#women of sand and myrrh

[ivorydancing]

around the world in 1,096 days: Day 146 🇱🇧

Women of Sand and Myrrh by Hanan al-Shaykh

The story of four women, living in an unnamed desert state, who are struggling to cope in a society where they are treated to every luxury but freedom.

3/5 ★

This was fine....most of the narrators were pretty unlikeable but I was still mostly interested in what was going to happen.

Next up: Barbados

>>> On deck: Nicaragua, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Cape Verde, North Macedonia

[catnip-reed]

Aphrodite: The Goddess of Love

Aphrodite is the Goddess of love, sex, procreation, seduction, beauty, pleasure, happiness, war, romance, and friendships.

She has many symbols:

• Doves

• Apples

• Myrtle wreaths

• Flowers

• Flowers (especially roses, anemones, daffodils, and myrtles)

• Myrrh

• Bunnies

• Geese

• Swans

• Pigs

There are many things that are appropriate to offer to Her/put on Her altar:

• Ruby, rose quartz, pearls, diamond, sapphire, amethyst, etc.

• Frankincense, rose, myrrh, vanilla, cinnamon, and jasmine incense

• Anything pink, red, white, or gold

• Depictions of Her animals

• Wines (especially reds and rose)

• Honey and milk

• Chocolate and vanilla

• Sweets and fruits

• Cinnamon

• Jewelry

• Perfume

• Bath salts

• Scented lotions

• Seawater, seashells, sand, etc.

• Makeup and doing your makeup

• Feathers (especially white)

• Self-care and self-love

• Taking bubble baths

• Spending time at sea or at a beach

• Collecting seashells

• Watching rom-coms

• Donate to women’s programs/shelters

• Support sex workers

• Learn about safe sex

• Learn about BDSM

• Learn about makeup techniques

• Start a new relationship or honor the one you have now

• Hearts and heart-shaped things

• Sweet foods and baked goods

• Build a new friendship or honor the ones you have now

• Dresses, skirts, and other clothing seen as feminine

• Embrace your feminine side

• Learn about birth control

• Decorative fans (mainly in pastel colors)

• Wear things that make you feel pretty

• Mirrors

• Read stories or articles about love amidst a war

• Learn about wars started as a result of love

• Learn about wars where the soldiers were motivated by love (love of their country, love of their family, love of their animals, etc.)

• Honor Her lovers and children

[libidomechanica]

“Haste, being in a long before thats in your accumulated her”

—Haste, being in a long before     that’s in your accumulated her eyelashes, their first     days we would see, by those

only the women, but he drank     mist the porch, with the blood running Love! Parted bankrupt worse     force press’d his sheen of all

the sound to strain to unperplex’d     delectable, my dove, nor peace proceedings to himself,     be of Beauty’s effects

which he goes. Or I am sick     of the afterwards, I found. A tongues could watching to the     hill be young pining til

the word again; love shed on all,     but there remembered the current of purple orchises,     hath desert short or seem

stranger—seeming tooth’d horse excellent     into mourners bland, left Hátim’s Churlish, harsh, heart, which     formal pace an’ rest force

it over, the moon is this? Your     eyes on the bitten song that we clutch at the sharp Eye but     none a word the long-battred

eyesight doubtless sickness, of     sleep our eyes, when that would concomitant with busts: from hiding-     place, the poet’s harp,

to the old warrior lady-clad;     which made perfection is a gentle month, your side a     monument, where she passim.

’ Or Wordsworth’s foul creatures’ Eyes. Now     thing, on the sands, perhaps when he wilderness like to adore?     Upon her wine

forever, then the going hounds     divinities, orinda’s wish, and therewith holds yfeer     the dogs exclaim a phantoms

with all at leader sang—and     bound with sudden-thrilling at the dead. The even now! Now     Nature’s woe, as whatever

be? Everything here each hollow     womb resounds to torture- pilgrim bores me. With myrrh is     my lambs are but they are

pale; tis fit to me, hopes as that     small whitenesse well to where to play. Heavenly raced, cloves,     but incessant care-worn

sage, my love you thirty-one that     lies whose beautiful, and lusty leave of thine own law forlorn     hermitage, which makes

or fire my strength obey’d, yet from     his stole so nere, in fire: another matron bring, for the     sweet spring for this face,

why then between seize thy festivals,     and pebbles or old bough nimbly wanted oft with shall     be a running like fires.

[whilereadingandwalking]

I have very mixed feelings on Women of Sand and Myrrh by Hanan Al-Shaykh, translated by Catherine Cobham. In this novel, four women struggle and drown in the empty lives provided to them by an unnamed desert state ruled by rigid patriarchy. Unable to truly work or lead productive lives, the women bury themselves in travel or secret pleasures, or dedicate themselves to an uphill climb within their narrow boundaries.

I was concerned to stumble on many reviews that said that this book was substantially edited in its translation into English. Most pressingly, they swapped around the order of the perspectives. This significantly changes the meaning of the story: instead of Tamr, a native who is rebelling and striving within the circumstances of the country, the first perspective presented is that of Suha, an outsider woman who is desperate to escape, feeling oppressed under the weight of her loneliness.

That said, if read with a grain of salt, there is a lot in this book that’s immensely worthwhile, preserved from the original: four messy, complex women trying to live, love, have sex, and find any freedom or independence they can within this world. Some of these women are deeply unlikable, but Al-Shaykh carefully shows us how those characteristics rise from their upbringings and circumstances. There’s a queer story here and many good stories of how female sexuality is punished even as marriage is presented as the only way forward for many young women.

So ultimately, I recommend reading this book, but doing so with a critical eye, and then following it up with “Gender, Genre, and the (Missing) Gazelle: Arab Women Writers and the Politics of Translation” by Michelle Hartman.

Content warnings for sexual harassment & assault, misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, emotional abuse, manipulative relationship, exotification, ableism.

[tarotbee]

Ways of Worshipping Mistress Sekhmet

Offerings of alcohol, like bourbon, wine and beer

other drink offerings such as sun water, black coffee, milk and strong teas

pomegranate and pomegranate juice

wear or offer her associated stones: sunstone, carnelian, garnet, Amber, Ruby, red agate, tigers eye, citrine, orange calcite and topaz

warm/strong scented candles/incense/oils: cinnamon, frankincense, blood orange, pumpkin, ginger, cardamon, sandalwood, mahogany, neroli, vanilla, oak and Myrrh

Red, gold, yellow or white candles

Food offerings of blackberries, raspberries, mushrooms and bread

wear the colour red (red is associated with power, energy, war, passion, strength and determination)

DO YOUR SHADOW WORK

go to a rage room or just break (not expensive, not good quality) shit

find constructive ways to release and express your anger

Learn first aid / join a volunteer service to help people

pray to her at sunset and sunrise

stand up for yourself and others (justice)

lion/ess and cat symbolism

a statue of her

papyrus

Dogwood

Celebrate the feast of Sekhmet/Hathor by having a night of eating and drinking

Adopt a cat

Cat whiskers and cat claws (ethically sourced)

sing for her

Have $ex

have self respect and set FIRM boundaries, this is the best way to honour her

Learn the different facets of her as a goddess, this can mean studying Hathor (sky, women, love, fertility) and Bastet (women's secrets, the home, childbirth, cats, protection) as well, as they're often associated with Sekhmet

Write poetry as a way of expressing your emotions and dedicate it to her, a war of words if you will

Stand up for human rights

learn her many names and their origins (ie: eye of Ra, powerful one, holy one, lady in red, lady of terror, lady of life, Nesert)

Snake skin (ethically sourced) and Snake imagery

sand!

wear an ankh or the eye of Ra

Learn archery / throwing knives

Put a knife or dagger on her altar

Wear makeup or clothes that make you feel confident

A statue of her

Figurines, toys or imagery of cats/lions

A prayer to Sekhmet

O Sekhmet, Eye of Ra, Great of Flame,

Lady of protection who envelops her creator,

Come towards the King, Nb-twy (Lord of the Two Lands) . . .

Protect him and preserve him from all arrows,

And every evil of this year . . .

O Sekhmet, who fills the ways with blood,

Who slaughters to the limits of all she sees,

Come towards the living image, the Living Falcon,

Protect him, and preserve him from all evil,

And every arrow of this year.”

Hymn of Sekhmet

“Mine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day.

Mine is a heart of corneal, the gnarled roots of a dogwood and the bursting of flowers.

I am the broken wax seal on my lover’s letters.

I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself.

I pace the halls of the Duat.

I knock on the doors of death.

I wander into the fields to stare at the sun and lie in the grass, ripe as a fig.

The souls of the gods are with me.

They hum like flies in my ears.

I will what I will.

Mine is a heart of carnelian, blood red as the crest of a phoenix.”

[whereflowersbloom]

Sealed Fate

The Western horizon was on fire: hot pink turned into mauve, wild orange into gold, the bright colours fading into paleness, then darkness. It was the day they whisper their vows before the gods, both Raven and Damian believed that love was not what stood at the foundation of their pledge, at least not the kind that fate had in store for them. No, that’s what they want to believe, what truly mattered most at this point was peace, peace through political marriage rather than an overwhelming affection. Peace. Damian, the youngest son of King Bruce and the noblest of all of Gotham’s princes, living or dead. As King Bruce was only left with Damian and Richard. Raven, a demigod, sired by Trigon the Terrible and mortal Arella.

The fragile truce between Gotham and Azarath balanced on the tip of a blade, depending on this union of convenience. Kon-El was wearing a scowl that would freeze unquenchable fire from the House of Hades. She could feel Trigon’s dark eyes burning into her face, the harsh, singeing heat of a desert behind it. She wanted to run, but she was also afraid of him giving chase. What was the point anyway. Before coming to Gotham, she knew how to fly, wings spread wide, flying away, her shoulders have borne heavy burdens, heavy burdens of solid stone. Oh she prayed to fly away from them, and roam the freedom of the sky, but her father had cut off both her wings and left her rooted to the ground. There would no longe mountain's peaks with the promise of wondrous views to keep. It all came to an end the day her father told she had been promised to Damian: Prince of Gotham, the great. Gotham the glorious. Gotham the magnificent. She should be honored, but her thoughts and feelings on the matter were inconsequential as the advice of a woman in wartime.

A week later she found herself at her wedding feast. Wearing a silver attire, a veil, a lilies and myrtle garland, and a golden headband. The Brothers and sisters her husband had in plenty, raised to be warriors they fought during war to lose their short lives. Helena and Timotheos had fallen. No body of Jason had been found after the last battle with Crete. She only met her husband her wedding day. He was reserved but polite and not overly perfumed, and when her eyes fell on him she thought of Narcissus. Narcissus, who had been unable to pull away from his own reflection in the pond, enchanted by his own beauty until death claimed him. Although the way her tutor had prattled on and on about Damian’s innumerable virtues, Raven had not expected him to be as radiant as a god. The sun-kissed skin stretched to wrap around muscles built from years of practicing complex military skills, broad shoulders and powerful arms, displaying strength and virility akin to a noble lion, movements of disconcerting grace for one so large. His facial features had a frank and honest quality to them, bright and deep-set eyes, as green as spring leaves with the touch of Persephone, a Greek nose, full lips. He was a God in beauty and stature. Reluctantly, tore her gaze from his beautiful face and focused on her new family. They have been so impeccably polite, specially Richard. ‘Welcome my good sister. We are all so blessed to have you.’ Blessed. Blessed child she had been called once long ago.

Do you feel blessed, my dear sister?” Richard asked, passing a golden wine cup into her hand. His wide smile meant no harm nor his words. As she grew up Raven was left to learn how to smile and laugh prettily at compliments that made her skin crawl, feign the innocence of any maiden her age.

Blinking several times, she looked back at him and smiled weakly. “Of course, brother.”

Richard was all dancing, light and lean seduction, dark myrrh hair and flushed red lips, rosy cheeks and aristocratic arched eyebrows, adorning himself in a blue and gold tunic. Her new brother appeared to be content to sit in the shadow of his younger brother and watch him gleam in all his glory. Cassandra did not speak with her, she was the only calm in the midst of a storm of abrupt adjustment. She tried to pay no heed to the murmurs of gossiping women at the feast, eyes green with envy as she had married the godlike prince. Foreign seductress. Demon spawn.

Bruce and Olivier discussed vehemently about warfare and politics with Kal-El and Kon-El. Diana and Artemis were carrying an excited conversation about traveling and Shiera’s recent journey in Egypt. She caught no sight of Trigon to her relief.

Trigon. Other gods might have roared their pleasure at the skills and intelligence of their offspring, praised their achievements for all to hear whilst filling themselves to the brim with nectar. Not Trigon, who wanted to sire no child but found himself infatuated with Arella, bedding her out of enjoyment.

If she were godly, truly a deity, in all of its ways with fantastical unlimited power, then one could not help but ask: Would Trigon praise her then? Did he not want her because she bled red as earthlings. As I’d guessing what she was thinking her husband finally spoke.

“For a deity to come down on solid ground isn’t seen many times. For her to wed a mortal willingly is even more ambiguous.” Damian exhaled softly, standing right next to her. His voice was so deep, so soothing and alluring as she had imagined.

“I am no deity. I am the undesired offspring of the god of death.” She said in a choked voice. Not sure if he was mocking the nature of her position. Green eyes alight with amusement.

“You are anything but undesired, wife.” Damian responded, voice low in his throat, and private; a voice she knew in her bones he meant only for her. His face reflected an earnest expression filled with so much pure-hearted sincerity that it stole Raven’s breath away

No man had ever spoken of passion or desire to Raven, and all that she knew of such words she had overheard her tutors speak, or learned from old songs; the glory of being called beautiful in tones, not of cool reason but burning emotion flooded her entirely. She was desired. Biting her lip, her face flushed, and shining starlight hair drooping over her face as if that would somehow hide how obviously close to tears she was.

Damian smiled serenely and Raven felt like he’d seen the sun. Resembling the sun and light, Apollo.

He had a gentleness to him that is completely foreign to her experience, not seen at first sight, discerning the heavy emotions in his eyes. Raven did not know before that it was possible for men to be gentle. One glance and she thought of him kissing her mouth, just as he thought of tasting her skin. Uncertainty lies in her desire for the reciprocal dedication to infallible ardour.

Air. Her lungs were in need of air.

~~~

She went to the garden of Thetis, to sit among the flowers and watch the moon-washed stars. The goddess of flowers must have visited bringing brightness and beauty wherever she stepped, as she appreciated a patch of narcissus, foxgloves, hyacinth, and delphinium displaying tightly clustered flowers upon tall stalks in varied blues and purples, in full bloom, surrounded by the thick chorus of crickets chirping all around. With all thoughts of threats and protecting her homeland, Raven found herself strangely empty. It wasn’t hollowness: it was the emptiness of shock, of disbelief and misunderstandings when everything you’d imagined was pulled out from underneath you and she was suddenly living in a reality where someone admired her? Yearn for her touch rather than fear her.

“Raven.” Kon-El sighed her name as he walked closer to her, fabric softly trailing on the grass and it made Raven tremble. His ocean eyes saddened, darkened, burning through her and reducing anything to ash, to nothingness. There were things that must be said but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize.

“When Morpheus came to me in my dreams. I did not dare look upon his godly figure. But I heard his voice like a thunder from grand Zeus. He promised your hand would be mine to hold.” The words had come bitter and aching with such profound loss that it made her throat tighten with his emotion.

“I have a husband now, Kon.” She mumbled quietly, using his infancy name, casting her gaze downwards. “They were nothing but hollow words, grains of sand carried upon the wind of Aeolus.” His disapproval at the mention of the word husband was obvious.

Attempting to reason with him to not make a claim of a right that was no longer his. She could sense his anger, regret, sorrow. Envy . Why do you look at me in such way? Why do you look at me as if you pity me? Why do you look at me with eyes filled with sorrow and hatred, all at once? Where did her sweet and naughty Kon go? She wished to voice those questions.

With clenched fists, he nodded. “It’s for the gods to decide as our fate lies in their hands.” Kon-El spoke solemnly with unshakable conviction. “You have a husband tonight, but take heed as The Fates could cut his thread of life coming morrow.” He bowed down and left without saying no more.

No. No. He would not dare. Notion spit forth from such a place of hate, fear and confusion like its like a venom small at first or great yet if allowed it to take over fully.

The night was calm, witness of the conversation between two old friends, the stifling hot of the day finally giving way to a coolness which smelled like an approaching storm. Yes, she could feel it, there was a storming coming with the unforgiving and celestial ire of Zeus.

~~~

The feast passed quickly, with laughter and high spirits carrying it along. However, Raven could never quite relax after hearing Kon-El’s threatening words. And there was the bedding ceremony to proceed, not in public. Thank to Merciful Elea.

Torchlight played on Raven’s face as she motioned with her hands like a sorceress, then the royal peplos she wore dropped off her like the skin off a snake and she emerged. Goddess Nyx in human form, her breasts round and ripe and firm, her belly flat and sculpted thighs, the tangle of dark hair between her legs an invitation and a challenge. She was bare before him. So very delicate, so vulnerable, so unlike anything he’d ever laid eyes upon. It intrigued him, that vulnerability, laid bare for him to see under the soft glow of the torches. The daughter of the God of death.

What a curious creature she was. Gifted with the beauty of Aphrodite, the mysterious eyes of Nyx, holding the stars of Orion in them. They had been in his mind on and off at the feast, wrapped up in the hazy, sweetly intoxicating lull of inebriation.

As he looked down then back up her body, to her timid eyes, no challenge in them, though her lips still twisted in a semblance of indecision. Doubt. It was obvious that while she was not truly frightened of him, nonetheless the shadow of doubt and tension was present. Damian swallowed hard. He had avoided looking at her more than necessary during the ceremony but he gave into temptation as Aphrodite whispered in his ear all the ways he could have her. He did not like Gods nor their offspring. The Gods enjoyed tricking mortals for their own merriment. But, she was his wife and there was no escaping now. He cursed quietly for his mortality.

Raven dug her pearly teeth into the fleshy hills of her bottom lip, reminding herself to stay in control, taking a deep breath, fists clenched at her side as she took a brave step forward. “My prince.”

“Damian.” He corrected immediately as he straightened up for a fraction of a second before he bent his head and allowed his lips to graze Raven’s ear. “My name is Damian.”

With uncommon courage, she reached for the clasp holding his jade tunic under his chin. The heavy cloth sighed down around their feet. With a delicate feather-like touch, Raven traced the longest scar on his bronze body that went from Damian’s left shoulder down to his right hip. His breath hitched at the sudden invasion, but relaxed into her touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. No one had ever dare touch him intimately without his permission.

She could see hidden amongst the bright hues an emerald green clouding over with Damian’s lust. Their lips melded together as if they were made for each other and moved in sync as Damian threaded her fingers into Damian’s thick raven locks. Damian gently nipped her lower lip, and when she gasped heavily against his, he slid his tongue inside the warm cavern of her mouth to meet hers.

Her mind temporarily muddled with an electrical charge coursing through her veins making it hard for her to focus on any one part of her anatomy than her mouth against his. Everything tingles, starting at the back of her neck and rushing down, an uncomfortable yet exhilarating heat razing through her nerves only to whirlpool in her lower belly, churning, before continuing down all the way to her toes. He tasted like pure ambrosia.

As they continued kissing, his lips become eager, desperate, feverish. She’s never been kissed like this before. Kon-El had kissed her cheeks out of mischief a few times when they were children. Innocent love. Never with parted lips and tongue, with a hunger that would scare her had the same kind of hunger not driven her own greedy mouth to kiss and suck and nip. And yet she knew with the wisdom of Athena, that even if she’d kissed a hundred men a thousand times, nothing would ever compare to this.

Peppering her neck with kisses and listening to her gasp his name, he carried her slowly to the crimson bed where he laid her down. Dragging his teeth gently downwards, along the expanse of her sweet, alabaster skin. There all shyness was replaced with audacity and devotion. Not being able to resist the urge, he bit into her neck, at her pulse point where he could feel her unsteady heartbeat against his tongue as he laved at it.

Hands that were calloused and large and warm and so very gentle for a warrior, as they find their way roaming her natural curves. They skimmed over her thigh and hip, caress the soft skin of her waist, ghost over the swell of her breasts. His mouth, hot and wet, closed around her breast and sucks lightly, thus making her suck in a sharp breath. Expert tongue swelling around her pink nipple. What in the name of Hera he was doing to her? She wanted more. More. More.

Raven cannot utter a single word. Her mouth too dry, her mind too drunk on arousal, to form any coherent phrase. Calling his name between small whimpers showing her heightened ecstacy. This must be Elysium in all its glory. It was such a sweet torture.

Damian thought to himself she tasted like earth, starlight, like flowers blooming in the night. What was he thinking? She was his wife, no more. Daughter of his nemesis. His young heart hammering inside of his chest, the memory of his mother’s voice haunting him as she vanished with the wind.

Something flared in Damian then, flared up in his chest and his belly like a flaming arrow shot high to signal the start of a nighttime raid, and he seized her hips and pushed up inside her. Raven groaned softly in pain. Fear sent her stomach and chest quaking, her breaths coming short and fast, mind flooded with words of maidens about the pain of maidenhead being taken. At first, his strokes were slow, but his eyes do not look upon her face. The flower garland tumbled off her head and was crushed under their grappling bodies, the scent of a summer noon briefly filling the night.

She opened her legs wider and wrapped them around Damian following her instincts. Her velvet heat encased him, and he had to restrain himself from descending into madness at the pleasure. He felt like he was drowning in the Aliakmonas, the river swollen with melted snow. Raven’s round breasts goaded him, her hands caressed him tenderly, her ripeness clenched around him. As he started thrusting faster, harder, pumping in and out of her at an erratic pace. Damian drops his forehead to her shoulder, an animal like grunt in her ear, and she heard herself moan along with him. She even shifted her hips so that he hits her just right, his pubic bone rubbing against a sensitive spot his hand had touched.

He could tell she was close by the way her walls were fluttering around him, and he brought one of his hands down between them to rub circles onto her bundle of nerves. Damian also angled his hips enough to reach for the deep spot in the center of women that made them cry with satisfaction with each push.

Something inside her tightens, inside her belly where a babe will grow with the blessings of the gods, and then another wave of pleasure washed over her, pulling such a loud moan from her it should leave her ashamed, but she doesn’t care. Sweat beds clouding her vision, and the ragged breath of her husband hot against her moonlight skin, salty with sweat.

He reached climax and came harder than he had ever. His thrusts slowed, hips stilling as he emptied himself, thick, hot, white ropes of his seed filling her up to the hilt. Letting out a weary sigh he removed his body atop hers, carefully. It was done. Fulfilled his duty he told himself. A clear lie. Damian considered cupping her cheek and kissing her temple but he couldn’t do it. No. His features hardened as he turned away from her.

“I will show you respect as my wife. I will please you in all the ways a husband and lover can. But do not ask me to love you, for that is not an oath I can honor.” His voice came out hoarser and raspier than ever in the darkness, before rolling to the other of the bed preparing to fall in the arms of Morpheus.

There was an emptiness inside of her soul, her center she couldn’t describe. Waiting to be full again. Aching. Pulsing. Whirling.

“But I thought…” Raven began, a lump forming in her throat, not wanting to admit that she had hoped he could ever find love with her. Perhaps fondness. What about the gentleness he had shown her? The words died with the quietude of the royal chamber as if Harpocrates had made himself present.

Perhaps coming morrow with the grace of Apollo, he would bring Damian’s gentleness back to her. All she can do is hope and pray tonight. A lone tear slipped down her face as she closed her eyes.

Notes: Hello it’s me again with a new AU. Sorry not sorry. Had to get it out of my system 😂😂😂😂🙈🙈🙈🙈

Do not panic please. This is the first chapter and there will be Damirae fluff I promise. Happy Damirae moments and probably more smut than in other stories 👀👀

Hope you all enjoy. @ravenfan1242 @tweepunkgrl @chromium7sky @deepbreadlover @timid-soot-sprite @kallura-juniblade @shewhowillnotbenamed1 @andthendk @alerialblu

[thundercrack]

i was tagged by @springsteenmp3​ for these!! thank u!!

last song: kyoto by phoebe bridgers :))

last movie: the old guard? i think?

currently reading: lies my teacher told me by james loewen, northland by porter fox, and women of sand and myrrh by hanan al-shaykh (all not super-far in mostly because i’m not totally hooked on any of them yet)

currently watching: the umbrella academy...my love for gerard way will never die

currently craving: scones??

ahh i literally never talk on this blog but if anyone wants to do this!! go for it!! @viir-tanadhal maybe??

[iliadshq]

                                       ' 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲! 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲!                      𝐀 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬⏤ 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬! '

When the last ship has landed on the docks of Sparta, its sails still flapping from an unknown wind, it marks the official start of King Tyndareus’ gathering. From across all four corners of the earth, suitors vying for Helen’s hand swarmed together for the glory of winning a daughter of Zeus, dangled in front of them like a red cloth before bulls. Yet Helen is more than beauty ; she is prize made manifest. To have her is to have a direct leverage on the King of Gods himself, as well as a dowry from her mortal father, substantial enough to fund a thousand wars, raise a hundred fleets from the ground up. Everyone heard about the Spartan ruler, the prosperous man who fought no battle, lost no sons, bore no scars—but no one expected just how formidable his wealth truly is. Sparta seems, in and of itself, a monument. The question appears: dedicated to which God ?

THE CITADEL THAT SWALLOWED THE WORLD

There is myrrh, saffron spice, cattle blood trickling through the cobblestones from the morning’s sacrifices, there is sweat & sea-salt & the cloying scent of anticipation seeping from those who barely landed. Enterprising merchants from all the corners of the known world have set up stalls peddling opulent and exotic wares. Bargains are made for lodgings, for not everyone is fortunate enough to warrant a place inside Tyndareus’ tiered palace. Soldiers sleep in brothels, in temples, in taverns & barracks. Booths decorate the circular streets of Sparta as far as the eye could see and then some, comprising a man-made labyrinth that would defy anyone’s compass. Children get lost, couples are disbanded, separated by the dynamic, living creature that is the crowd.

The space becomes a kaleidoscope, a beam of light swirling through human senses, bearing the mark of each tribe, city-nation, or country that ever shadowed the earth. Brass, obsidian, greenglass quartz catch the sun and send it scattering among people. Some stalls claim to foretell one’s future: either through haruspicy or the reading of animal entrails, the charting of the noble stars in their voyage around the earth, or through the simple matter of looking at one’s palms, gauging fate’s whims by a thin line in their skin.

In other corners, artists find a way to peddle their own services, striving to distract from the onslaught of soothsayers and would-be hierophants. Copper plates, sculpted idols, kore & kouroi—everything is for sale, the sacred as well as the profane, from kitchen pottery to altar thuribles. Painters offer to draw your portrait on the spot, their hands grabbing at your chiton, leaving stains of charcoal & oil. Kithara playerrs, snake charmers, flutists that would debase Dionysus themselves, beleaguer the alleys. There is various entertainment still to be gleaned from the poets and playwrights who rushed to Sparta like dogs after scraps, avid for a story, starved for the great tales of old. Careful, the matrons & crones caution, if they do not find a tale worth telling, they will cause one themselves.

And, next to the bull rings, beyond the sacrificial dais used to honor the Gods ( who are still only peripheral figures at this early point ) the arena has been raised. In other kingdom, it is slaves who are made to bleed on its fervid sands, but Sparta is a Free City. Citizen with full rights, men & women alike will take part in the celebratory games. From discus to running, archery to pankration, he has made available his own personal stadium, so that every athlete, hero, or common man can carve their mark in the annals of history, distinguish themselves from the melee. Perhaps tears will be spilt, and grunts will resound through the amphiteater seats, but no blood. It is said King Tyndareus cannot abide it, and has long forbidden any fight to the death.

Out of all these dazzling, fulgurant events, these chances that both stupefy & ensnare, the brightest star is represented by Tyndareus’ own competition. For his daughter’s hand, he will run the contenders through rings of fire, in speech if not in deed. Races, declamations, sports & lyre concerts, there is no task too small or too unbefitting to not be included. But be it as it may a strenuous set of challenges, it is also dappled with revelry, with weekly pauses where nothing is scheduled except merriment, excess, decadence.

Only a few have thrown in their gauntlet, but all eyes will be on them, watching in rapture from the sidelines—the mortals as well as the Gods. For it soon becomes clears: Olympians themselves descended to oversee the festivities ; Ocean deities left their cavernous depths, as the Deathless Gods stirred from their demesne of shades. Many moons may pass from this moment, when the ships first blackened the horizon of Sparta, and the moment when Tyndareus will relent and yield Helen. The competition is expected to last for several weeks —this leaves plenty of time for a worshiper to change their faith, en exile their fate, for a lover to be renounced & a truth revealed.

INAUGURATION FEAST.

This is the grand opening of the month-long festivity. In King Tyndareus’ palace, everyone of note from the cities of Mycenae and Troy pour into the Golden Hall ; they fill up the corridors and the suspended gardens, the hidden alcoves and the guest chambers. The Gods are there, too — as is their wont, without invitation. They merely envisaged their welcome, thus ensuring its reality. They bring with them their proteges, their children, their lovers. They bring with them benediction & calamity, judgement & grace.

; —— this event runs from [ 04.04.2020 ]  to  [ 07.04.2020 ]

DAY OF THE EQUESTRIAN RACES.

The competition of King Tyndareus will be comprised of multiple individual events, each of them stretching five days or longer, which will feature as challenges for our members. The first one is the EQUESTRIAN DAY, comprised of two-horse chariot race, single-rider horse race, and javelin throw on horseback.

A separate post will be made on the day before, in which we will ask members to volunteer their characters in the challenge if they so desire.

The victor will be established based on their faction’s points for that week.

If more than two players from the same faction compete in the challenge, their points will be tallied individually. If the result is too close to call, we will use a random generator.

; —— this event runs from [ 07.04.2020 ]  to  [ 11.04.2020 ]

[ir-egipto-travel]

THE BEAUTIFUL FEAST OF THE VALLEY - an introduction:

text from "Religion and Ritual in Ancient Egypt" by Emily Teeter

[Great Temple of the God Amon-Ra at 'Ipet-Sut' (the Precinct of Amon-Ra at 'Uaset'-Thebes), detail of a scene related to the "Beautiful Feast of the Valley" and represented on the south interior wall (western half) of the Great Hypostyle Hall:

King Ramses II (followed by His Ka-spirit) holding a threefold arm-shaped censer and burning incense before the sacred barque of Amon-Ra carried by the Souls of Pe-Bouto (falcon-headed, at left), by the King Himself acting as High Priest of Amon-Ra (in the middle), and by the Souls of Nekhen-Ierakonpolis (wolf-headed, at right)]

"The 'Beautiful Feast of the Valley' is celebrated only in Thebes. Like Osiris' festivals, the Feast of the Valley is closely associated with funerary beliefs. (...)

The Feast of the Valley is observed once a year on the first day of the second month of summer in conjunction with the appearance of the New Moon. The first record of the Feast dates to Dynasty XI. The Festival was most popular in the New Kingdom, the Ramesside Period, and Dynasty XXV-XXVI, but there are references to the Festival as late as 117 BCE during the reign of King Ptolemy VIII. (...)

The focus of the Festival is the parade of cult statues portraying the Gods and deceased royalty.

The Festival begins on the east bank of the Nile at the 'Ipet-Sut' Temple of Amon-Ra where, after purification ceremonies, the cult statue of Amon is removed from its dark sanctuary, placed in its portable shrine, and loaded onto a ceremonial boat. Priests carry the God' statue from the Temple to the Nile, where it is placed aboard an elaborate barge called 'Userhat', 'Powerful of Prow', whose topsides are covered with gold and ornamented with scened of the King before the Gods. The procession, led by the King, is accompanied by throngs of priests who carry the great fans signifying the presence of the Deity and by huge crowds of people. The passage from East to West symbolizes the transition from Life to the Land of the Dead. In the divine procession Amon is joined by Mut, Khonsu, and statues of dead Kings and Queens. (...)

Graffiti note that priests watch for the procession from the heights of the West bank. (...) Once the flotilla is sighted, crowds of people who live on the West bank join the throng that had followed the procession from the East. Everyone is dressed in his or her finest white linen clothing, clutching flowers and food offerings as they greet the 'Divine Arrival' on the West bank.

According to scenes in Theban tombs, some of the statues were unloaded from the boats and dragged across the sand on sledges. This grand procession, trailed by entire families, set off from the Nile and travels by road and canal through the cultivated lands to the great western necropolis in order that Amon might visit the Temples of the deceased Kings.

The clearest explanation of the procession's function comes from an inscription on a stela from the Temple of King Amenhotep III. The inscription states that the Temple was considered to be a 'resting Palace of the Lord of the Gods at His Festival in the Valley in Amon's procession to the West to visit the Gods of the West when He will reward His Majesty with Life and Dominion'.

Other texts confirm that during the Festival, the God Amon 'rested' in the Temple of the current King, and that the Temple was a place of 'receiving Amon and extolling His beauty'. As a result of the Divine visit, the spirit of the King was revived and 'rewarded with Life and Dominion'. All the great Temples on the West bank, the "Temples of Millions of Years" of the Kings, shared the honor of receiving Amon when He traveled to the West. (...) The procession visited the memorial Temples of the ruling King and His predecessors. (...) The divine boats and the act of offering large floral bouquets to Them are hallmarks of the Festival. (...)

The souls of the dead had been summoned by the joyous noise of the procession and by Amon's presence. The deceased were represented by statues that could be removed from the tomb and placed among the living celebrants.

The union of the living and dead was both physical and also mystical and intellectual. The properties of smell, sound, and taste are capable of trascending the barrier between life and death to reach the deceased and bring him or her into the celebrations. These senses were further stimulated by copious amounts of beer and wine, which creates an ecstatic state and brought the living closer to the dead. The revelers called on Hathor, addressing Her as the 'Lady of Drunkenness'.

The families encouraged each other:

'For your Ka (the spirit)! Drink the intoxicating drink! Celebrate a beautiful day .... may your heart be refreshed in your house of eternity (the tomb)'.

The necropolis was filled with activity, noise, smells, and music. Fueled by alcohol and the excitement of the Festival, the living recited hymns to their ancestors' statues to encourage the spirits of the deceased to enliven them:

'Emerge from the earth! Behold Ra and follow Amon in His Beautiful Feast of the Valley!'

The spirits were encouraged to join the procession:

'May you be in the crew of the Royal boat and may you hear the clamor in the Temples in Western Thebes.

May you see Amon in the Beautiful Feast of the Valley and follow Him to the Temple Precincts'.

Bands of musicians circulated through the necropolis visiting individual tombs. Women shook beaded menat-necklaces and clanged their sistra, both instruments sacred to Hathor, while male musicians clapped and sang, creating an hypnotic rhythm that reverberated among the tombs.

Their refrains continued into the night, celebrating Amon's presence in the "Temple of Millions of Years" of Queen Hatshepsut:

'Praises are in Heaven, jubilation is in the Great House and celebrations are on Earth because Amon in His Userhat Boat is in the Temple of Millions of Years of Queen Hatshepsut!

His heart is joyful,

Heaven and Earth are happy'.

The odor of food filled the necropolis. The dead were presented with fragrant roasted birds and meat.

Sweet myrrh oil was poured on the meats, making the scents even more alluring. The chants continued:

'May your voice be true .... and may you enter the earth among the august spirits who are before Osiris.

May you eat the offerings and participate in the repast like the Gods of the NetherWorld.

May you be called into the presence of Osiris Onnophris like those who follow Horus, unhindered like one of them.

May your name endure'. (...)

Another source of sensory stimulation was the enormous, fragrant bouquet of flower, called an 'Ankh' (a pun on the word 'Ankh', 'Life'), that each family presented to its deceased ancestors. The flowers symbolize freshness, rejuvenation, and rebirth, as indicated by a text in the tomb of RekhmiRa (XVIII Dynasty):

'Take scented flowers which I have brought you from the best of the plants which are in the garden.

Behold! The servants carry produce, shoots and fragrant stems of all kinds that you may be satisfied .... and that your heart may partake of its tender growth, and that you may do whatever your spirit desires for ever and ever'.

All these rituals were enacted to produce an ecstatic union of the dead and the living, to bring the living into the realm of the dead and the dead back to the living.

The sanctity of the dead as a true transfigured spirit, the Akh, was proclaimed, and his or her eternal life associated with the undying cycle of the God Ra was affirmed.

This is summed up in a text in the tomb of the official PuimRa that implores the deceased to

'receive the ornaments of the Lady of Heaven, Hathor, Lady of Drunkenness ....

They open the path in Heaven for you.

They throw open the doors of the NetherWorld so that you may go forth, you appearing as a God, becoming a perfect spirit-soul (Akh) in Heaven and taking shape in the NetherWorld.

Your unrighteous acts are expelled by Ra, You are raised high by Osiris'.

[justincase-77]

I'm no expert but isn't Joseph portrayed in an unusual pose, for a new dad. It appears that he is doodling in the sand, wondering what went wrong with his vasectomy, and the added expense for food and college for the kid. Sure they had myrrh coming their ears but what good is that. Don't get me going on frankincense. And why did mary poo poo the name he wanted to call the kid, Steve, after his grandpappy.

If the so called wise men had been women, they would have brought much more appropriate and practical gifts for a newborn, even one with super human upper body strength displayed on this fresco. Even a gift of a years diaper service would have been helpful.

I love botticelli like most do but i have to laugh at facial expression on the cow and donkey; they look cartoonish.

Sorry for the silliness. I know this may sound a wee bit blasphemous. It was not my intention to ridicule the imagination that christianity inspires.

Santa Maria Novella, 1478, Sandro Botticelli

Medium: fresco

[forsoothsayer]

Desert by Adunis

The cities dissolve, and the earth is a cart loaded with dust Only poetry knows how to pair itself to this space. No road to this house, a siege, and his house is graveyard.              From a distance, above his house              a perplexed moon dangles              from threads of dust. I said: this is the way home, he said: No              you can’t pass, and aimed his bullet at me. Very well then, friends and their homes               in all of Beirut’s are my companions. Road for blood now—              Blood about which a boy talked              whispered to his friends:                             nothing remains in the sky now                             except holes called “stars.” The city’s voice was too tender, even the winds would not tune its strings— The city’s face beamed like a child arranging his dreams for nightfall bidding the morning to sit beside him on his chair. They found people in bags:             a person                                                 without a head             a person                                                 without hands, or tongue             a person                                                 choked to death             and the rest had no shapes and no names.                            —Are you mad? Please                                                            don’t write about these things. A page in a book             bombs mirror themselves inside of it             prophecies and dust-proverbs mirror themselves inside of it             cloisters mirror themselves inside of it, a carpet made of the alphabet                            disentangles thread by thread falls on the face of the city, slipping out of the needles of memory. A murderer in the city’s air, swimming through its wound— its wound is a fall that trembled to its name—to the hemorrhage of its name and all that surrounds us— houses left their walls behind                                              and I am no longer I. Maybe there will come a time in which you’ll accept     to live deaf and mute, maybe they’ll allow you to mumble: death                                               and life                                               resurrection                                               and peace unto you. From the wine of the palms to the quiet of the desert … et cetera from a morning that smuggles its own intestines              and sleeps on the corpses of the rebels … et cetera from streets, to trucks              from soldiers, armies … et cetera from the shadows of men and women … et cetera from bombs hidden in the prayers of monotheists and infidels … et cetera from iron that oozes iron and bleeds flesh … et cetera from fields that long for wheat, and grass and working hands … et cetera from forts that wall our bodies              and heap darkness upon us … et cetera from legends of the dead who pronounce life, who steer our life … et cetera from talk that is slaughter           and slaughter         and slitters of throats … et cetera from darkness to darkness to darkness I breathe, touch my body, search for myself              and for you, and for him, and for the others and I hang my death between my face and this hemorrhage of talk … et cetera You will see—               say his name               say you drew his face               reach out your hand toward him               or smile               or say I was happy once               or say I was sad once               you will see:                                there is no country there. Murder has changed the city’s shape—this stone                                                                is a child’s head— and this smoke is exhaled from human lungs. Each thing recites its exile …                a sea                                             of blood—and what do you expect on these mornings except their arteries set to sail into the darkness, into the tidal wave of slaughter? Stay up with her, don’t let up— she sits death in her embrace and turns over her days                                             tattered sheets of paper. Guard the last pictures of her topography— she is tossing and turning in the sand in an ocean of sparks— on her bodies are the spots of human moans. Seed after seed are cast into our earth— fields feeding on our legends, guard the secret of these bloods.                              I am talking about a flavor to the seasons                              and a flash of lightning in the sky. Tower Square—(an engraving whispers its secrets                                                              to bombed-out bridges … ) Tower Square—(a memory seeks its shape                                                              among dust and fire … ) Tower Square—(an open desert                                                              chosen by winds and vomited  … by them … ) Tower Square—(It’s magical                                             to see corpses move/their limbs                                                 in one alleyway, and their ghosts                                                 in another/and to hear their sighs … ) Tower Square—(West and East                               and gallows are set up—                               martyrs, commands … ) Tower Square—(a throng               of caravans: myrrh                                              and gum Arabica and musk                                                             and spices that launch the festival … ) Tower Square—(let go of time …                                             in the name of place) —Corpses or destruction,                 is this the face of Beirut? —and this               a bell, or a scream? —A friend? —You? Welcome.              Did you travel? Have you returned? What’s new with you? —A neighbor got killed … / … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … A game / —Your dice are on a streak. —Oh, just a coincidence /                                  … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …                                             Layers of darkness                                             and talk dragging more talk.        

[gcintheme-blog]

(your Russian follower again) Speaking of lesbianism in the Arab countries, have you read the book مسك الغزال by Hahan al-Shaykh (its English translation is called "Women of Sand and Myrrh")? I hear it deals with being a lesbian in a country modelled after Saudi Arabia, among many other things. I'm a student of Arabic and a translator of literature, and I would love to translate this book, as well as some others by Arab women writers, into Russian, by the way, but it would be a long way off.

I have not read this book but it has been on my list for a while and now I will move it all the way to the top! Thank you!

[circe-poetica]

WITCH-WOMAN Amy Lowell “Witch! Witch! Cursed black heart, Cursed gold heart striped with black; Thighs and breasts I have loved; Lips virgin to my thought, Sweeter to me than red figs; Lying tongue that I have cherished. Is my heart wicked? Are my eyes turned against too bright a sun? Do I dazzle, and fear what I cannot see? It is grievous to lose the heart from the body, Death which tears flesh from flesh is a grievous thing; But death is cool and kind compared to this, This horror which bleeds and kindles, These kisses shot with poison, These thoughts cutting me like red knives, Lord, Thunderer, Swift rider on the clashing clouds, Ruler over brass heavens, Mighty ruler of the souls of men, Be merciless to me if I mistake this woman, As I will be merciless if I learn a bitter truth. I burn green oil to you, Fresh oil from fair young olives, I pour it upon the ground; As it drips I invoke your clemency To send a sign. Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon. To-night the sign Maker of men and gods. To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know. Then will I offer you a beastly thing and a broken; Or else the seed of both To be your messengers and slaves forever, My sons, and my sons’ sons, and their sons after; And my daughters and theirs throughout the ages For your handmaidens and bedfellows as you command. How the white sword flickers! How my body twists in the circle of my anguish! Behold, I have loved this woman, Even now I cry for her, My arms weaken, My legs shake and crumble. Strengthen my thews, Cord my sinews to withstand a testing. Let me be as iron before this thing, As flashing brass to see, As lightning to fall; As rain melting before sunshine it I have wronged the woman. The red flame takes the oil, The blood of my trees is sucked into fire As my blood is sucked into the fire of your wrath and mercy, O just and vengeful God.” Body touches body. How sweet the spread of loosened bodies in the coil of sleep, but a gold-black thread is between them. An owl calls deep in the wood. Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what spark do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness? She stirs. Again the owl calling. She            rises. Foot after foot as a panther            treads, through the door—a minute more and the fringes of her goat- skin are brushing the bushes. She pushes past brambles, the briars catch little claws in her goat-skin. And he who watches? As the tent- lap flaps back, he leaps. The bearer of the white sword leaps, and follows her. Blur of moonshine before— behind. He walks by the light of a green-oil oath, and the full moon floats above them both. Seeded grass is a pool of grey. Ice-white, cloud-white, frosted with the spray of the sharp-edged moon. Croon— croon—the wind in the feathered tops of the grass. They pass—the witch-white woman with the gold-            black heart, the flower-white woman —and his eyes startle, and answer the bow curve of her going up the hill. The night is still, with the wind, and the moon, and an owl calling. On the sea side of a hill where the grass lies tilted to a sheer drop down, with the sea splash under as the waves are thrown upon a tooth of rock. Shock and shatter of a golden track, and the black sucking back. The draw of his breath is hard and cold, the draw of the sea is a rustle of gold. Behind a curl of granite stone the man lies prone. The woman stands like an obelisk, and her blue-black hair has a serpent whisk as the wind lifts it up and scatters it apart. Witch- heart, are you gold or black? The woman stands like a marble tower, and her loosened hair is a thunder- shower twisted across with lightnings of burnt gold. Naked and white, the matron moon urges the woman. The undulating sea fingers the rocks and winds stealthily over them. She opens the goat-skin wide—it falls. The walls of the world are crashing down, she is naked before the naked moon, the Mother Moon, who sits in a courtyard of emerald with six black slaves before her feet. Six—and a white seventh who dances, turning in the moonlight, flinging her arms about the soft air, despairingly lift- ing herself to her full height, strain- ing tiptoe away from the slope of the hill. Witch-breasts turn and turn, witch- thighs burn, and the feet strike al- ways faster upon the grass. Her blue-black hair in the moon-haze blazes like a fire of salt and myrrh. Sweet as branches of cedar, her arms; fairer than heaped grain, her legs; as grape clusters, her knees and ankles; her back as white grapes with smooth skins. She runs through him with the whipping of young fire. The desire of her is thongs and weeping. She is the green oil to his red flame. He peers from the curl of granite stone. He hears the moan of the crawling sea, and sees—as the goat-skin falls so the flesh falls…. And the triple Heaven-wall falls down, and the Mother Moon on a ruby throne is near as a bow-shot above the hill. Goat-skin, here, flesh-skin there, a skele- ton dancing in the moon-green air, with a white, white skull and no hair. Lovely as ribs on a smooth sand shore, bright as quartz-stones speck- ling a moor, long and narrow as Winter reeds, the bones of the skel- eton. The wind in the rusty grass hums a humeral-chant sat to a jig. Dance, silver bones, dance a whirl- igig in a crepitation of lust. The waves are drums beating with slacked guts. Inside the skeleton is a gold heart striped with black, it glitters through the clacking bones, throwing an inverted halo round the stamping feet. Scarlet is the ladder dropping from the moon. Liquid is the ladder—like water moving yet keeping its shape. The skeleton mounts like a great grey ape, and its bones rattle; the rattle of the bones is the crack of dead trees bitten by frost. The wind is desolate, and the sea moans. But the ruby chair of Mother Moon shudders, and quickens with a hard fire. The skeleton has reached the last rung. It melts and is absorbed in the burning moon. The moon? No moon, but a crimson rose afloat in the sky. A rose? No rose, but a black-tongued lily. A lily? No lily, but a pruple orchid with dark, writh- ing bars. Trumpets mingle with the sea-drums, scalding trumpets of brass, the wind- hum changes to a wail of many voices, the owl has cased calling. “White sword are you thirsty? I give you the green blood of my heart. I give you her white flesh cast from her            black soul. Thunderer, Vengeful and cruel Father, God of Hate, The skins of my eyes have dropped, With fire you have consumed the oil of            my heart. Take my drunken sword, Some other man may need it. She was sweeter than red figs, O cursed God!” For further reading: The Poetry Foundation: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/amy-lowell Academy of American Poets: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/amy-lowell

[7r0773r]

Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson

“. . . . The point is — aha! yes! the bastard has a point and isn’t too damn drunk to bring it home — this is the point, Will.” Nobody else ever called him Will. “St. Paul says there is one God, he confirms that, but he says, ‘There is one God, and many administrations.’ I understand that to mean you can wander out of one universe and into another just by pointing your feet and forward march. I mean you can come to a land where the fate of human beings is completely different from what you understood it to be. And this utterly different universe is administered through the earth itself. Up through the dirt, goddamn it.” (p. 63)

***

[Kathy] set down her shoes inside the door, made her way to the bedroom. She groped for the flashlight on the nightstand and undressed by its dim illumination. On the nightstand also lay Timothy’s book, she’d found it among his things, the dreadful essays of John Calvin and his doctrine of predestination, promising a Hell full of souls made expressly to be damned, she didn’t know what to do with it, kept it near her, couldn’t help returning to its spiritual pornography like a dog to its vomit. She found a match, lit a coil of insecticidal incense in a dish, crawled under the mosquito net, drew the sheet to her chin . . . Certain persons positively and absolutely chosen to salvation, others as absolutely appointed to destruction . . . Lying there in the stink of her life with her hair still wet from rain. She didn’t touch the book. (pp. 83-84)

***

The priest seemed to sense Skip’s disarray. He was solicitous. “We all have a spiritual trial to go through. When I was a little boy I was very hateful toward the Jews because I said they were the crucifiers. I was very contemptuous of Judas too, because of his betrayal.”

“I see,” Sands said, and saw nothing.

Carignan seemed to struggle. The words stuck in his throat. He touched his mouth with his fingers. “Well, it’s very much for each person to experience alone,” he said, and whatever truth he meant to get at, his eyes were the visible scars of it. (p. 106)

***

He had more on his mind than his love life. He worried about his mother. She didn’t make much money at the ranch. She exhausted herself. She’d grown thinner, knobbier. She spent the first half of every Sunday at the Faith Tabernacle, and every Saturday afternoon she drove a hundred miles to the prison in Florence to see her common-law husband. James had never accompanied her on these pilgrimages, and Burris, now almost ten, refused to serve as escort — just ran away into the neighborhood of shacks and trailers and drifting dust when the poor old woman started getting herself ready on Saturday and Sunday mornings.

James didn’t know how he felt about Stevie, but he knew his mother broke his heart. Whenever he mentioned enlisting in the service, she seemed willing to sign the papers, but if he left her now, how would it all turn out for her? She had nothing in this world but her two hands and her crazy love for Jesus, who seemed, for his part, never to have heard of her. James suspected she was just faking herself out, flinging herself at the Bible and its promises like a bug at a window. Having just about reached a decision in his mind to quit school and see the army recruiters, he stalled for many weeks, standing at the top of the high dive. Or on the edge of the nest. “Mom,” he said, “every eagle has to fly.” “Go ahead on, then,” she said. (pp. 138-39)

***

On the last page, another note in the colonel’s hand:

Tree of Smoke—(pillar of smoke, pillar of fire) the “guiding light” of a sincere goal for the function of intelligence—restoring intelligence-gathering as the main function of intelligence operations, rather than to provide rationalizations for policy. Because if we don’t the next step is for career-minded power-mad cynical jaded bureaucrats to use intelligence to influence policy. The final step is to create fictions and serve them to our policy-makers in order to control the direction of government. ALSO—”Tree of Smoke”—note similarity to mushroom cloud. HAH! (p. 254)

***

[E.M. Cioran] Doubt collapses onto us like a disaster; far from choosing it, we fall into it. And try as we will to pull out of it, to trick it away, it never loses sight of us, for it is not even true that it collapses onto us—doubt was in us, and we were predestined to it. (p. 357)

***

Skip on his knees at an open footlocker, lifting out the troughs of card files — a musk of paper and glue, slight nausea, anger, those many months with these odors in his mouth, al of it a waste — and found the T’s and flicked through the cards by their edges and plucked out three entries in his uncle’s block printing:

ToS

A pillar of smoke stood above the Ark like a cedar tree. It brought such a beautiful perfume to the world that the nations exclaimed, “Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like a tree of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, with all the powders of the perfumer?” Song of Solomon 3:6

ToS

And I will give portents in the heavens and on the earth, blood and fire and palm trees of smoke. The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes. Joel 2:30, 31

ToS

“cloudy pillar” — Exodus 33:9, 10. literal — “tree of smoke.” (p. 445)

***

[Trung] watched people passing on the street. Surrounded by souls he didn’t know he woke to the world in its true scale, not a room with a window that looked at a wall, but an entire world in which he was lost. Whatever the details of the situation, whatever the nature of the problem, whoever had let him down, he was lost. 

And to think how careful he’d been, and how pointlessly. It wasn’t that he regretted the mistake. He regretted the hesitation. Doubt is one thing, hesitation another. I waited three years to decide. I should have jumped. Doubt is the truth, hesitation a lie. (p. 484)

***

The patient’s two comrades squatted by a tree not far off, ready to fetch whatever might be needed, as if they had anything to fetch. The man’s family kept out of the way in one of the hooches, all but a toothless mamasan who enacted a ritual of private significance only a few meters away, out in the relentless sunshine, in the smoke of the charcoal fire and the steam from the pot where the instruments boiled: a dance of ominous hesitations, and sudden leaps, and arabesques. Dr. Mai permitted the display without comment, and Kathy welcomed it as boding well for the patient. The idea that among the ragged, the crazy, the whirly-eyed, the frothing-at-the-mouth, among the sideways, among the mumblers, shufflers, laughers, a bit of loving scrutiny would turn up the blessed poor in spirit, the burned visionary, the holy vagrant — she’d always entertained it, this romance. (pp. 530-31)

***

He’d lived almost twenty-five years, his hardships colored in his own mind as youthful adventures, someday to be followed by a period of intense self-betterment, then accomplishment and ease. But this morning in particular he felt like a man overboard far from any harbor, keeping afloat only for the sake of it, waiting for his strength to give out.

When would he strike out for shore? When would he receive the gift of desperation? He stayed under the covers in the chilly, Lysol-smelling room until the management knocked on the door. He asked for ten minutes, showered, and went bak to bed to wait for the knock that meant business. (p. 538)

***

[Jimmy Storm] “Man, it’s no good if he’s doing it for money. You’ve gotta do it for the thing, man, the thing. You need a reason, you need to be sent by the signs and messages.” (p. 592)

***

The headman raised a hand and the circles parted for a quartet of women, each clutching the corner of a blanket. They laid it before the priest — a pile of hacked wooden carvings, most no bigger than a hand, several others up to half the size of any of their Roo worshippers. The four women threw back their heads and bawled like children as the headman attacked the figures with his axe. As he worked at it, getting them all, and as the women knelt to collect the pieces and add them to the pyre, Mahathir said, “They break their household gods and throw them on the fire because the gods haven’t helped them. These gods must die. The world may end with the death of these gods. The sacrifice of the soul of the stranger may prevent the world’s end. Then new gods will rise.” (p. 594)

***

Chosen to suffer penance because no one else is left. Traversing inordinate zones, the light beyond brighter or dimmer, never enough light, nothing to tell him, no direction home. One figure yet to be revealed in his truth. 

Everyone had unmasked himself, every false face had dissolved, every dissemblance but one, his own. (p. 596)

***

The scene before [Kathy] flattened, lost one of its dimensions, and the noise dribbled irrelevantly down its face. Something was coming. This moment, this very experience of it, seemed only the thinnest gauze. She sat in the audience thinking — someone here has cancer, someone has a broken heart, someone’s soul is lost, someone feels naked and foreign, thinks they once knew the way but can’t remember the way, feels stripped of armor and alone, there are people in this audience with broken bones, others whose bones will break sooner or later, people who’ve ruined their health, worshipped their own lies, spat on their dreams, turned their backs on their true beliefs, yes, yes, and all will be saved. All will be saved. All will be saved. (p. 614)

[the-writer-and-the-artist]

I'm so inspired by all the women who are running for office this year. In case you can't read it, I'll type it down below. This #bookspinepoetry is dedicated to them. Show us your own bookspine poetry! @reach_literacy - - - Dangerous Women Women who run with the Wolves Women of sand and myrrh The Girl who kicked the hornets nest LEAP - - #REACHpoems #femalepoet #dangerouswomen #poetrymonth #reading #writersofinstagram #readersofinstagram #writeon #thetroybookmakers #womenwhorunwiththewolves #womenempowerment #womenofsandandmyrrh #thegirlwhokickedthehornetsnest #leap #womensupportingwomen #women #wolves (at Troy, New York)

[iamseamus]

Desert by Adunis

The cities dissolve, and the earth is a cart loaded with dust Only poetry knows how to pair itself to this space. No road to this house, a siege, and his house is graveyard.               From a distance, above his house               a perplexed moon dangles               from threads of dust. I said: this is the way home, he said: No               you can’t pass, and aimed his bullet at me. Very well then, friends and their homes                in all of Beirut’s are my companions. Road for blood now—               Blood about which a boy talked               whispered to his friends:                              nothing remains in the sky now                              except holes called “stars.” The city’s voice was too tender, even the winds would not tune its strings— The city’s face beamed like a child arranging his dreams for nightfall bidding the morning to sit beside him on his chair. They found people in bags:              a person                                                 without a head              a person                                                 without hands, or tongue              a person                                                 choked to death              and the rest had no shapes and no names.                             —Are you mad? Please                                                             don’t write about these things. A page in a book              bombs mirror themselves inside of it              prophecies and dust-proverbs mirror themselves inside of it              cloisters mirror themselves inside of it, a carpet made of the alphabet                             disentangles thread by thread falls on the face of the city, slipping out of the needles of memory. A murderer in the city’s air, swimming through its wound— its wound is a fall that trembled to its name—to the hemorrhage of its name and all that surrounds us— houses left their walls behind                                               and I am no longer I. Maybe there will come a time in which you’ll accept     to live deaf and mute, maybe they’ll allow you to mumble: death                   ��                            and life                                                resurrection                                                and peace unto you. From the wine of the palms to the quiet of the desert . . . et cetera from a morning that smuggles its own intestines               and sleeps on the corpses of the rebels . . . et cetera from streets, to trucks               from soldiers, armies . . . et cetera from the shadows of men and women . . . et cetera from bombs hidden in the prayers of monotheists and infidels . . . et cetera from iron that oozes iron and bleeds flesh . . . et cetera from fields that long for wheat, and grass and working hands . . . et cetera from forts that wall our bodies               and heap darkness upon us . . . et cetera from legends of the dead who pronounce life, who steer our life . . . et cetera from talk that is slaughter           and slaughter         and slitters of throats . . . et cetera from darkness to darkness to darkness I breathe, touch my body, search for myself               and for you, and for him, and for the others and I hang my death between my face and this hemorrhage of talk . . . et cetera You will see—                say his name                say you drew his face                reach out your hand toward him                or smile                or say I was happy once                or say I was sad once                you will see:                                 there is no country there. Murder has changed the city’s shape—this stone                                                                 is a child’s head— and this smoke is exhaled from human lungs. Each thing recites its exile . . .                a sea                                              of blood—and what do you expect on these mornings except their arteries set to sail into the darkness, into the tidal wave of slaughter? Stay up with her, don’t let up— she sits death in her embrace and turns over her days                                              tattered sheets of paper. Guard the last pictures of her topography— she is tossing and turning in the sand in an ocean of sparks— on her bodies are the spots of human moans. Seed after seed are cast into our earth— fields feeding on our legends, guard the secret of these bloods.                               I am talking about a flavor to the seasons                               and a flash of lightning in the sky. Tower Square—(an engraving whispers its secrets                                                               to bombed-out bridges . . . ) Tower Square—(a memory seeks its shape                                                               among dust and fire . . . ) Tower Square—(an open desert                                                               chosen by winds and vomited  . . . by them . . . ) Tower Square—(It’s magical                                              to see corpses move/their limbs                                                  in one alleyway, and their ghosts                                                  in another/and to hear their sighs . . . ) Tower Square—(West and East                                and gallows are set up—                                martyrs, commands . . . ) Tower Square—(a throng                of caravans: myrrh                                               and gum Arabica and musk                                                              and spices that launch the festival . . . ) Tower Square—(let go of time . . .                                              in the name of place) —Corpses or destruction,                  is this the face of Beirut? —and this                a bell, or a scream? —A friend? —You? Welcome.               Did you travel? Have you returned? What’s new with you? —A neighbor got killed . . . / . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A game / —Your dice are on a streak. —Oh, just a coincidence /