things bleeding together. But by the time Elias bites her, changes her, there is very little of Mary-Alice Brandon left - just a failing body struggling so hard to make it to the next hour, minute, second. Her heart thumps slowly, her lungs rattle with oxygen, her eyes glassy and unseeing. She does not know what is coming for her, and how Elias intends to protect her.

(If she could speak, she would talk of the change like being in the middle of space, of watching the rush of stars and galaxies, of colours and combustion and the swoop of the unknown, great and terrible. It was like being a tiny spot of dust in an expansive, ornate concert hall - terribly insignificant and in the presence of true greatness. But she is far enough gone that she doesn’t even know of the Hunter that stalks her, doesn’t know that when she wakes, she will be a brand new girl, an entirely new person who will be able to speak and think and run and see.)

It happens exactly how it is supposed to. Elias is old enough to know the tricks, to leave a false trail miles long that sacrifices more than one innocent, maybe a mad little inmate or two, as he carries Mary-Alice to sanctuary. She is an easy burden, still and silent, and Elias continues his futile pleas to god that this will work, and she will be born anew, and he won’t have immortalised her misery and suffering. In his long life, he has never seen an impaired vampire, one that has carried their damage and their disease over into eternity, and he hopes Mary-Alice will not be the first.

(Her galaxies surround her, in black and navy blue, violet and emerald. Rich gold, too bright to look directly at, streaks across the endless space. The stars wink at her, and some of them blink out - futures that are not hers to have, she decides. The light of the remaining stars is warm on her face and limbs, fills her chest to bursting, and she wants to cradle them in her arms, hold them tight forever.)

—

They nearly make it, you know. One day, two days, the third day dawns with no sign of the Hunter; not a scent on the breeze or the still of the woods. Just little Mary-Alice’s thin little breaths and faltering heartbeat, curled into a ball of blankets in the grass. Elias’ hand strokes her hair, and he remembers another sickly girl, brittle and dying. Long gone, in a forgotten grave in a corner of the woods an ocean away. It makes him feel ashamed, like he only helped Mary-Alice to fit her into the place left by another; that he is not so good to help her simply because of her suffering. But in truth, why else pick her, of all of the poor souls in that ward?

(Her old self is almost gone, as the stars slowly decline and the colours begin to fade. She cannot excuse his motivations when she does not know him or remember him. Or remind him why he was precious and good and kind to her. In her memory, his star has blinked out and gone, another lamp extinguished.)

She whimpers then, and it is their undoing - he is startled by her sudden noise; hope and concern knotting in his chest as he leans over her. It is also enough for a lurking Hunter, downwind to surprise his target. He is angry, a rippling red rage, at being tricked and turned around - at his precious quarry being snatched from under his nose and the stench of Elias’ venom taking hold of her blood. The Hunter is no loser; he is his own champion, one that takes sick delight in broken, bloodless girls whose throats are raw from screaming, and whose bones never fit back together right. One that has lost the battle but will win the war, and salt the earth just to spite Elias.

(In her last seconds, Mary-Alice sees. She sees Elias and the Hunter locked in battle; she sees Elias’ destruction and then she sees the Hunter come for her, still lost to the change. She sees what he does to her, how he mutilates and breaks her to punish her saviour, who is already ash in the air. And as quickly as the images press around her, they are gone, like confetti in the air.)

Elias is angry, angrier than he has been in a long time as the Hunter is upon them, and he drags the Hunter away from his charge’s prone body.

(Just a little longer. A little more time…)

—

She has a choice to make now; one she won’t remember. There are only a handful of her stars left, and she needs to pick one.

(She sees herself rise, red-eyed and confused but determined. It’s an easy trail to follow, watching the Hunter feed broken limbs into his fire with a smirk on his face and delicious plans for the girl in the glade. He’s taken the other man’s coat, and that strikes rage into her heart. He doesn’t have time to turn around before she has his head off and into the fire. She crouches in front of the fire, and watches carefully as it burns lower. It’s only when she’s left with ash and smoke that she rises, feeling heavier and sadder than she thinks she should be able to feel and slips off back into the forest, to a future yet to be decided.)

No, she doesn’t want to be sad anymore. She was sad before, she’s tired of sad.

(She runs south. She runs through the forest, faster and faster, to escape the one that is coming for her. When she stops running, she hides. She’s frightened, fearful, like a hunted rabbit. Her heart is quiet, but it still feels like it wants to burst from her chest in fear and she is completely and utterly lost, in all the ways that someone can be and she doesn’t know what to do.)

She doesn’t want to be afraid either.

(Golden eyes. A warm smile, one that makes her feel like her chest is full of starlight again. A scar on his neck that her fingers worry over, as if she can protect him from the pain. A kiss on her nose, her cheek, the corner of her mouth before his lips graze her ear.

“I love you, Alice. Irreversibly and forever,” he murmurs and, and…)

That one. That’s her. She’s Alice; she gets to be Alice, chooses to be Alice - Alice who is happy and loved and safe and precious. Alice, who loves him more than anything in existence. She could burst with how much she loves him. She could have a million choices, a million stars, and that will always be the one she chooses and holds tight.

(“Forever.”)

—

And she opens her eyes, clear and bright and ruby-red. She spies the moss and the ferns, her discarded blankets, the bugs in the dirt. She sees feeble light of dusk pushing through the trees. She smells water and dirt and trees and … smoke.

(“Alice.”)

Getting to her feet, her throat burning and her mind too full of everything that is new and unknown around her, and the ominous promise of the smoke hovering in the air, she holds the image of the man with the golden eyes in her mind and she begins to run.

(“I love you.”)

She runs North with nothing but hope and a name, spoken by the one who loves - or will love (she forgets that time moves differently when you can’t see what’s coming) - her best. She runs away from disaster, from pain and fear and sadness, and everything she came from, a brand new girl on her way to a brand new life.

(“Irreversibly and forever.”)

—

[sepublic]

Para-Realm

           When Korusca, the all-encompassing Deity of Twilight split into two halves –Shadow and Light- so did Reality. Existence itself became divided along an unstable dichotomy, struggling to exist both as a Light and Dark world; But there was simply not life energy and matter to support two realms at once. As the plane of existence flickered between Light and Dark, the Okotan Pantheon had take a stand on which side of the dichotomy they would support. There was only enough power for one world; So which would be the Prime World, one of Light or one of Shadow?

           In the end, the Elemental Deities sided with Nuva, and rest of the Okotan Pantheon, more or less, followed. The primordial elements and countless other forces of reality sided with Light; And so reality itself became a realm of Light.

           But what of darkness?

           The Shadows became a hollow shell of its former itself, an empty attempt at the world of Okoto it tried to be, but couldn’t due to the Okotan Pantheon siding with the Light. Because Light was not all-powerful, the World of Light still casted its own shadow, as all lights do; And the shadow of reality manifested as the Para-Realm, a parallel, split dimension that mirrors the prime world, while being devoid of life.

           It has gone by many names; The Dark World, the Field of Shadows, the Zone of Darkness, the Para-Realm, and so forth. It is the shadow cast by Okoto’s light, and as such it is a reactive land, fully-dependent on what happens within the World of Light. The Para-Realm is an identical, duplicate dimension to the reality that both Xia and Okoto exist in, having the same oceans, geography, layout, etc.

           The primary difference is that the Para-Realm lacks any forms of life; It is completely empty, not having the Life to be its own separate world. Instead, it merely reflects what happens in the World of Light; If a pit was dug somewhere on Okoto, then in the exact same location on Dark Okoto, shortly afterwards, a pit would inexplicably form in the earth. Because the Para-Realm more or less exists to shadow the actions of the Light-World, this means that if one were to alter the landscape in a significant fashion, it would eventually reform and revert back to the layout found in the World of Light.

           There are no animals and no people in the Para-Realm, and what plantlife it does have is a twisted, darkened version of the flora found in the Light World, something not truly alive. In general, that is what describes the Para-Realm; A darkened, imperfect imitation of the real world, clearly cruder and rougher around the edges than the original, with none of the life. The landscape and layout may be the same, more or less, but a mountain’s shadow in the Para-Realm will not have the fertility and nutrition as its prime, nor will its physical properties be quite the same.

           Because the Para-Realm is the imperfect shadow and imitation of the prime reality, this means that major changes to the Light World’s landscape take a while to manifest within the Para-Realm. The landscape CAN be altered, but again- It will eventually reform to match the Light World. Of course, if one were to place sturdy enough foundations with material not from the Para-Realm, alterations might stay; But otherwise, the land itself will always adapt.

           The Para-Realm lacks weather; Its ‘air’ is deathly-still, always, as are its waves. There is no rain; There are no Elemental Deities in the Para-Realm, so the presence of nature is absent and merely copied superificially. By consequence, this means that the hurricanes of the Endless Ocean, which made travel between Xia and Okoto nearly impossible, don’t exist in the Para-Realm; Now, this doesn’t matter ever since The Shadowed One brought both worlds together.

           Buildings, cities, and other manmade constructs of adequate size, if they stay in one place long enough, can eventually cast their own ‘shadows’ across the Para-Realm, as darkened constructs crudely resembling such fortresses rise from the earth. Depending on the materials used in the buildings reflected, these dark imitations can be outright indestructible, with any changes in their surface and shape only occurring to match what happens in the Light World.

           As a result, while the Para-Realm is ideal for infiltrating areas by accessing their equivalents in the Dark World without any guards to worry about, it is not ideal; For example, an underground bunker made up of protosteel (such as the Archives) casts a shadow in the Para-Realm, one that is similarly impenetrable. And the sturdier the shadow of a structure is in the Para-Realm, the more quickly it will reform and rebound any attempts to damage and alter it.

           The Para-Realm is almost entirely dark, although some form of superficial ‘light’ exists scattered throughout the area, sometimes emanating from spots in the shadows of plantlife, or within cracks in the ground. The sky itself, in some areas of the Para-Realm, has waves of glowing energy emanating across, like that of an Aurora Borealis; It seems that the Para-Realm is somewhat imperfectly casting the shadow of the sky’s light as well. Some areas are more well-lit than others, and light in other areas is spread so thinly that one cannot discern a source, but still see regardless.

           It is possible to live in the Para-Realm, although not recommended. Again, it lacks any true substance; There is little nutrition to be found here, with ‘dark’ plantlife yielding little and ‘water’ in the Dark World being a black, liquid substance with few of the nourishing properties of actual water. The Para-Realm is notably colder than its Light counterpart as well.

           Those who live in the Para-Realm can at least breathe there (this also applies to its dark ‘water’), but may find the air to be somewhat thin. Sound is quieter and travels shorter distances, while artificial light sources glow more dimly than usual. For the first generation of Kraahl that arrived in the Para-Realm and began living in it, constant decades of exposure to Shadows caused a change in their children, who were born as beings of Light and Shadow, possessing an affinity for Darkness not found in the World of Light that enables them to travel between both worlds. It has also affected the Zyglak, to a lesser extent; Potentially due to being more recent inhabitants with less of a vested-interest in connecting with shadow, as well as manmade creatures of mutated bio-matter waste. It seems that the longer one stays within the Para-Realm and engages with its energy, the more it will alter their physiology, transforming them into darkened creatures of Twilight.

           Aside from these ‘Twilight’ beings, there seems to be no naturally-occurring entities made of pure shadow that can be found in the Para-Realm. The closest to these are Umarak’s Shadow Traps, being made of Darkness and Metal; But those tend to be crafted in the World of Light anyway. This is the result of all six Elements, and thus Life itself, choosing to align more with the Light than the Dark, thus causing the Dark World itself to be lifeless and without much of a will.

           Something interesting to note is that during the Great Cataclysm of Okoto, the layout of the Para-Realm actually matched what happened to the island in real-time, with the landscape rapidly changing and reorganizing in sync with Okoto thanks to the Mask of Life. Similarly, when the island of Xia was transported across the ocean, Dark Xia followed along the same path in real-time as well.

           Because Shadow stands out so much against Light, its contrast can help to ‘highlight’ it; As a result, particularly powerful forms of Light can be noticed and even felt from the Para-Realm. In particular, the radiance of Lightvines is so brilliant that their glowing radiation carries on even into the Para-Realm, burning and damaging Night Wraiths due to their tenuous balance between Light and Dark being disrupted.

          Similarly, some with an affinity for the realm of Dreams can even ‘see’ the presence of others and their minds from the Para-Realm; And when those people are asleep, an individual, if they are capable, can even access their dreams from the Dark World. This is likely the result of Irnakk, Deity of Nightmares, choosing to remain neutral in the split between Light and Shadow, resulting in Nightmares being accessible from both worlds by those who can interact with them.

[freenewstoday]

New Post has been published on https://freenews.today/2020/12/01/puerto-rico-massive-arecibo-observatory-telescope-collapses-dw-01-12-2020/

Puerto Rico: Massive Arecibo Observatory telescope collapses | DW | 01.12.2020

A giant telescope at Puerto Rico’s Arecibo Observatory that had been deteriorating since August collapsed on Tuesday, officials said. 

After making astronomical discoveries for well over half a century, the radio telescope’s 900-ton receiver platform, suspended by cables 450 feet (137 meters) above a 1,000-foot-wide (305 meters) bowl-shaped reflector dish, fell on Tuesday morning.

The National Science Foundation (NSF) tweeted: “No injuries were reported. NSF is working with stakeholders to assess the situation. Our top priority is maintaining safety.”

The NSF later released a statement saying: “Local authorities will keep the area cordoned off as engineers work to assess the stability of the observatory’s other structures.”

Space photography: Stunning views of the universe

A planet is born

Photographer Martin Pugh was thrilled by what he photographed with his CDK 17 telescope in Chile in May 2019. Over many clear nights, he collected data and took precise light measurements. For 23 hours, the Australian exposed swirling hydrogen and documented the birth of a new planet.

Space photography: Stunning views of the universe

Upward view in Australia

Here, the astronomer’s sober gaze and the photographer’s enter an artistic alliance, drawing the viewer into the Milky Way’s galactic core. The Lithgow Blast Furnace building is an icon of the Australian iron and steel industry. In it, Australian Jay Evans tried out a high-resolution megapixel camera for the first time. The result was anything but disappointing.

Space photography: Stunning views of the universe

Solar eclipse with Venus

These extraordinary light conditions were in the crystal-clear air on one day at the ESO Observatory in La Silla, Chile. Using a complex technique, photographer Sebastian Voltmer captured a solar eclipse in an picture that also shows a brightly-shining Venus. Ninety-six individual images were calibrated, superimposed and fused into one glorious image.

Space photography: Stunning views of the universe

Northern Lights on the Lofoten Islands

This snapshot was taken by the German photographer Andreas Ettl on Norway’s Lofoten Islands. The remote area below the Arctic Circle is one of the world’s best places to experience a spectacular light show of the aurora borealis, as depicted in this photo, titled “Hamnoy Lights.”

Space photography: Stunning views of the universe

Capturing galactic symmetry

With impressive technical precision, Andy Casely preserved a supernatural moment with the help of a high-powered telescope. In this stunning shot taken on a summer day in 2019, the photographer captured ringed Saturn peeking out from behind the large pock-marked face of the moon.

Space photography: Stunning views of the universe

The moon over London

After three failed attempts, British photographer Mathew Browne finally succeeded in taking this somewhat eerie photo of the full moon in the British capital. Like a scene from Batman’s Gotham City, the moon shines brightly from behind the jagged facade of the Shard skyscraper. The photographer only had a few minutes to take this special shot.

Space photography: Stunning views of the universe

Arctic dance of color

Stunning natural phenomena make it easy for photographers in the Icelandic region on the edge of the Arctic Circle to capture a good shot. But professional nature photographer Ben Bush takes it to the next level in this breathtaking picture awash in green light. To take this picture, Bush kneeled at the shore of the Atlantic Ocean at a temperature of #6 degrees C (-17 Fahrenheit).

Author: Heike Mund

Read more: Scientists discover more water on moon than previously thought

Vulnerable but crash still stuns

The structure was already looking vulnerable after an auxiliary cable snapped in August, causing a 100-foot gash on the 1,000-foot-wide (305-meter-wide) dish.

A main cable then broke in early November, prompting the NSF to announce the structure was beyond repair and would have to be demolished.

Nevertheless, Tuesday’s crash stunned many scientists who had relied on what was, until 2016, the world’s largest radio telescope. It had been in operation for 57 years studying distant planets, finding potentially hazardous asteroids and searching for potential signs of extraterrestrial life.

“It sounded like a rumble. I knew exactly what it was,” said Jonathan Friedman, who worked for 26 years as a senior research associate at the observatory and still lives nearby. “I was screaming. Personally, I was out of control…. I don’t have words to express it. It’s a very deep, terrible feeling.”

Angel Vazquez, the telescope’s director of operations, told news agency The Associated Press. “It was a snowball effect,” he said. “There was no way to stop it…. It was too much for the old girl to take.”

The telescope also gained fame after being used in the 1995 James Bond film “GoldenEye” starring Pierce Brosnan.

jsi/aw (AP, AFP, Reuters)

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[hungry-black-eels]

Filmy roku 2019

1. Catch Me If You Can

2. Anna Karenina

3. Collateral Beauty

4. Listy do M. 3

5. Konyec - Az utolsó csekk a pohárban

6. Menchester by the Sea

7. Ocean’s 8

8. Ocean’s Eleven

9. The Favourite

10. Green Book

11. Atak paniki

12. Ocean’s Twelve

13. Ocean’s Thirteen

14. You Get Me

15. Isn’t It Romantic

16. A Star Is Born

17. Captain Marvel

18. The Mule

19. Ciemno, prawie noc

20. Unicorn Store

21. The Perfect Date

22. Avengers Endgame

23. Aurora Borealis Északi fény

24. Murder Mystery

25. Always Be My Maybe

26. Secret Obsession

27. Rough Night

28. Sixteen Candles

29. On Chesil Beach

30. Hotel Transylvania 3: Summer Vacation

31. The Terminal

32. Pulp Fiction

33. Groundhog Day

34. Inside Out

35. Oberboard

36. Wuthering Heights

37. American Sniper

38. Drive

39. Stulatek, który wyskoczył przez okno i zniknął

40. Molly’s Game

41. Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile

42. El Camino: A Breaking Bad Movie

43. The Ides of March

44. Klaus

45. Knives Out

46. Fantastic Beasts: The Crime of Grindelwald

47. He’s Just Not That Into You

48. The Ugly Truth

49. Rumor Has It

[ulfwolf]

The Northern Lights of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor: My home

Did you know that the aurora borealis makes a sound? It emits a sort of electrical hiss, a subtle shifting of audible frequencies, as it both shapeshifts and colorshifts across the black, star-studded sky.

I count myself very fortunate to have been born and raised in northern Sweden where each winter we had vivid northern lights (norrsken—literally, northern shine) a dozen or so times a year.

These were gigantic, multi-colored church organ pipes covering half the northern sky, fluttering or shivering slowly in the sun-particle breeze while whispering its unoiled song to all little humans standing in the snow, head back in awe.

The first several times I saw the northern lights I had yet to hear of Bach or any of his music, but I was introduced to this god of music sooner than most in that we lived a five-minute walk from our local church which sported a very impressive (I’d go so far as to say magnificent) organ, and in that the church organist was also my music teacher and he had invited me to come hear him practice any time I wanted.

The keyboards to this organ were housed in the choir loft (some call it the church balcony) at the rear of the church which you reached by climbing a narrow and spiraling set of stone steps.

Sometimes of a quiet winter night I could actually hear him play even from our house (yes, I’d have to be outside, of course, and yes, it would have to be very quiet) and then I’d rush up to the church, climb the stairs and debouch into this wonderful space that housed not only the multiple-keyboard organ cockpit, but also the seats for the choir and (of course) the magnificent pipes.

And there he would sit (his name was Harald) both hands and both feet busy with their magic. He’d sense me arriving and turn and smile at me without stopping. Me, I’d sit down and just watch and listen.

Now, it was not that I knew that the music was written by Bach—yes, he may have mentioned it but that did not register at the time. What did register, however, was Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, which Harald played more than once (he obviously loved it, too). Those ten heavenly opening notes found two eager ears and a forever home in this young boy, listening in open-mouthed wonder to his music teacher’s conjurer’s trick.

The association between the northern lights and the grand pipes of the church organ is easily made—they do sport the same features—and it’s only a few short associative steps from there to seeing Bach up there in the winter sky (once I learned that he had written the Toccata and Fugue).

To be honest, perhaps it’s not so much that this stellar piece of music was my home (as I wrote in the Wolfku above); it’s more that I became a home for it, and from there on, looking up at the divine winter-night spectacle, there they were, both Harald and Johannes Sebastian, smiling down at me.

That said, let’s fast forward a few years, and I now live in Stockholm in a very cold little apartment with a very good stereo system. One night—and, yes, I must admit to being high on hashish this night—I put on Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, and as the heavens opened in those first ten notes, I saw the familiar northern lights right there in my room, real as anything, descending through the ceiling.

Fast forward a few more years, and I wrote a short story about just that night called “Bach Lights,” which I’ve included it below. It tells of the wonder and why I still am a home for Bach, and he a home for me.

:

Bach Lights

The Winter Dawn is timid this far north. That is why she tiptoed up to my window and then hesitated, as if unsure about what to do next.

Within, Night, her brother and contrast, lingered in many places: on the windows and along the floor as frost, in the cold hash pipe as ash, in the lava lamp as yellow and red bubbly ghost still rising and falling and rising and falling from the heat of the little bulb that could.

On the table as story.

The sun scaled the sky a little more before Sister Dawn finally worked up the courage to pry herself through the frosted glass and heavy curtains and onto my face where she settled and with the help of pure physical (as in bathroom) needs found and excavated me.

I opened my eyes to wonder at the ceiling, then turned to my left to wonder at the all the little letters written on the wall, then turned to my right to wonder at the table, then at the large sheet of paper on the table with many more inky letters scrawled all over it, all mine. And when I say wondered, I really mean wondered, for as yet I could not imagine what I might have written on wall and paper.

I heaved myself halfway up and onto my elbow to wonder a little harder at the sheet of paper: so many letters, all running around scratchily in my barely legible hand. And looking, and looking again, and making out a word or two or three it came back to me, little by a little more: that long, glorious and wordy exhaling under the spell of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor.

I sat all the way up now and retrieved the sheet from the table, wrapped the blanket around me (noticing my breath as faint mist in the cold air), leaned back against the thick wall behind me, and began to read in earnest.

Reading, I returned to the night before and again fell in with Brother Cold and Dark (aka Brother Night)—Cold and Dark despite the two gas burners on my stove burning as high as they would go and hissing heat into his icy heart and despite the little kerosene heater that did all it could to give the gas burners a hand from its frosty corner.

But those were only gestures at warmth, for I live in Stockholm and it is deep winter in the capital N North with a meter of snow outside my window, glittering now and would be sharp to the touch, I could well imagine, and would squeak now underfoot, I could well imagine.

And in this capital N North my room is a tall rectangular box of frigid space: a three-meter-high ceiling with two almost meter-thick walls colder than death facing the outside, another wall nearly as cold facing the entrance way, and a fourth (not so cold but not-at-all warm) wall that I shared with my neighbor. It is in this box of winter that Brother Night and I spent an interesting evening; a cold and stoned evening—just me, though, with the stoned part, Brother Night doesn’t smoke hashish.

Initially, after a pipe or two, I had sailed across first one ocean (the Atlantic) and then a continent (USA) to reach the next ocean (the Pacific) and the big city by the water they call Los Angeles which had gifted me the Doors and their Strange Days Long Playing (LP) record. Leaving my very good speakers as stereo adventure I listened through all of side one and then all of side two and still my frosty wings were spread and eager to go places so I carefully lifted the Doors LP off the turntable and returned it to its sleeve (only touching the record edges), then found and disrobed and carefully lowered a Bach LP onto the turntable instead. Then, as carefully, brought out the stylus from its cradle and lowered it, slowly, slowly, respectfully, the way you should always lower even the most eager stylus onto Bach.

I have a theory: Bach is God. Well, if not God God then at least of the same substance, of that I have no doubt.

:

Of sounds there are none more God-like than those first measures of the Toccata and Fugue in D-minor (or D-Moll as my Archiv German pressing says). They arrived through the ceiling, from a distant somewhere up there in the darkness, as descending lashes of beauty to kill the frozen silence.

Stunned, I reached for pen and paper as would a photographer for his camera when suddenly stumbling upon extraterrestrial aliens—slowly, carefully, centimeter-by-centimeter—hoping not to draw their attention, you know, spook them.

I had to get him down om paper.

Him God. Him Bach. Had to. For were I not to let what now flowed into me, flow through me and then out of me as ink onto this stiff paper I would overfill and drown in beauty. Not a bad way to go mind you, but I was young then and not ready that final passage just yet.

But I did not reach for pen and paper inconspicuously enough. Those first few measures, midflight, spotted my movement and rushed me and wrestled me to the floor where some part of me, some sunny sandy California part of me somehow remained in the Doors’ Los Angeles: prostrate upon Santa Monica beach sand, warm ear to the warm ground listening to the Pacific, listening to wave upon wave reaching sand like wind reaching trees but another part of me—most of me—remained in the wintry Stockholm here and now hearing Bach/God descend and I scrambled back on my feet and discovered a pen in my hand and the sheet of stiff paper on my table and then I began to write down all that Bach said.

Those first few measures again, resurrected in a lower register, circling, then entering me like so many lovers: through my ears, through my eyes, through my skin, embracing me each as they entered. My body sang with Bach. Then the vision.

It was brother North Wind: the ever dawn of the northern lights, their shimmering pipes of icy organ rising shifting rising in a mid-winter fantasy making snow sing. It was God coming down through my ceiling as the aurora borealis and I knew then and there that Bach and God are indeed one and the same.

Then the world rises. It starts somewhere in the engine room of time, his feet on the lower pedals, hands too to the keyboard left as he begins to lift the planet. My room vibrates with the effort, with the strength and sheer joy of that rising. I am water I am wave I am blue ink and I flow onto stiffly white frame after frame of photographed aliens or no one will ever believe me I actually hear this.

The lifting escalates and crescendos and is done escalating now and flings open the door onto Spring.

I hear and see and follow with the tip of my very costly fountain pen which I bought just the other day knowing full well I could not afford it. But these were the days when a check was automatically good because you signed it and gave it to the clerk who then handed you the pen with smile. I have since learned the meaning of the word overdrawn, but meanwhile here it is in my hand and anyway, it’s too late to take it back now, no matter how expensive it was, so I do with it what I hoped and dreamed I would do with it and I write with it.

And out into Spring: The doors are flung wide open, onto narrow crystal steps that dance up into the morning into sky. No more brother North Wind now, just dawn and dew and those little lakes of silver that form on my petals and leaves and do to sense of smell what Michelangelo does to rock.

I wish I could cry matching tears.

Though for whose benefit? I am overcome, yes, but not beyond control. So, un-crying, I keep writing. I no longer know exactly what I say or why really just that I know that this is a capital M Moment and I am having some sort of epiphany here and maybe just maybe I’m a genius of some kind that someone is waiting to discover and make immensely rich and warm and to move out of this freezing almost ceiling-less room so full of darkness and frost and this immense music.

Sound as Mountain. Physical. And I confess I lose my way. In Him.

I reach the end of the paper and there is more to write as I sail on, cast about by waves—a soul in blessed turmoil. And then a new cresting that lets me sprout wings and out and over I glide. He does this to you, you know, God does. Bach does.

I have taken leave of Stockholm of winter of snow and Boreas’ and Bach’s Light and now there is only ocean reflecting soul and I cannot comprehend how anyone encumbered with arms and legs and fingers and toes could possibly have conceived and composed beauty such as this, wings such as these and again I remind myself that I am in His presence, sailing His air, and that for Him all is possible.

I turn the sheet over. The one sheet. I only have the one sheet? Why have I only the one sheet? But wondering does not turn it into several, so instead I turn it over and continue this scribbly dance on the other side and I hope that at least some small vestige of what enters actually exits as I race ahead by one inky Swedish word after another and turning my head now I see a path that perhaps can be followed, perhaps should be followed, perhaps must be followed, or I will never find my way back.

What goes through God’s mind when he writes music like this? What could possibly inspire Him, source of all inspiration? But something does and did and am I really the first to hear this? To hear what He meant. To see what He saw.

There are islets below. They could be Greece or they could be Australia or they could be our own Stockholm archipelago in the summer I don’t know and really, I don’t care as long as my wings carry me and I don’t fly too close to the sun.

My speakers make a faint hum from an inverter I need in this old apartment, so old it only has direct current (DC) electricity which needs chopping up into little AC bits to drive my stereo and that’s what makes them hum but God doesn’t care and I no longer notice. Now there is only space and the windy tapestry of pipes as I approach the edge of the second page and there is so much more to say but nowhere to say it so I turn to the clean wall behind me and now I have a sheet to last me.

We sail on, Bach and God and I for the final measure.

Timid Sister Dawn (she is very perceptive) sees all this of course which is perhaps why she finally ventured through frosty panes and heavy curtain to find my face, beneath which I sleep the sleep of last night’s frost and though I slowly know her on my face up there on the somewhere surface I choose to ignore her for a while. But she has come to stay and soon manages to dispel her brother to some nether, even colder region, to under my bed perhaps and into corners where he will sulk till the sun sets again to set him loose and she tugs me gently and tells me to wake up, to wake all the way up and to open my eyes.

:

“So what do you think?” I ask.

My friend gets to the bottom of the stiff sheet and mumbles, without taking his eyes off the text, “Amazing.” Then he turns the sheet over.

“Do you think your dad might publish it?” I ask. His dad is an editor of some sort. It’s a small magazine, but quite prestigious I’m told.

“I would think so,” he says and keeps reading. “Surreal,” he adds after another while, still not taking his eyes off my scribbles.

Then he gets to the bottom of the second page and says, “Does it end here?”

He turns the sheet over again and over again and over again looking for a better ending. “Where is the rest?”

“On my wall,” I remember.

http://rowansongs.com/blog/2019/2/2/the-wolfku-garden-22

[tripxtours]

Countries that are best to visit in January

The month of January is significant in several aspects. It is the end of an era and the beginning of a new one. What better way to kick start the New Year than to take a trip to a place you’ve never been to before? So this January, take a chance to explore uncharted territories, seek new experiences and discover memories that will last a lifetime.

Before you pick a place to visit, the first and foremost thing to check is the weather. During January, the northern hemisphere undergoes winter, while the people of the southern hemisphere will enjoy summer. Ultimately it depends on what experience you wish to capture during your time off from routine life. While some love spending their time soaking in the sun and vacationing on a beach, some others love the ghastly beauty of winter.

In this write-up, we will help you solve this dilemma by describing the best possible adventures you can have, all the places that are simply exceptional to visit during the beautiful month of January. So get ready and dive in, and come out with your next destination imprinted on your heart.

Iceland, the land of ice and fire

They say a picture tells a thousand words; we are definite that it is true in this case.  You may be wondering why a country that goes through a harsh winter is suggested in this article. Well, doubt no more. Iceland is one of the best places in the world you can witness the northern lights shimmering through the skies during the night time. Due to its significant placement geographically, it is one of the closest points to the North Pole which is the reason why the aurora borealis (northern lights) is clearly visible from here.

You can also explore the remnants of the Viking culture that still thrives in Iceland if you take a walk through Reykjavik. You can also have the chance to explore a geothermal spring such as the ones in Landmannalaugar. If you are someone who loves the marine life, you can pay a visit to the Black beach, Diamond beach and you can also get a rare chance to witness an Icelandic whale swim right beneath your boat. A country born from a volcanic eruption and filled with vast white snow, it is truly an amazing place to see. So pack your bags, grab your thermals and go!

Dubai, the land where dreams come true

Situated in a country that develops every second, this city is unlike any other. During the month of January, the people of Dubai enjoy a pleasant climate with temperatures ranging from 18-28 degree Celsius, similar to the British Summer throughout the month. You can make the most of your time in this city and try out almost all of the activities and experiences available. Make sure you don’t miss a trip to Burj Khalifa- the tallest skyscraper in the world, Burj Al Arab, and the theme park world of Dubai!

An added reason to visit Dubai in January is the DSF- or Dubai Shopping Festival that goes on with much celebration until the end of the month. This grand event simply redefines the experience of shopping. You can visit a variety of outdoor markets, flash mobs, mega sales and have the chance to win numerous rewards.

January is also the month when the Dubai Motorbike Festival is held at the Dubai World Trade Center. Here you will get a chance to witness the largest exhibition of its kind in the world and be marveled at the amazing designs and innovations in the motorbike world. You can read this blog if you still need the motivation to plan a trip to Dubai!

 Australia- Endless beaches and more!

The land of coral reefs and kangaroos, Australia is a continent/nation that is truly a great family vacation destination. As it is located in the southern hemisphere, summer months include January is one of the best times of the year to explore this place. In Sydney, you can explore the city in the best possible weather with temperatures ranging from 23 – 26 degree Celsius. As you travel closer to the ocean, the chill may increase as well.

However, there is no argument about January being the ideal month to explore the beaches of Australia. Be it Brisbane or Melbourne, every ocean is a breath-taking turquoise and comes with an amazing view in this land. They also have plenty of activities you can indulge yourself in such as snorkeling/ diving in the reefs, exploring the limestone caves and trying out some water sports.

Make sure you don’t miss the cities like Sydney, Perth, Gold Coast, Melbourne, Brisbane and especially the Great Barrier Reef. If you want to try out some of the lesser explored areas, you should pay a visit to Hunter Valley, Murramarand National Park, Philip Island, Twelve Apostles, and Lucky Bay.

 Cambodia & Laos, unexplored jewels of Asia

This pair of countries that often clubbed together for travel by explorers is a wonderful destination in January. With similar history, heritage, ancient buildings and Buddhist monasteries of Cambodia and the French colonial architecture present in Laos all contribute to this collective charm.

As they are tropical countries, the primary check to be made is the status of rain. During January, the weather gets as dry as it can get and you can traverse through places without having to worry of being drenched. The temperatures range around 17-26 in both of these countries.

Some of the places that should not be missed while visiting these two countries are the ruins of Angkor Wat, Siem Reap, Bayon, Ta Promh, the viewpoint at Nong Khiaw, underground river cave, night markets, and the local food joints!

Hong Kong, Asia’s world city

A country known to be a merging point of the eastern and western cultures, Hong Kong is a land filled with seaside adventures, mountains, endless skyscrapers, and rural settings. Now you know why it remains one of the most sought after cities in the entire globe.

In January, this country is cool, dry and mild; making it ideal for a hassle-free sightseeing experience. Take a trip to the world’s highest bar, take an endless hike across a mountain, and simply enjoy the tranquillity that exists in this country amidst the rapid development. Equipped experiences ranging from the buzz of the nightlife and rich cultural experiences, Hong Kong is the PLACE to be in January! Explore some of the priceless attractions of Hong Kong to make your holiday memorable and simply enjoy that well-deserved vacation!

Singapore, Passion made possible

Singapore is a country that is visited well throughout the year irrelevant of seasons. However, during January, the land is cool enough to not break a sweat and this can help make your trip more pleasant. Filled with possibilities, this city has activities for the nature lover, thrill seeker and every other kind of traveler.

This city is a perfect combination of urban structures unspoiled sanctuaries and lush green parks. You should take a walk through the streets at night if you are a foodie at heart. Filled with mouth-watering spices and aromas, the streets of Singapore have a long list of must-try delicacies.

Without a visit to the Mer-lion, your visit to Singapore will remain incomplete. You can also try the hop-on and Hop-off bus tours during your time here. So this January, take a trip to Singapore and relish in its authenticity, development, and beauty.

 Paris, The city of lights

If you ask someone about the best time to visit Paris, they will probably answer with the name of a summer month. Even though the summer days may be longer and warmer, there is a mystical beauty that engulfs the city during winters which are a must see. Snow covered roads leading to the Eiffel tower, kids skating on frozen lakes, and a whiff of fresh winter delicacies are all parts of the soul of Paris in January.

You can get the best of both seasons by taking a trip to Paris on this month as the winter is not quite over yet and hence the mood is still set, but it is also not too cold like during the heart of the season. The crowned winter special delicacy to try is the Galette des Rois which you can find in any bakery of Paris during this season. Rich, creamy and soft, this frangipani tart will create an explosion of comfortable flavors in your mouth. You can also try the Vin Chaud or the Hot mulled wine which is another way Parisians warm their body up during cold winters.

Another huge advantage of a winter trip to Paris is that you can go almost anywhere without having to deal with a crowd. Be it the Louvre museum, the Versailles Palace or the banks of the river Seine, you can see the true beauty of Paris without being caught in the rush of tourists.

As we conclude, we hope we’ve succeeded to incept an idea of a destination into your heart, which you would choose to follow! They say travel is the only thing that makes you richer when you pay for it. So take a chance and travel to a corner of the world this January with #NOREGRETS.

[alexandritessfw]

Solo Solstice part 1.

It was a dark night, a new moon, when the expecting mother felt her first labor pain. In a dark den she lay, readying for the birth of her first litter. The mother, Alpine, was one of the most beautiful in her large pack, her coat a dazzling white, and her eyes bright like hot embers, though she had not wanted to mate, her father was the alpha, the rest of the pack her other family members, and even when an occasional rouge male would show up, she had no interest for it meant leaving her family. Or, that was when she had a family at least. A pack, with what seemed more monster than wolf leading them, attacked their home. They had felt safe for long, living in a fertile crater, surrounded by ocean on one side, and dense forest on the other. They came through the forest, the leader, Vanta, wielding dark powers of fire and superior strength. He was larger and darker then any creature she had ever seen. His pack also seemed wrong somehow, more barbaric in nature, they fought to the death without hesitation, it was like they were just pawns, not family. They made swift work of her family, she too was almost killed, but Vanta stopped it upon noticing she was in heat and quite beautiful.She cringed with both the pain, and the thought of Vanta. Her first two cubs, a male and a female, both white like their mother, came rather easily, but with the last she struggled, she felt like she was on fire, it burned, she pushed as hard as she could, and a small black boy was born. She was instantly nervous, he was far too dark, abnormally and impossibly dark, perhaps even darker than Vanta. But he cried, a soft squeak, then more. She stopped, and began to fuss over her young, making sure they were clean and healthy. They all checked out, even the dark runt. As she settled with her young, nursing them, she came up with their names. She did not care of Vanta's opinion, these were HER children, not his. She had named the first two, Aurora her daughter, and Borealis her son, after the Northern Lights she had loved so. Thinking of the runts name, she remembered the darkness of the winter solstice, when it remains darks for months, and cloudy, moonless nights seemed impossibly dark. So she named him Winter Solstice, with love, and with hope a big name would help him grow big and strong. In that same crater, on the same night a prophecy was born. A legacy, that struck fear into even Vanta's black heart. An angel, under duress, had told the the tale to the beast. On a dark night, a son even darker will be born, his power, his strength, rival only to his heart break. A king of tragedy, he must conquer blood, only to fall, but for all time he grows more tall. Vanta sent his scouts to search his harem, with orders to kill any sons born too dark. Obsidian, a grandson of Vanta and a scout, had over heard the tortured angel's story. He had remembered a specific female that he had once tried to help escape when his pack first arrived. A beautiful white wolf named Alpine. "Apls!" he whispered when he found her scent. "Alpine!" he called quietly, crawling on his stomach to not be caught, and to show no ill intentions, as he could smell she was no longer pregnant and must have young near by. "Sid" a voice whispered back. "Yes, I'm coming to you Apls." he called back and crawled in the direction of the voice. Her head peaked out from a well hidden den. "Alpine, I don't mean to intrude, but I must see them" he crawled closer. She growled, "They are just hours old it is no time for visiting". He sighed, "Alpine, what color are they?". She looked at him confused and hesitant, be she saw the urgency in his eyes. "Two white, and a very dark one". He cringed a little. "Dark one a male?" Alpine nodded. "Alpine, he is in grave danger, the scouts have orders to kill any dark sons of Vanta's lines" he said, he sounded as serious as he possibly could. "Alps, I have to get rid of him, if you hide him you'll be killed!". "No, he is my son, I won't just abandon him, or leave him for dead, I refuse." she had authority in her voice. Obsidian paused, thinking. "Alpine, you have to trust me, the other scouts are going to come looking for you, I can hide him, I promise I will not harm him." he was being sincere. "Obsidian you have helped me before, I can't completely trust you with, but I believe I have no choice" she slips into the den, coming back with a small, crying, dark ball of fur in her mouth. He felt hot, like a rock left in the hot summer sun, in her mouth. She passed him to Obsidian, he too noticed the heat, and was amazed by the sheer darkness of his coat. "His name is Winter Solstice, please take good care of him while we are apart" she pleaded. Obsidian nodded. Carrying the child, as scouts continued to search to crater. He wasn't sure if he believes in the prophecy, but he hoped it was true, for he wanted an end to Vanta's tirade as much as anyone, could this small child really be the thing of legends?

[ulfwolf]

Toccata and Fugue — Musing 22

The Northern Lights of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor: My home

Did you know that the aurora borealis makes a sound? It emits a sort of electrical hiss, a subtle shifting of audible frequencies, as it both shapeshifts and colorshifts across the black, star-studded sky.

I count myself very fortunate to have been born and raised in northern Sweden where each winter we had vivid northern lights (norrsken—literally, northern shine) a dozen or so times a year.

These were gigantic, multi-colored church organ pipes covering half the northern sky, fluttering or shivering slowly in the sun-particle breeze while whispering its unoiled song to all little humans standing in the snow, head back in awe.

The first several times I saw the northern lights I had yet to hear of Bach or any of his music, but I was introduced to this god of music sooner than most in that we lived a five-minute walk from our local church which sported a very impressive (I’d go so far as to say magnificent) organ, and in that the church organist was also my music teacher and he had invited me to come hear him practice any time I wanted.

The keyboards to this organ were housed in the choir loft (some call it the church balcony) at the rear of the church which you reached by climbing a narrow and spiraling set of stone steps.

Sometimes of a quiet winter night I could actually hear him play even from our house (yes, I’d have to be outside, of course, and yes, it would have to be very quiet) and then I’d rush up to the church, climb the stairs and debouch into this wonderful space that housed not only the multiple-keyboard organ cockpit, but also the seats for the choir and (of course) the magnificent pipes.

And there he would sit (his name was Harald) both hands and both feet busy with their magic. He’d sense me arriving and turn and smile at me without stopping. Me, I’d sit down and just watch and listen.

Now, it was not that I knew that the music was written by Bach—yes, he may have mentioned it but that did not register at the time. What did register, however, was Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, which Harald played more than once (he obviously loved it, too). Those ten heavenly opening notes found two eager ears and a forever home in this young boy, listening in open-mouthed wonder to his music teacher’s conjurer’s trick.

The association between the northern lights and the grand pipes of the church organ is easily made—they do sport the same features—and it’s only a few short associative steps from there to seeing Bach up there in the winter sky (once I learned that he had written the Toccata and Fugue).

To be honest, perhaps it’s not so much that this stellar piece of music was my home (as I wrote in the Wolfku above); it’s more that I became a home for it, and from there on, looking up at the divine winter-night spectacle, there they were, both Harald and Johannes Sebastian, smiling down at me.

That said, let’s fast forward a few years, and I now live in Stockholm in a very cold little apartment with a very good stereo system. One night—and, yes, I must admit to being high on hashish this night—I put on Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor, and as the heavens opened in those first ten notes, I saw the familiar northern lights right there in my room, real as anything, descending through the ceiling.

Fast forward a few more years, and I wrote a short story about just that night called “Bach Lights,” which I’ve included it below. It tells of the wonder and why I still am a home for Bach, and he a home for me.

:

Bach Lights

The Winter Dawn is timid this far north. That is why she tiptoed up to my window and then hesitated, as if unsure about what to do next.

Within, Night, her brother and contrast, lingered in many places: on the windows and along the floor as frost, in the cold hash pipe as ash, in the lava lamp as yellow and red bubbly ghost still rising and falling and rising and falling from the heat of the little bulb that could.

On the table as story.

The sun scaled the sky a little more before Sister Dawn finally worked up the courage to pry herself through the frosted glass and heavy curtains and onto my face where she settled and with the help of pure physical (as in bathroom) needs found and excavated me.

I opened my eyes to wonder at the ceiling, then turned to my left to wonder at the all the little letters written on the wall, then turned to my right to wonder at the table, then at the large sheet of paper on the table with many more inky letters scrawled all over it, all mine. And when I say wondered, I really mean wondered, for as yet I could not imagine what I might have written on wall and paper.

I heaved myself halfway up and onto my elbow to wonder a little harder at the sheet of paper: so many letters, all running around scratchily in my barely legible hand. And looking, and looking again, and making out a word or two or three it came back to me, little by a little more: that long, glorious and wordy exhaling under the spell of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor.

I sat all the way up now and retrieved the sheet from the table, wrapped the blanket around me (noticing my breath as faint mist in the cold air), leaned back against the thick wall behind me, and began to read in earnest.

Reading, I returned to the night before and again fell in with Brother Cold and Dark (aka Brother Night)—Cold and Dark despite the two gas burners on my stove burning as high as they would go and hissing heat into his icy heart and despite the little kerosene heater that did all it could to give the gas burners a hand from its frosty corner.

But those were only gestures at warmth, for I live in Stockholm and it is deep winter in the capital N North with a meter of snow outside my window, glittering now and would be sharp to the touch, I could well imagine, and would squeak now underfoot, I could well imagine.

And in this capital N North my room is a tall rectangular box of frigid space: a three-meter-high ceiling with two almost meter-thick walls colder than death facing the outside, another wall nearly as cold facing the entrance way, and a fourth (not so cold but not-at-all warm) wall that I shared with my neighbor. It is in this box of winter that Brother Night and I spent an interesting evening; a cold and stoned evening—just me, though, with the stoned part, Brother Night doesn’t smoke hashish.

Initially, after a pipe or two, I had sailed across first one ocean (the Atlantic) and then a continent (USA) to reach the next ocean (the Pacific) and the big city by the water they call Los Angeles which had gifted me the Doors and their Strange Days Long Playing (LP) record. Leaving my very good speakers as stereo adventure I listened through all of side one and then all of side two and still my frosty wings were spread and eager to go places so I carefully lifted the Doors LP off the turntable and returned it to its sleeve (only touching the record edges), then found and disrobed and carefully lowered a Bach LP onto the turntable instead. Then, as carefully, brought out the stylus from its cradle and lowered it, slowly, slowly, respectfully, the way you should always lower even the most eager stylus onto Bach.

I have a theory: Bach is God. Well, if not God God then at least of the same substance, of that I have no doubt.

:

Of sounds there are none more God-like than those first measures of the Toccata and Fugue in D-minor (or D-Moll as my Archiv German pressing says). They arrived through the ceiling, from a distant somewhere up there in the darkness, as descending lashes of beauty to kill the frozen silence.

Stunned, I reached for pen and paper as would a photographer for his camera when suddenly stumbling upon extraterrestrial aliens—slowly, carefully, centimeter-by-centimeter—hoping not to draw their attention, you know, spook them.

I had to get him down om paper.

Him God. Him Bach. Had to. For were I not to let what now flowed into me, flow through me and then out of me as ink onto this stiff paper I would overfill and drown in beauty. Not a bad way to go mind you, but I was young then and not ready that final passage just yet.

But I did not reach for pen and paper inconspicuously enough. Those first few measures, midflight, spotted my movement and rushed me and wrestled me to the floor where some part of me, some sunny sandy California part of me somehow remained in the Doors’ Los Angeles: prostrate upon Santa Monica beach sand, warm ear to the warm ground listening to the Pacific, listening to wave upon wave reaching sand like wind reaching trees but another part of me—most of me—remained in the wintry Stockholm here and now hearing Bach/God descend and I scrambled back on my feet and discovered a pen in my hand and the sheet of stiff paper on my table and then I began to write down all that Bach said.

Those first few measures again, resurrected in a lower register, circling, then entering me like so many lovers: through my ears, through my eyes, through my skin, embracing me each as they entered. My body sang with Bach. Then the vision.

It was brother North Wind: the ever dawn of the northern lights, their shimmering pipes of icy organ rising shifting rising in a mid-winter fantasy making snow sing. It was God coming down through my ceiling as the aurora borealis and I knew then and there that Bach and God are indeed one and the same.

Then the world rises. It starts somewhere in the engine room of time, his feet on the lower pedals, hands too to the keyboard left as he begins to lift the planet. My room vibrates with the effort, with the strength and sheer joy of that rising. I am water I am wave I am blue ink and I flow onto stiffly white frame after frame of photographed aliens or no one will ever believe me I actually hear this.

The lifting escalates and crescendos and is done escalating now and flings open the door onto Spring.

I hear and see and follow with the tip of my very costly fountain pen which I bought just the other day knowing full well I could not afford it. But these were the days when a check was automatically good because you signed it and gave it to the clerk who then handed you the pen with smile. I have since learned the meaning of the word overdrawn, but meanwhile here it is in my hand and anyway, it’s too late to take it back now, no matter how expensive it was, so I do with it what I hoped and dreamed I would do with it and I write with it.

And out into Spring: The doors are flung wide open, onto narrow crystal steps that dance up into the morning into sky. No more brother North Wind now, just dawn and dew and those little lakes of silver that form on my petals and leaves and do to sense of smell what Michelangelo does to rock.

I wish I could cry matching tears.

Though for whose benefit? I am overcome, yes, but not beyond control. So, un-crying, I keep writing. I no longer know exactly what I say or why really just that I know that this is a capital M Moment and I am having some sort of epiphany here and maybe just maybe I’m a genius of some kind that someone is waiting to discover and make immensely rich and warm and to move out of this freezing almost ceiling-less room so full of darkness and frost and this immense music.

Sound as Mountain. Physical. And I confess I lose my way. In Him.

I reach the end of the paper and there is more to write as I sail on, cast about by waves—a soul in blessed turmoil. And then a new cresting that lets me sprout wings and out and over I glide. He does this to you, you know, God does. Bach does.

I have taken leave of Stockholm of winter of snow and Boreas��� and Bach’s Light and now there is only ocean reflecting soul and I cannot comprehend how anyone encumbered with arms and legs and fingers and toes could possibly have conceived and composed beauty such as this, wings such as these and again I remind myself that I am in His presence, sailing His air, and that for Him all is possible.

I turn the sheet over. The one sheet. I only have the one sheet? Why have I only the one sheet? But wondering does not turn it into several, so instead I turn it over and continue this scribbly dance on the other side and I hope that at least some small vestige of what enters actually exits as I race ahead by one inky Swedish word after another and turning my head now I see a path that perhaps can be followed, perhaps should be followed, perhaps must be followed, or I will never find my way back.

What goes through God’s mind when he writes music like this? What could possibly inspire Him, source of all inspiration? But something does and did and am I really the first to hear this? To hear what He meant. To see what He saw.

There are islets below. They could be Greece or they could be Australia or they could be our own Stockholm archipelago in the summer I don’t know and really, I don’t care as long as my wings carry me and I don’t fly too close to the sun.

My speakers make a faint hum from an inverter I need in this old apartment, so old it only has direct current (DC) electricity which needs chopping up into little AC bits to drive my stereo and that’s what makes them hum but God doesn’t care and I no longer notice. Now there is only space and the windy tapestry of pipes as I approach the edge of the second page and there is so much more to say but nowhere to say it so I turn to the clean wall behind me and now I have a sheet to last me.

We sail on, Bach and God and I for the final measure.

Timid Sister Dawn (she is very perceptive) sees all this of course which is perhaps why she finally ventured through frosty panes and heavy curtain to find my face, beneath which I sleep the sleep of last night’s frost and though I slowly know her on my face up there on the somewhere surface I choose to ignore her for a while. But she has come to stay and soon manages to dispel her brother to some nether, even colder region, to under my bed perhaps and into corners where he will sulk till the sun sets again to set him loose and she tugs me gently and tells me to wake up, to wake all the way up and to open my eyes.

:

“So what do you think?” I ask.

My friend gets to the bottom of the stiff sheet and mumbles, without taking his eyes off the text, “Amazing.” Then he turns the sheet over.

“Do you think your dad might publish it?” I ask. His dad is an editor of some sort. It’s a small magazine, but quite prestigious I’m told.

“I would think so,” he says and keeps reading. “Surreal,” he adds after another while, still not taking his eyes off my scribbles.

Then he gets to the bottom of the second page and says, “Does it end here?”

He turns the sheet over again and over again and over again looking for a better ending. “Where is the rest?”

“On my wall,” I remember.

::

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