#to the dark unreachable unknown of the in between period

[doeeyeddyke]

The Old House

Desi LGBT Fest

Day 18: The Box of Pictures in Ma’s Attic

@desi-lgbt-fest​

[safiredreams]

PLANETS IN THE 12TH HOUSE

PART I

Sun in the 12th may have a hard time forming a sense of identity, their ego is soft and malleable, shaped and reshaped by invisible forces. Solitude is prominent. Channeling the archetypes of the collective unconscious and acting as their medium through art is often very healing and fruitful to people with the Sun in this house. There is undeniable need for these people to create healthy boundaries and establish their own solid egos. Knowing that their own goals and desires are important is something that the 12th house Suns need to learn if they are to live happy and fulfilled lives.

Moon in the 12th often confuses other peoples feelings for their own. The line between ones one inner world and the universe is drawn faintly. They need to learn to use their sensitive nature in a healthy way and not be consumed by the feelings of those outside of themselves. When they begin to feel overwhelmed, silence and alone time is golden. Dreams connected to ancestors long dead are often present in these natives lives, unfinished business lurks in the shadows and waits like a demon to be exorcised in this lifetime.

Mercury in the 12th is dealt the hand of great imagination. Diving deep into the ocean of unknown, these people find amazing buried treasures. Coming back up periodically to share those amazing pieces of knowledge with the world is what keeps them sane. At best there is an ability to translate the strange, fantastical and mysterious wonders of the 12th house into logical, digestible and easy to understand ways. If the person does not take the time to understand and analyze the subjects drawn from this strange well, the mind descends into dark and dangerous territories that harm them in the long run. This one is a placement found in many great writers charts.

Venus in the 12th more than anything wants to transcend the earthly existence and return back to the very place their soul was born in. Connection to the universe is felt deeply. Beauty and relationship standards may be unreachable, as they have a quality of other worldliness to them. I often see people with this placement falling in love with those who they cannot have. Sacrifice and complete loss of self desire is seen often with this placement and is something that the natives needs to keep their eye on. Musicians, painters, and dancers often have this placement.

Mars in the 12th may hate their own aggressive side. Going after what they want may feel strange, foreign, and illusive. The 12th house is not selfish, but Mars is. Often I see these natives using their Martian energy to help others achieve something that they themselves have wanted to do. Confusion arise when they start their journey towards the thing that they want but end up going in a completely different direction, as if their own inner compass had deceived them. Going after things for the benefit of another person often keeps these people on track.

Jupiter in the 12th acts as a guiding light. The 12th house is confusing and murky, when the going gets tough people with this placement can call upon an inner trust, a guide that reminds them of their vision and leads them to their desired destination. Jupiter wants the truth, the very meaning of life, and these people know intuitively that the meaning to life is found within them. People with this placement need to make sure that they develop a trust within themselves and not look for it in outside sources. Caution when it comes to overindulgence in drugs, alcohol, fantasy, and various escapist tendencies needs to be taken. When darkness threatens to envelop, Jupiter saves the day.

[skevans]

Nocturne op.72 no.1 — Essay

Hi, welcome to my long-forgotten tumblr I barely remembered existed. Dust and cobwebs aside, this is an essay I initially wrote in French for a Literature class. Don't ask me how the hell I found the will to hand this in to my teacher, bless his soul.

A couple of years later, I found that essay in the depth of a folder on my computer. I remembered what was in it, to a point, but when I decided to read it again, I got very emotional (and very mortified 'cause oh god school). And during the following weeks, I started thinking about a lot of things that were still floating unresolved within my head. But then, I decided to write. And after a few days of internal debate, I posted the first chapter of A Sea of Silence.

It's been months since I finished that story, and those months have not been kind to me for many reasons. And maybe that's why, this week, I started thinking about that essay. When I did, I was overcome with a desire to share it with the world—and especially with the people who read my fic. So here it is, hastily translated but just as honest. Please note that it discusses anxiety.

And so, thank you if you take the time to read this, and an even bigger thank you if you read the essay, too! 

Nocturne op.72 no.1

When I think back on my childhood, I hear the sound of piano. Various melodies follow me, accompanying me in a waltz between memories. It’s my mother’s interpretation of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata that haunts the quiet moments. My sister and I would play in an adjacent room, glowing with delight as our mother started the first movement. It’s the piece’s somber and melancholic tone that colours my memory, but it’s a good kind of darkness—the kind that feels like the soft touch of night as you walk under the stars. My mother didn’t stop there; she would segue into the second movement, a graceful interlude that almost got swallowed in between the grandiosity of the other movements. And at last, she would tackle the final piece. I remember the anticipation; I remember wanting to watch her fingers fly over the keys. We would sneak in the living room—don’t make so much noise, you’re gonna bother her!—and thus we became the spectators to a private concert. The combination of semiquavers and staccato, everything played presto agitato, was the most fascinating thing. And despite the intensity and the tempestuous rhythm, I would sense my muscles relaxing, my thoughts lightening, the frenetic beat of my heart slowing. When I listen to this piece now, there’s still a glimpse of that long forgotten peace.

I turn six and I learn the piano. It’s a decision that comes from me, but also from my mother. It’s a decision that pleases me, even enchants me. The learning process goes well; I love to learn and I love to play—a rarely seen fervour seizes me. My motivation originates both from a desire to walk into my mother’s footsteps and from a childish inclination to create noise. The teacher likes me, and the sentiment is reciprocal; she speaks with a soft voice, but underneath there is an unyielding tone that I come to respect. She nudges me forward, constantly making sure that I don’t neglect my practice. I try to meet her expectations because I want to succeed, but also to maintain that impression of calm that possesses me when I sit at the piano.

The next step is to play at a recital, so we set off for the musical conservatory. I’m ten the first time I play before an audience. Panic controls me—I worry I won’t be able to perform, and the thought loops in my mind until I believe it. I climb on the stage in spite of my terror, and the room morphs into a cage. At 10 years-old, the size of the concert hall is intimidating, to a point that my heart crawls up my throat. The exit is far—way too far—and all the stares fixed on me feel more like I’m attending a trial than a recital. My hands become damp (how will I play if my hands slip?), but wiping them on my dress of red velvet means showing my fear—and my father always tells me not to show my fear. So I look at the floor and force my legs to move until finally, finally, I stand before the piano. I sit. Even now, I believe it’s impossible for me to play my piece, that piece I yet find so easy. I take my time adjusting the bench; once done, my hands reflexively settle over the keys. One deep breath—and I start to play. That tranquility I’m so desperate for guides me, and the audience fades from my mind. My eyes track my fingers as they find all the notes—not one mistake—and for a moment, it’s like I’m floating over my body, surrendering utter control to instinct and music. Once the piece ends and my hands lift from the piano, it’s the thunderous applause that tugs me back into reality; I walk off the stage, that paralyzing feeling of fright dismissed.

The feeling that possesses me is anxiety. At 6 years-old, as I begin learning the piano, I don’t know what anxiety is; the only thing I understand is that music offers solace. When I turn 10, I can’t find the word to explain that emotion that assaulted me as I stepped on the stage. It’s with time that I discover the word “anxiety”. I see my reflection in the definitions I find in dictionaries and on the web; it’s those definitions that grasp onto me, that glue themselves over me until I cannot dissociate them from my being without ripping out of my skin. The term “anxiety” now belongs to me—or rather, I belong to it. The years pass and my thoughts cede before it. My anxiety takes control of me for a period of my life; I have lost all mastery of myself. I graduate from high school with terrible difficulty; I drop out of college three times. But anxiety doesn’t stop there; she smears her poison throughout all spheres of my life. My relationship with my family degenerates slowly but surely—so do many of my friendships. Working becomes a hurdle because my boss at the store agitates me with her severe attitude—it feels like nothing is never enough and everything is wrong. I cannot stand myself anymore. Anxiety seeps into my body, an army of swarming bugs that infiltrate all I am as an individual. They contaminate me from the inside, and I am nothing but a puppet, subjected to circumstances out of my control. And this lasts and lasts and lasts for eight years—eight long years. I lose my footing and fall into the arms of depression several times. Appointments with doctors tell me what I already knew. We try solutions and then more solutions; there are good times, scarce but cherished. But happiness and peace of mind slip through my fingers like grains of sand; I grab another handful, but it was never meant to last. These feelings end up seeming distant, unreachable, impossible. I mind myself to the fact that I will have to live with the physical and emotional wounds my anxiety inflicts on me. Time and experience allow me to gauge my level of comfort and how to react; sometimes, I cannot step out of my apartment. And so life goes on—and I am swept away by the tides.

Thinking back on this slice of my life, I’ve come to several conclusions. There were many happenings that were completely out of my control—and yet, as I dig deeper and deeper, I realize that this deviation originates from one thing in particular.

The year I turn 15, I experience an acute pain in my right wrist. Holding a pen for longer than a few minutes is impractical; playing piano on a regular basis is impossible. Those news, validated by a medical consultation, are not surprising—but they are heartbreaking. Later, the pain extends to my shoulder. Within weeks, I become an unwilling witness to the collapse of my dream of studying and teaching piano. The problem comes from within me, within my body—my love for the piano is the trigger to this pain. I’m told that a cure is implausible—you can do exercises to lessen the pain, and you have to eliminate repetitive movements since they will worsen it, and yes, miss, that includes the piano. I used to play piano at least one hour a day, something that unconsciously kept my anxiety at bay—but the inability to play for longer than a few minutes opens the door to my anxiety. I discover myself anew when I’m 16: tirelessly worried, always anxious, terribly distrustful. It’s the start of the downward spiral. I am not me anymore, I am someone else. Anxiety is my mother, instability is my father, fear is my sister. I am reborn into an unknown world dubbed Real Life by my family, who firmly believe this is part of being a teenager. But I don’t believe in this Real Life, and I pray to all and nothing for a miracle. I only know one line of prayer so I make up my own. I fill fictive litanies with my fears and my hopes. Amen. I refuse to consider this existence as True because to me, it can only be False. But my convictions are tossed aside, their dismissal hammered into me endlessly. It’s almost as if a huge neon sign hangs on a wall of my bedroom: Welcome to Real Life! But all I see are ridiculous directives that only bring misfortune—don’t forget to register for our latest draw! Discover what setbacks you will endure next! I don’t want this—I refuse, I reject, I refute. It’s the song of my mind, playing on repeat; I want to believe it—I want to believe it more than anything else because I have exhausted all of my solutions and the future beyond is veiled in uncertainty.

But with time, I realize that simply wanting something, no matter how much, doesn’t mean it will slip into the world through the cracks of my resolve. And so, I begin to toil over my own fate. I try to shape it. I fail. I try again. It’s a cycle with no end in sight. I wander aimlessly through life, and thus I discover more of myself and I try to understand. Questions assail me; most of the time, there is no answer; when there are, they are often unpleasant. Still, I accept them—because I have learned that closing my eyes and rejecting a reality will not bring me anything. This crushing problem, this anxiety that manipulates me, I try to be aware of it—and in the end, I accept it. She is part of me, too intrinsic for me to surrender her; she welded her existence in my foundations, and if I break free, I negate myself. But what crystallizes with time is the recognition that I’m living a fight that I believed lost before even entering the arena. It’s an intimidating fight: my adversary is formidable, and there is no end in sight; it’s an everlasting battle that occurs every hour, every minute, every second. And yet, I am not done—I gather my arsenal, I warm up, and I entre the arena. No referees—this isn’t a fair fight; there cannot be a winner, only moments of victory. My adversary steps forward, and in her, I see me—me as I was for eight long years. The signal goes off and we begin. No turning back now.

Strangely, what helps me survive the daily fights is time. Throughout this turbulent journey, my wrist undertakes its never-ending recovery. Nine years later, the dreadful pain I felt at every move has become a memory. I live alone now, and getting access to a piano is not always easy; neither is it regular. But one day—one day, I decide to try again. I make my way to my mother’s house on a day where she and her husband are absent; the fragility of my resolve hangs over me, and I cannot let it waver out of self-consciousness. In the basement are all of my mother’s sheet music—all of my sheet music—and it takes a lot of searching before I finally find the last piece I learned when I was 15. The last piece I ever played. Too eager, I snatch Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 off the floor, grabbing a few more sheet music from that part of my life forever ago. At last, I sit on the piano bench. I open the booklet, flipping through the pages until I find the Nocturne; it’s one of my favourites, whether by coincidence or a design of my own. But it’s with wretched bitterness that I realize I am unable to play the piece. Not only has it been nine years, but my dexterity has vanished, bidding me goodbye with a mocking smile. My fingers each weigh a pound; I hear myself strike the keys with a mortifying clumsiness; the resulting sound is disappointing, closer to chaotic noise than the flowing music of my memories. Nothing happens like I want it to. However, the same passage of time that helped my injury gave me the strength to cross out the word “abandon” from my vocabulary. I sometimes know victory, more often I know defeat, but what has become unfamiliar is capitulation. So I close the booklet, hiding the piece I yearned for, and I pick another one. It’s an easy piece, but in truth, nothing seems easy anymore; the piece is a crutch, a stepping stone towards more. In time, I will get sick of hearing Chopin’s Waltz op.69 no.2, my mind saturated by the melody from months of practice. It’s a challenge, and I start to get obsessed with the notion of learning this piece, because learning it means I can learn more. Nothing will stop me.

There is progress, but it’s slow and it’s tedious. Each week, I ride the bus to my mother’s house so I can practice for one hour, sometimes two. These hours are precious; I try not to squander them and I try even harder to remind myself this is just the beginning. My wrist still hurts at times; whenever I test my limits, a zap of pain echoes through my hand, signalling the end of the practice. It slows me down, frustrates me to no end, but the possibility of not playing for another nice years snaps me out of those low moments. And one day, six months later, I pick up Chopin’s Nocturne op.72 no.1 again. I start with the left hand; the constant rhythm of the triplets played legato rips the stitches of a long-buried wound. A ghost rises out of it—it’s Me as I was, and it possesses me, guiding my hand with its cold touch. I play the first line, then the second; soon enough, I jump to the second page. I am not here, not really; rather, I am lost to that old fragment of beloved peace. Now that I recognize the beast in me as anxiety, I finally understand that those moments of solace happen when I hear the twinkling notes of the piano. And so I get on my feet in the arena and I stand ready to continue the eternal fight. There are other ways to keep anxiety away, to rationalize it, and I think back on my first fifteen years, nearly empty of anguish, full of other pains, but also filled with hours of music. I learn Chopin’s Nocturne in three months. It’s not perfect—it will never be—but I can play it. I play it until I can do so with my eyes closed.

The year I decide to sit at the piano again, I return to school. The first semester is trying; I haven’t studied seriously in over five years—good habits are difficult to unearth. I try to keep my demanding job despite the crushing amount of pressure, but there comes a moment where I cannot breathe under that weight, and stress wins once more. Everything appears ready to crumble before it began. Luckily, my mother realizes that my fragile pyramid of cards is about to fall, and she wakes me up with harsh and well-aimed and true words; we don’t always understand each other then, and feelings get bruised, but in time, things will change for the better. I still fail the classes I took; I search for a new job. My anxiety hit me with an uppercut that could have turned the tables in her favour, but I stand again and again—I stand long enough to finish college a year later. I am 24 the day I hand in my final project that allows me to graduate. As I walk out of the building, there is pride accompanying me, but most of all, it’s a soothing sensation of satisfaction that wraps itself around me. It resembles that peace of mind I find from the piano, and that is what makes me smile.

The next fall, I have my own piano. The opportunity to play whenever is still incredible. Not long before the purchase, the pain in my wrist flares once more, stronger than before. But this time, I know what to expect. I adapt instead of running away; I’m not 15 anymore and I have so much more experience in the suitcase I carry through life. I get tests done in hope of a permanent solution; they reveal nothing new, but the professional advice that follows those tests opens the door to new possibilities to rein in the pain. Those possibilities are comforting in their own way; that absolute sense of defeat is now barely discernable.

I still believe that the Me from over ten years ago will not come back to life; she doesn’t exist anymore; her only vestige is her love for music. But that is alright—I am not the same person I was at 6 years-old when all I knew was the music weaving through the house. I am someone else, so I baptize myself anew. I allow myself the sanctity of a second chance, that unreachable notion always evading me. But this time, I chase it. I grasp it close to my heart. I take it—and I live it.

[evolutionsvoid]

The Halugyth is one of those creatures of the Underworld that many surface dwellers have a hard time believing exists. This is mainly because people don't really know what the Underworld really looks like, so they just go off of stories and their own personal beliefs. You would not believe how many people think that the world down below is just made of tunnels and lava! They just have this image of it being like an ant colony, but with a lot more fire and demons instead of ants. With this in mind, it is hard to imagine that something the size of the Halugyth could actually function in such a tight space! The funny thing is that they are half right with this belief. While there are fungal forests down below that are massive enough to house entire herds of these creatures, the surrounding networks and tunnel systems cannot. Once a Halugyth reaches its adult size, it is pretty much stuck in that one cavern for the rest of its life. Like I mentioned before, the Halugyth are giant creatures that live exclusively in the fungal forests of the Underworld. The abundance of fungi and mushrooms are an almost inexhaustible food source for them, which is probably why these beasts can reach such a size. With their necks fully extended, the Halugyth can reach a height of fifty feet! In truth, most of this height is made up of their extremely long necks, but that is still quite impressive! If you were to be walking with a lantern on the forest floor, you wouldn't even be able to see their head when they are grazing! It would just go upwards into darkness! When they fully extend their necks, there is no pod, bulb or mushroom cap that is out of reach. Their diet consists solely of fungal flesh, which is easy to find in these massive forests! They tend to graze in the canopies of these forests, snacking on the juiciest bulbs and pods they can find. Their sharp beaks are perfect for biting off these structures, and their facial antenna are used to smell and taste the potential food in low-light situations. During long periods of feeding, Halugyth will actually coil their necks around the fungal tree they are grazing on. By resting these coils on the numerous branches, they relieve the strain and energy it takes to hold up their necks for so long! Halugyth tend to travel in herds, marching their way through the forest at a snail's pace. Their herds move in a way that allow the fungal trees and other fungi to regrow and repopulate by they time they make their way back around. Herds do not have any strict structure to them, as they can have any number of males or females. The breeding season seems to be just as lax and slow as they are, with no real competition or ceremony to it at all. When the time comes, a female Halugyth will lay hundreds of small eggs. These come out in bundles of a few dozen, wrapped in a sticky egg sac. While she lays them, the male will use his mouth to pick up the slimy bundles and place them on his back. He rests them between the large spines, giving them protection from aerial or arboreal predators. While these creatures grow to titanic proportions, they begin life rather small. When the young emerge, they are about the thickness of your arm and twice its length. They are worm-like in form, with their six legs just simple nubs. The reason the young start off so small is because they need to travel to new feeding grounds. With the adults too big to ever leave the confines of the caverns, it is up to the young to spread out and seed surrounding areas. The hordes of larvae will slither off their father's back and seek out a new home. At this stage, they are quite defenseless, especially since they are on the move. With the sheer amount of young that are born each time, though, it is almost a guarantee that some will make it to new feeding grounds and grow up into adults.  As they grow up, their limbs and plates will develop, slowly giving them that iconic silhouette. 

At such a size, it would be hard to believe that these creatures have any predators. In truth, not many are willing to face off with a full grown adult, but predators will target the younger ones. The Panthelis are the main threat, using their bladed heads to slice into their legs and cripple these behemoths. Though they are quick and nimble, the Halugyth have ways to deal with the Panthelis threat. Their long necks and sharp beaks can serve as good weapons, lashing out and sending these predators flying. Their thick, trunk-like legs sport claws and can flatten a Panthelis with a single stomp. By staying in herds, the Halugyth can use the aid of others to ward away the Panthelis and make it harder for them to come in for an attack. The other major predator of Halugyth are the denizens of the Underworld itself! Demons and shades are not ones to turn up their nose at a food source, especially one that has so much meat! Towns and villages that live close to these forests will hunt Halugyth for food, though they are careful to not over harvest. To hunt these massive beasts, the hunters will climb up into the trees and hide near tempting food sources. When the Halugyth comes in for a bite, the hunters will jump out and snare the head will sharp hooks and nets. This traps the Halugyth in one spot, giving the other hunters enough time to target an exposed part of neck and sever it. With a solid chop, they decapitate the beast and gain tons of fresh meat. The rest of the hunt will be spent cutting and cleaning the kill, turning it into manageable chunks that they can take home. The other task will be to ward off interested predators and scavengers, as they become quite thrilled by the opportunity of a fallen Halugyth.   One interesting note I have to mention about the Halugyth is their giant spines. When I was observing them during my expedition to the Underworld, I asked about the purpose of these dorsal spikes. Yes, I did mention that they help ward off predators who would go after their eggs, but what I was curious about was their size. To put it simply, their back spines are way too big to be efficient against the smaller creatures who would go after their young. They do the job, but they could do it just as easily if they were half that size. I asked Mamin about this and he told me something quite amazing! It turns out I was right that the spines were too big for such a simple job, and it is because guarding the young was only half their job! It seems that the Panthelis and demons were not the only hunters of these creatures! He told me that there was a species of predator that existed long ago, called the Malicrus. These predators were equally massive beasts and they preyed upon the Halugyth. When faced with such a giant foe, these spines helped ward off attacks from behind, but that didn't stop these creatures from preying on them. From the tales he was told as an imp, the Malicrus were terrifying creatures of titanic size and strength. The adults stalked the fungal forests, while the smaller young would scour the surrounding tunnels. At this age, the young hunted smaller creatures, and a favorite target of theirs was demonkind. It was said that packs of these beasts would swarm out of the tunnels and assault entire towns. Entire battalions had to be made to defend against these brutal attacks. In time, the demons and shades found a way to repel the young, but that wasn't enough. They wanted the threat to be gone for good. Over the course of decades, demonkind fought the Malicrus and hunted down every last one they could find. The young were slaughtered in droves and the giant adults were brought down and butchered. With these hunts, the Malicrus was driven to extinction, its kind long gone from the Underworld. Perhaps the demise of this super predator is what allows the Halugyth to live in such numbers? It is hard to say, but I imagine they are doing quite well with a major predator gone forever! Well, I wouldn't say that. If I learned anything about the Underworld, it is that nothing is certain. In a labyrinthine world like this, who is to say there are not isolated caverns or caves that have not seen the hunts? Pockets of life that are far from the demons' reach, where these titans still live? Everyone talks about the mysterious Tectons, and the unreachable places where the Desmodals dwell, so that means there are many realms still undiscovered. Who knows what else is lurking out there, in the uncharted unknown? It is a fascinating possibility to me, but also a terrifying one.     Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian