#xixia

[harveyzhxi]

#Xixia #mulsoleum #西夏王陵 #ningxia https://www.instagram.com/p/CoJ0V99uhIx/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[journeytothewestresearch]

Hey so I wanted to ask more about Taiyin Xing? Any time I try to find info about her there’s nothing. So if there’s any more info you can give, it will be greatly appreciated.

I only know a little bit about Taiyin xingjun (太陰星君, "Supreme Yin Star Lord; i.e. the Moon). In modern Chinese folk religion, she is commonly worshipped alongside Taiyang xingjun (太陽星君, "Supreme Yang Star Lord; i.e. the Sun).

Both are part of the “Eleven Luminaries” (Shiyi yao, 十一曜). These include the “Nine Planets” (Sk: Navagraha; Ch: Jiuyao, 九曜, “Nine Luminaries”) of Hindu astrology, namely the Sun, Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, and Rahu and Ketu, as well as two shadowy planets from East Asian astrology called Yuebei xing (月孛星, "Moon Comet Star") and Ziqi (紫氣/紫炁, “Purple Mist”).

Here is a picture of Taiyin xingjun from the Ink Treasure of Wu Daozi (Daozi mobao, 道子墨寶, c. 13th-century). See this article for citations.

Some worshipers believe that she is the moon goddess Chang'e (嫦娥), but this is not universal. In fact, Journey to the West (Xiyouji, 西遊記, 1592) treats them as two different deities. They both appear during Monkey's battle with the rabbit spirit in chapter 95:

See volume four here.

At the end of the slightly later Investiture of the Gods (Fengshen yanyi, 封神演義, c. 1620), Empress Jiang, the dead wife of the evil Shang Emperor, is deified as Taiyin xing.

See volume four of the combined PDF here.

Here is a Xixia dynasty painting of Taiyin xingjun. I really like it.

Found on Chinese Wikipedia.

[ruibaozha]

hey rui!!! I have (yet another) question

geologically, is there a place where Nezha's story takes place? i know his dad, Li Jing, was a general at Chentang Pass, and Chentang does exist as Zhêntang, but I don't find anything really matching up

tbh, this is mostly for the purpose of some fic writing so not entirely important, but I kept looking for some kind of imagery ideas and struggled to find a good kind of related location.

This is a solid question and many scholars have debated over this, the whole of Canonization of the Gods is littered with geographical and timeline errors, but recently researchers believe Chentang Pass to have been in Kuiwen Village by the Jiuwan River within Xixia of Henan province.

This space is home to palaces dedicated to both Li Jing and Nezha, and speculatively the ruins of Xinghua Village which would have been Nezha’s hometown. To my personal knowledge this is the only place claiming to be the hometown of Nezha. I have never been there myself (I am from Hubei which is directly south of Henan) but statues dedicated to Nezha are in the structure as well as lotus ponds by the entrance.

If I find any contradictory information regarding this I will amend this post accordingly.

[dilirebas]

i’m OBSESSED with wang xixia and cui ge you guys

[goodbyeapathy8]

Will Love In Spring (ongoing drama) review so far. Spoilers for up to episode 12 below.

Chen Maidong First and foremost, the most random observation I *have* to make : why is Chen Maidong's name so yellable? LOL Like CHEN MAIDONG WHEN I CATCH YOU CHEN MAIDONG!

Speaking of Chen Maidong... I think it'd be too easy to characterize him as a red flag (okay, given my personal history, maybe I'm not the best person to make this argument but, hear me out). I think he's represented more as a complex, imperfect character. Definitely not a knight in shining armor but also not a complete liú máng or hún dàn.

Argument 1) if Zhuang Jie didn't call out his issues (like him not letting go of the grievances he has towards his parents) - then yeah. Put him down as a red flag. But they discuss his past, her past, and I think they're transparent about the fact that neither are perfect people or good at relationships.

Argument 2) The drama does a fairly good job at representing the different personality aspects of Chen Maidong (CM from here on out). CM at work = gravitas. Respect. Utmost professional. CM with his friends = a glimpse of his mischievous/troubled past self from high school. CM with Chen Nai Nai = also a bit mischievous, bit gruff, but an obviously devoted grandson as well.

I'm not a huuuuuge fan of the grabbing and kabedon-ing but also those aren't dealbreakers for me in analyzing his character. This is fiction, a drama, and while that doesn't fly in real life (huge red flag in real life!) I can overlook it as more "relationship/personality flaws" than OMFG ZHUANG JIE RUN GIRL RUN.

Xixia/Cui Ge However, the main point of this post is our beloved (to me) side couple, City Girl and truly MVP of besties Xixia and the mysterious??? Cui Ge.

It legitimately took a minute for my brain to reconcile the smooth, suave, dangerous mafia type dude in a black suit from episode 9 (funeral home scene) with the goofy dude waving hello at the mall.

But I double checked! Today! Right before typing this post up and it IS indeed our Cui Ge. I'm wondering if there's an additional background to him or if the drama will show him like CM, with multiple facets.

I'd say 99% of the time, I am not a fan of side couples. At all. Most of them feel like a waste, their stories are never interesting (more of a distraction), and rarely am I enamored with the casting. Not really the fault of the actors but the lazy scriptwriting that's done where they become an afterthought.

Xixia/Cui Ge though? I'm so invested.

The drama has done a fabulous job of building up Xixia as a believable character in her own right. Although we don't have too many scenes with her, we know enough about her where we can predict her being not too impressed at all with Cui Ge during the lunch scene.

The amount of second hand cringe I felt during that entiiiiire scene, up until the end where he reached across to acupressure massage her scalp, I was screaming no no no CUI GE DON'T DO IT DON'T- welp.

It'll be interesting to see Xixia's relationship develop with him.

Last sidenote but one of my friends is also streaming this with me and we LOATHE Ji Tong so much. She's nicknamed him Fucktong (lmao) and honestly, fitting. (No hate to the actor though - truly a great casting call.)

[owlespresso]

pollen, chapter 6 tags: fem!reader, reader has a personality, mind-fuckery, non-consensual kissing a/n: it's about 8.5k words. thank you all for your patience. read 1-5 HERE.

The thickets of the Eastern Shroud are labyrinthine. Tangles of bramble and clusters of thistle seem to dog your every move as you stumble through the brush. Whatever path you had been following is lost to you now. You’re not sure how long or how far you have wandered.

The thick canopy makes it nearly impossible to tell whether it is day or not. You have to squint to catch a few thin, silvery beams of moonlight, and they don’t even reach the forest floor. Instead, the ground is illuminated by large bulbous flowers and mushrooms which sport an unearthly glow. Some of them even seem to breathe, exhaling clouds of spores which you’re careful to keep your distance from.

The noises of the forest are suddenly cut through by a round of loud, whooping cheers. You rush towards the sound, past bundles of giant flowers, under and over stray branches and thick vines. Your heart thrums in your ears as you break through the treeline, stepping foot into a wide open clearing.

What first draws your attention is the long table, nearly large enough to touch both sides. It's draped in white, pearlescent cloth. Plentiful platters stacked sumptuously with scrumptious seeming snacks line the surface from end to end. Puffy pastries are unceremoniously snatched by Sylphs and Moogles. It’s a massive gathering of them, more than you have ever seen at once. Yet, most seem to pay you no mind, even as you gawp openly. They’re more interested in each other, their chatter already rising to a dull roar. They pour tea into mismatched cups and down olive-colored bottles of swill, lost to their own revelry.

You can’t entirely recall your reason for being here, but you are almost certain it has nothing to do with this mysterious trouvaille. 

Just as you turn to exit, however, a soft voice calls out from close by.

“Wait!” A Sylph of pinkish hue floats frantically towards you, looking awfully haggard. The disheartened slump of their posture makes them look like a puppet on limp strings. “Don’t go! This one cannot remember the last time we entertained a human guest!” They plead. “This one’s name is Lixio—delighted to make your acquaintance!

You frown. “My apologies, but I have business elsewhere.”

“And it can’t wait? Even for a few moments?” Lixio pleads. You hesitate. “Only a few seconds, even! Mixia and Xixia will not believe this one if this one tells them a human attended the party! Stay long enough for others to witness your presence, at least!”

Mixia and Xixia are this sylph’s friends, you hazard a guess. As desperately as you would like to get back on track and accomplish whatever you had come here to do, fostering amicable relations with the sylphs is crucial to keeping them peaceful. Gridania is already beset by the Ixal and the constant, looming threat of Garlemald’s invasion. You frown.

“I won’t be a very entertaining guest,” you inform them.

“It is the host’s humble duty to entertain,” Lixio chirps. “And you have already captured this one’s most vested interest!”

“You’re putting me on.” You accuse them flatly. They give a mock-gasp, pressing their hands to their cheeks in faux-astonishment.

“This one would never lie about something so important! You would have been shown the door without so much as a toodaloo if you were not so interesting!” they scold, turning around and beckoning you. “Come, come! This one spies an open seat just for you!”

For a reason beyond you, you stumble in tow, through the dark purple grasses and glowing patches of fungi. Lixio leads you to the tail end of the table, where another sylph is facing down two moogles, body shaking with rage as she shrieks.

“Such indolence! This one should banish you to the bogs! A hundred years of the mossy ones sneezing upon you!” they seethe.

“Our deepest apologies!” the moogle clad in a black, pointed hat shouts back above the noise. Several of his fellows at the table’s other end clink their bottles together. “We will replace it at the earliest convenience!”

“Meaningless! The party is happening now!” the sylph cried back in dismay. The moogles offered no response, another coming to tug the both of them into the dense crowd. Staring at where they had once been, you can’t help but take note of the way the black edges seem fuzzy and writhing in ways most mysterious. 

Towering pitcher plants of violet hue spit sparkling pollen clouds into the air above the side of the clearing where you’re seated. You’re not familiar with the species, but you know enough to not trust any of the region’s mysterious flora. You should move, but a steaming cup of tea is unceremoniously shoved in front of you. 

“Made from the best milkroot in all the Shroud!” Lixio crows with no small amount of pride. You swallow, observing the deep rosen liquid with no small amount of skepticism. Pink petals float on the liquid's surface.

“I appreciate it, but I’m not thirsty.” The corners of your lips twitch into what you hope is an appeasing smile. Is not being thirsty a good enough excuse to turn down a drink from your self-declared host? Should you have said you’re allergic? Lixio doesn’t seem to appreciate your refusal, little face scrunching up.

“It is most impolite to refuse your host’s hospitality,” Lixio fumes. Your lips press into a thin, straight line at the shrill pitch of their voice. With each moment, your tolerance rapidly dwindles. The cute charm of the sylph wares off with their newfound brattiness. It is one thing to be patronized by primals and Garlean commanding officers. It is entirely another to have this brussel sprout of a creature attempting to scold you. Why did you humor them at all? The voices around you grate your sensitive ears more with every passing moment, nose growing expeditiously agitating when combined with the bright luminescent colors which crowd every corner of your vision.

“I apologize,” you reply tersely. “But I am not comfortable—”

“Not comfortable!? What else must be done to please you?” Lixio inquires. They lean forward, into your space. One of their little arms knocks into the teacup they dropped before you. Several drops of the rosen liquid splatter onto the tablecloth. 

A shriek splits the air.

“You have ruined this one’s precious dining cloth!” the sylph who was tussling with the moogles mere moments ago turns their attention to your gracious host. They descend upon your gracious host, seizing and pushing Lixio by the shoulders. If not for their innate ability to float, they would have toppled out of their chair and onto the ground. “Ungrateful! Ungrateful, all of you are!”

“Fixia!” Lixio cries. “This one is sorry! This one will clean it—make it look all new and shiny! This one swears!”

“No! This one has had it with lies!” Fixia snaps, curling their tiny, leaflike fingers into the stained cloth. “No more! No! More!” With a strength belied by their slight frame, they pull at the cloth’s edge—and the entire table is upended. Porcelain flies into the air and shatters, drinkware clanging into sterling silver forks and spoons. Pale pastry cream slaps onto dry earth and dark dark grass, tea of scalding temperatures soaking the earth and splashing onto several, unfortunate bystanders.

They shriek and howl, the crowd thrown into immediate disarray. The fae folk dash and fly in all different directions. You slip away in the height of the panic, grateful to be seated so close to the thick treeline. The sounds of the chaos are soon in the far distance. The bright lights halo your silhouette in a smattering of kaleidoscopic color, fading in intensity the further you stray, diving back into the wood with less certainty than you had before the disastrous party. You hadn’t known Sylphs and moogles to mingle so freely. Perhaps they’ve been driven to cooperate by recent threats to the Shroud?

A matter to contemplate later, you decide. You can’t stray from your goal—which happens to be remembering what’s driven you out here in the first place.

In the distance, a river rumbles underneath a curved, wooden bridge. Vines of ivy and purplish leaves intertwine over the suspiciously thin railings. This is the deepest you’ve ever delved into the Eastern Shroud, often put off exploring by the hostile, tempered Sylphs which inhabit the wilds in great abundance. Whatever brought you here was deemed worth the trouble, but your memory remains out of your grasp. Perhaps Meteor would—

You freeze. Hardwood gives way to soft, loamy grass.

Meteor. Ardbert. Where are your teammates? How could you have forgotten them? Revulsion and white hot alarm begin to churn your stomach as you comb through the possibilities, but your thoughts come slow as molasses. Think—think, god dammit! You tap your fist into your temple as if trying to knock your head clear of whatever clogs it. It doesn’t work, of course, leaving you with a sore spot and the paralyzing dread of knowing something is amiss.

You stumble forward, rib cage throbbing dully as one urgent breath shudders out of the next. The air feels thick, like you can’t get enough of it at once—and soon you’re grasping in the dark, struggling to keep yourself upright.

It’s not a horrible place to collapse, you think through the haze. Maybe resting for a while will do you some good, maybe you’re too tired to think. 

You don’t realize you’re sliding down until your knees knock into the dirt. Surely, that too is fine. Surely, no bandit or other neerdowell would venture this deep into the Sylphlands, too terrified of fae magic and ferocious flora. From here, though, it's not too terrible. What you can see from underneath lowering eyelids is all beautiful in a strange, otherworldly manner. Dark purples coalesce with bright, pink petals and white shroom caps which glow soft in the peaceful dark. Yes, there will be plenty of light when you wake.

Someone calls your name. You huff and burrow yourself between the roots of the tree, bark scratching the thick fibre of your robes. You hardly mind the cold, damp bark on your cheek. Just a few minutes. Just a few—

Another shout, closer this time. 

Mere a few winks of peace—

A broad pair of hands seizes your shoulders and shakes, nearly throttling you against the trunk. When your eyes snap open, it's Ardbert’s concerned countenance which greets you.

“Are you with me?” he asks, leaning close. You can count his every eyelash. Relief crashes over you, nearly hard enough to render you breathless. Ardbert. You blink several times, just to make doubly sure that this is no cruel illusion borne of Sylph magic. But you reopen your eyes and he is still crouched in front of you, familiar face wound deep with concern.

“I’m up, I’m up—” you stagger to your feet, if only to avoid another jostling. His gloved hand wraps around your forearm, carrying an alarming majority of your weight. Too often, you forget just how strong your teammates are, just how easily they could snap bone if so prompted. “Are you alright? Where have you been, this whole time?” you gather your wits enough to ask. The adrenaline shakes away the worst of your weariness. 

Ardbert releases you with a haggard sigh, dragging his hand down his face.

“I should be asking you all that,” he begins, exasperated. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to you had you actually fallen asleep?”

“No, do you?” you rub a hand down your face, bleary eyes peering over your fingers as a beat of silence passes. And then another. And then—

“Well, no—but knowing the beasts which skulk around here, it would have been nothing good!” Ardbert blusters. “Now, come on. We have to find my brother.”

“You haven’t seen him?” you inquire. You have to jog a few paces to reach his side before he mellows into a slower stride, exhaling a long suffering sigh. You’ve known him long enough to peer beneath the hardened veneer he wears in the face of all challenges. He’s playing tough, but he’s just as lost as you are. The purple under his eyes is more pronounced than usual. He hasn’t been getting enough sleep. After all of this is over and solved, you’ll procure a tea or tonic to help. And maybe something for his flushed complexion.

His cheeks are a ruddy red, a thin sheen of sweat gracing his visible skin. You could have dismissed it as exertion, likely from roaming wild and reckless around the whispering wood, but the blush has only deepened since you began walking. Petal pink lips part around semi labored breaths.

“No. I haven’t,” Ardbert admits.

“Do you know how long ago you were separated? Did you come in together? I can’t remember a thing.” you confess. You’d not admit it aloud, but having another at your side—having someone to confide in and question is a reassurance you didn’t know you would miss. He’s firm and warm at your side, not as tall as some but still made steep by his warrior’s armor. 

He doesn’t answer. You glance over at him a second time. Still flushed. Feverish. Perhaps he’s allergic to some of the local flora? All manner of suspicious plant and flower populates the darkened boughs of the Twelveswood—each bearing their own fruits and pollen. Gods only know what those spores will do to a person.

“Ardbert? Are you alright?” you press gently.

“I’m fine. I just want to get out of this hellhole,” Ardbert insists brusquely, frown deepening. “Worry about yourself, for once.”

“I’m not the one who’s red as a tomato right now,” you huff, but otherwise keep careful to curb your sass. Quarreling will serve you no purpose in a place so hostile, you remind yourself. 

“It’s as humid as Ifrit’s arse out here,” Ardbert replies in kind, face twisted into a scowl. “And you were about to pass out before I found you—that’s worth more concern than a little bit of heat.” He argues, and you feel a near nauseating wave of deja vu was over you. It’s the beginning of a familiar dance, the steps of which only you two know. You don’t have the energy for it, right now. 

“If you say so. But if you start feeling off—”

Ardbert makes a rough, irritated sound. “You always do this,” he says, exasperated and angry, voice gravelly with the intensity of the emotion. 

“Do what?”

“You always get after both of us for not licking our wounds enough—but you never take proper care of yourself!” It’s an abrupt frustration that comes out of nowhere, like a flame jolting to life on a match. It reaches beyond the routine arguments you’re so used to. It weaves into the surrounding aether, not unlike the potent rage he involves on the battlefield. Pain cracks through the passion, the bottom of his lip beginning to wobble. He stops and turns on you abruptly. 

“What!? Where is this coming from!?” You stumble backwards, nearly tripping over your own coattails in the process. “You can nag me all you want, but let’s just focus on getting out here for now!”

He scoffs. “Really? Going to lecture me on focus when I just found you curled up in the dirt?”

“Oh, come off it! I was exhausted! I’ve been through a lot today, Ardbert, I don’t need you adding onto it—”

“Why not? You seem to have no problem adding everyone else’s rubbish onto your plate!” he snaps. 

Your eyes go wide as his shadow envelops you. “How do you think that makes us feel!?” Sticks and deadened grass crunches underneath his heavy leather boots as he approaches. “We watch you wring the near life out of yourself! Constantly! You forget to eat! You refuse to sleep!” He looms close. You don’t even realize you’re backing up until you bump into a gnarled trunk.

“Useless! It makes us feel useless!” he nearly snarls, fist pummeling into the trunk.  You flinch, withering backwards. The wood splinters beneath his gauntlet, pieces spat out onto your cloak. “We can’t ever help you because you keep letting your goddamn pride get in the way!”

“I’ve never asked for your help!” you splutter, fists clenching at your sides. Animal fear and righteous anger wrestle for dominance in your churning gut. 

“And that’s the entire problem! Your head is so far up your arse that you can’t even see when you need help!” he continues, voice pitching into a desperate shout. His chest is an iron wall, heaving with each labored breath. A wall in front of you, his arms bars. He’s right, you realize, and that’s the most irritating part of it. 

You can’t muster up an adequate reply, too busy searching for an opening. This has gone too far, beyond your typical quarreling. He’s not even a film away, face close enough to note each fine indent of his scowl. The warmth of his body seeps through his armor, even though it really shouldn’t—defying all reason to your muddled senses. The cloying heat that makes it harder to think, harder to wriggle away.

Broad palms cup your jaw. His fingers spread across your cheeks as he forces you to look up—up into glowing, pink eyes. Something in you shatters, then, utterly jarred by the unnatural neon you’re faced with. Only now do you clock how wrong all of him is, how the actors of this play aren’t quite fitting their roles. You open your mouth—to say what you do not know, but the words never quite come. They die on your tongue, because—

He’s kissing you. With warm, soft lips, pressing in and drinking deep of you. A hot tongue pushes into your gasping mouth, chases your own even as you writhe and push at his chest. Faintly, you’re aware of your hand around his wrist. You claw and scramble for purchase on his leathers, attempting to pry away from him. 

The difference in strength is too great, and the air is growing too thin. You’re making noise, little whimpers and whines which he swallows, steals them alongside each dwindling breath. Your consciousness begins to fade, black crackling at the edges—and it’s that which jolts you back into shocking awareness.

You cannot fall here. This is not your Ardbert.

Blind panic surges through your veins, levin crackling underneath your skin. The atmosphere trembles, the very fabric of the cosmos beckoned to your aid. A silvery sphere of raw aether sparks into existence behind him. The nearby foliage pulses, and is drawn into it alongside your companion’s devious duplicate. The fake is torn from you with an enraged animal sound.

You turn on foot and dash madly into the woods before the spell fully triggers, blowing everything it's drawn within to smithereens. You fumble over jutting roots and fallen branches, pulling lungfuls of precious air into your howling lungs. The world flies by in shadows of green and purple and brown, fluorescent mushrooms and flowers puffing clouds of suspicious spores. Only when you are alone do you at last come to a pause—bending over to gasp for much needed air. Your sweaty palm presses up against bark, wincing at the coarse bark against your slicked skin.

The situation is more severe and incomprehensible than it initially appeared. Something in the wood plays cruel tricks on you, to wear the faces of your companions. You’ll never forgive who is responsible, whether it be the Sylphs, the Moogles or any other manner of frivolous forest creature. You’ll slay them yourself, you decide.

With that vow made, you regain your breath and stomp back into the thickets, heading towards the gaping mouth of another treeline. Halfway, you pause, a sudden thought striking you.

If Ardbert had been a doppelganger, were either of your partners ever truly here in the first place?

The panic cooled into listless paranoia as you continued to roam. Desperately, you comb through every corner of your mind for some clue, some context as to why you arrived here in the first place. Your probing turns up frighteningly little. You can recall disembarking an airship and meeting with an official at the Adders Nest. The air was tinged with ripe lilac and honeysuckle until you took the ferry east, over murky waters and through verdant masses of algae. The skiff’s bow cut through the tranquil lake like a knife through warm butter.

That’s all you’re able to discern. The finer details pull away when you reach for them. Something, or someone, has purposefully obfuscated your memories. And all you can do is lumber exhaustedly through their crafted labyrinth, out of options and tools and sapped of every after casting impulsively and without a focus.

A flicker of familiar scarlet teases at the edge of your vision. You snap your head towards it, fears temporarily forgotten. Your gaze darts around in the dark, only to find more of what surrounds you. Deadened trunks and berry purple leaves.

Your shoulders slump, more exasperated with your own eyes for playing tricks on you than affected by the vision itself. A Warrior of Light can’t quake and crumble at the slightest of provocations. You’ve dealt with worse than this, fought stranger foes and outwitted politicians and enemy generals and gods alike. If you can’t surmount this—

A bell-like laugh echoes up and down the wood, a sound you never thought you would hear again.

“Come now, hero! Are you really going to let me run off a third time?” 

Familiar agitation sweeps through you at his mocking lilt. It feels nostalgic, in a way, but you know better than to chase a dismembered voice off in the distance. No matter how achingly familiar. You turn away, and you keep on walking—

“Really? You would ignore me after all we had together?” his voice is in your head, now, flat and disappointed. You whirl around, trembling fist clenched, but your dulled reflexes are but a moment too late. You’ev shoved backwards, and where you swore there had existed solid should is instead a slope covered in sticks which snag and leaves which crunch loud underneath your tumbling body. A pained shout wrenches from your chapped lips, flank landing hard on the dirt. 

You scrape your hands on bark and stone as you pull yourself to your feet. A mere film away is a tangle of bristling brambles. Count your blessings where you can find them, you suppose. Your hands raise to brush the clumped soil off your person. They never get that far.

The dark, still edge of a familiar blade tucks underneath your chin. You can’t remember seeing or hearing anyone approach, but you have often noticed that Meteor moves quieter and more discreetly than anyone in armor has any right to. But he’s keenly aware of that, too. He always makes noise on purpose, just to let you know he’s coming. To not scare you.

But not this time. His eyes are wide and wild, hair knocked into tangles, dirt and blood smudged across his face. The crimson is slick with its freshness. He’s a terrifying vision, hunched above you like a wolf looms over a wounded lamb.

“Meteor,” you rasp, quietest you have ever been, “It’s me—” you find the stones to continue after a long moment, spent in sheer disbelief that he would raise his weapon at you. His face twitches, but the eerie stillness there remains. There’s something anguished in his eyes.

“I’ve heard that, before,” he says ruefully, breathing heavily. “You won’t fool me. Not again.”

“You—what are you talking about—” you stammer. Realization crashes into you a moment later, fast and brutal as a Coerthan gale. “How many of me have you seen?” you can’t help but ask, swallowing against the pinprick of his blade.

He licks a bead of sweat from his lips. Mindlessly, you track the movement.

“Two, now. Ran them both through,” he admits, equal part confession and threat. There’s no wobble in his voice, though. No regret. Sympathy juts through the haze of your fear.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “That you had to—”

“No. Don’t even start.” he mutters, shifts closer.

“I’m real, Meteor. I can prove that I’m real,” you fumble backwards, pulse rumbling in your ears. Your back meets the unyielding stone of a nearby ledgeface, trapped between it and his unforgiving steel. “Ask me something only I would know!”

Meteor’s jaw ticks. “The second one said the same—and they were right,” he swallows. “—when they answered.”

“Then—Then I can just leave!” you exclaim, unable to keep the panic from your voice. You can’t even begin to fathom the implications of what he’s disclosed to you, not while the edge of his blade inches forward, kissing the column of your throat. “I won’t show my face again. I swear it!”

The space between his thick brows scrunches, for the first time breaching his glazed, wild expression. The sword wobbles against your skin, threatening to break it, before he heaves a great sigh and lowers it. You slump against the craggy wall, erupting into a series of sputtering, shaky breaths. You must make a pitiful picture, but the relief is so palpable that you can’t bring yourself to much care.

He remains there, looming and still as a statue, deadly weapon still clutched in his hand.

“I’ll—I’ll just be doing, then,” you assure him once you’ve regained your breath. It kills you to leave him here, distressed and alone, but you can’t solve this conundrum if you’re dead. You’ll have to come back for him, and in the meantime hope he isn’t visited by any other spectors wearing your face.

Though, maybe you should worry more for yourself. The phantom feeling of Ardbert’s hands sticks cold to your skin, a poignant reminder of the danger that lurks.

“There’s an Ardbert imposter running around,” you inform him, wincing as you pull yourself to your feet. A piercing ache throbs in your left side. No doubt it’ll be a nasty bruise, later. “I know you don’t believe me I’m real. I just thought you should—”

His hand cups the underside of your jaw, the cool metal of his gauntlets firm against your overheated skin. The clawed tips prick your cheeks. You blink stupidly, numbly as he seizes you, lifts your head to meet his imposing, keen gaze. He’s analyzing you, you think, searching for something you cannot quite name. Your pulse thrums against his forearm, in your throat, skin brushing against the metal with each throb of blood through the vein.

“Meteor—” you rasp, frozen in place by the weight of his attention alone. A beast brays somewhere in the far distance. The forest squirms and shivers despite a lack of wind.

His eyes shut. He exhales, trembling. He’s testing your measure, yet to what parameters you do not know. You can only linger in the space between the seconds, awaiting his judgment. 

He opens his eyes. “You’re real,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes across your lower lip, careful to mind his claw. His eyes flutter shut, brown lashes tucking against pale cheeks. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” you reply automatically, rising to your feet. You know full well that he would never raise arms against you unless under significant duress, unless out of his mind. 

“It isn’t,” Meteor replies coolly, raking a hand through his hair. “But now isn’t the time.”

You don’t reply nor do you give into the sweet relief his presence brings. He looks like he’s struggling with what else to say, lips pulled into a straight line.

“So, let’s pool our information,” you speak up, just to spare him the agony of his own thoughts. There’ll be plenty of time to wallow in his guilt later. You don’t need any more platitudes or pleas for forgiveness—the moment has passed and neither of you should live in it.

Meteor heaves a sigh, “After we arrived in the Shroud, a fog settled over the entire area. I could hardly see my own hands—”

“Forgive me, but why did we come to the Shroud in the first place? I…” you chew on the inside of your cheek, warmth rising to your cheeks. The idea of you forgetting the specifics of a mission is completely out of character, and horribly humiliating. The question gets stuck in your throat, stubborn pride warring with your own rampant need for context, for information. “I can’t seem to remember.”

“We…” Meteor pauses, blinking. His gaze crawls from you, eyes glazing as he stares across the empty clearing. “Came to gather milkroot.”

“...Milkroot?” your eyes narrow. This is a poor time for jokes—the notion that the Scions would send you here to do chores is laughable, but Meteor nods. Dead serious as he’s ever been.

“Over the past moon, it’s grown out of proportion. It’s making the tempered Sylphs come out from deeper in the wood.”

“Alright. So you happen to know where this particularly intrusive patch of milkroot is?” You’re still not sure if you believe him. And if you do happen to believe him, you’re still miffed at being deployed for pest control, of all things. You’ve felled three primals and beasts of equal strength. You are above getting on your knees in the dirt to clean up some random mess.

“I do,” Meteor nods. “But the thicket… It's hard to navigate. I’ve already been lost twice.”

“I can only imagine,” you mumble, sympathetic. “Well, given it's our only lead, we can head there first. Does that sound alright?”

And Meteor nods, by far the most well-behaved tank you have ever met, both in and outside of battle.

He does, taking you through winding pathways, skirting along the very edges of the darkened deepwood. In the distance, you spy purple sylphs and tall plants with wide, spikes maws. Their broad stems rise and fall as if breathing. Clouds of poison expel into the air with each breath. 

“Meteor—” you say, and then swallow. The ambient aether pulses around you—and suddenly you are in that far off distance, surrounded by them on all sides. The air is sickly sweet and sparkling ripples of bright purple glisten through the gloom in undulating waves. You stagger, boots scuffing on the dark dirt. Everything seems to breathe now. Thick trunks and brambled branches, expanding and shrinking. Your gaze lifts to the canopy.

Meteor says your name. A firm hand clasps your wrist, firm and grounding. Your lungs feel tight, throat constricted. Dazed and unfocused as you are, you manage to find his gaze among the swimming dark. Have his eyes always been so bright?

But it’s not enough. You feel yourself crumple, not all at once. one part of the body after the other. Mere moments feel stretched into minutes, your world condensing to stuttered snapshots. Meteor, distraught. An oversized log up top the slope. A lone sylph, faced away from you. Strands of green and stiff purple grass, which tickles your cheek.

And then, the eerie black.

There is no time between when you shut your eyes and reopen them. A fraction of a moment at most. Your eyelids pry open and you are back on your feet, mid-step. 

“Drowsing on the job again, are we?” G’raha Tia says. Your brain stutters, struggling to piece together his presence. It’s beyond jarring. It’s like seeing your smallclothes laid out on the Rising Stones’s Bar. A piece of you, something so close and intimate, dragged out and misplaced for all to see. 

He looks different then the last time you saw him. Both of his eyes are blue. His hair is longer, fastened into a thick but wild braid. A greatbow slung across his back is emblazoned with golden accents and striking blue gemstones. One half of his shirt is blue, the other black. The neckline hangs low, the fabric bunched by a red and black sash wound around his waist. Sheathed daggers and miscellaneous pouches hang off two belts slung underneath it. Another is fastened around his thigh. Some of the gold bangles tied round his arm gloves and thigh high boots sport beads in the shape of the sun and stars. A bard, you think.

“I…” you begin, tongue heavy in your mouth. What had he asked of you, again? You blink, attempting to clear away the lingering haze. 

“You know how that old saying goes—sleep late and you lose the worm and all that,” he says, eyes glimmering. Playful. “And if I’m not mistaken, this will be the third such occasion in which you’ve missed the goal.”

“The third?” your lips peel into a frown, familiar agitation sparking within you. “What are you counting as the first two?”

“If it truly mattered to you, you would have remembered by now,” his smile turns wry, blue eyes so bright and bitter. Your jaw locks, awareness washing over you like grains broken from an hourglass, sands of time settling heavy and suffocating atop your chest. The anger, the pain, the loss—it tastes coppery. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” you protest.

His gaze softens. “You don’t believe that.”

“How would you know? You’re the one who left without so much as a word! You couldn’t even be bothered to leave a note behind, G’raha!” The anger erupts from you all at once, typical restraint worn by the day’s events—the day’s events, you realize. 

This isn’t real. G’raha Tia is long gone. This is another cruel illusion conjured specifically to waste your time and demoralize you. You need to leave.

“Why would I write a note to someone who clearly couldn’t stand me? From the moment we met, you made it painfully clear that you wanted no part of me. You only tolerated my presence, as though I were a coworker’s child getting underfoot. You despised me, but you despised the fact that you needed me even more.” Every word drives into you like a rusty prong of steel, wounds just begun to close reopened and stung, skin split and stitches burst. All at once, you feel speechless and small, no better than a child.

“And you never bothered to examine why I behaved in the manner that I did! Did you not once consider that I only wanted to impress the vaunted Warriors of Light!? To prove that I was worthy to stand at your side!?”

“Stop,” you gasp, and it feels like getting sick, the back of your throat for some reason rubbed raw—like you’ve been running a marathon or screaming out your bedraggled soul. 

“Perhaps, if I felt I could confide in you, I would have told you. Perhaps you could have convinced me to stay.” G’raha continues, voice soft again. The anger and agony is gone, now. Only the stillness of a soul lost or given up, looking out across the short tale of his life in pensive reflection.

 “Perhaps I could have gone on to be an adventurer, too.” His voice is nearly smothered by the sound of wildlife, groans and chirps and howls and clicks erupting around you. The shadows reach out like spindly fingers. Every hair on your body stands on end. Your instincts scream for you to rush forward and shield him from the malignant presence which haunts this horrible, wild place.

Not this time, though. Not for this delusion. Your jaw clenches as the bleak, empty dark encloses on him like a flower’s petals. You stand there, and comfort yourself with the knowledge that this is too a phantasm, a vision spun for the sole sake of your distress.

You blink, and the murky depths disappear. Meteor is standing in front of you, eyes bright and face hard with concern.

“I’m alright,” the words are out of your mouth before you can even think. Automatic, at this point. “We can keep going.”

“I can carry you, if you’re tired.” he informs you. His barely flat delivery makes you wonder whether he’s offering or simply telling you a fun fact. 

“You don’t have to. I’m fine,” you sound weaker than you would like, reedier. “And we should both be concerned about the doppelgangers running around. They’re likely Sylph illusions, but simple magicks cannot explain how they knew such intimate details about us.” And about your relationships. The illusory Ardbert’s words had been weighed by honest, clear agony. 

“Perhaps the culprit is no mere Sylph,” he suggests.

“Who would it be, then?” you scoff, kicking a large brand off the path, which has started to thin. Up ahead lay another dark bridge, the river churning below. The area leading up to it is no larger than three films across, and populated by several tangles of bramble. It’s little wonder that the tempered Sylphs of the deepwood don’t make their own fortresses. Nature is more than willing to supply it for them.

Meteor provides you with an informative shrug, leaving you to stew with the possibilities. Frankly, you cannot name a single person who would be privy to the innermost workings of your troublesome trio. Most enemies don’t get close enough for a chance at conversation, and most allies are kept at a strict arm’s length. By you, at least.

You shut your eyes for a moment as your mounting headache returns full force, but a moment is all it takes for you to stub your toe on a stray root. You curse, voice echoing up and down the misty boughs.

Meteor looks at you pointedly, head tilting. You glare.

“No.” you say. 

He takes a step closer. Into your personal space. It takes all of your healer’s patience not to unleash a volley of crass curses directly into his face.

“No, I’m fine,” you firmly insist. “I don’t need any coddling.”

Meteor looks remarkably unimpressed. “What’s your plan, then? Please, enlighten me.” he says, completely flat. “Wander aimlessly through the woods until you twist your ankle on another vine?”

Your face crinkles like you’ve just eaten a serving of Archon Loaf. Since when has he been… so sassy? So prone to backtalk?

No—it makes sense. Being forced to slay even an illusion wearing his face and speaking in his voice would shake you, likely leave you rattled for weeks. So of course he’s on edge, snappier than usual. You take in another deep breath, count to three, and exhale, willing your tempestuous temper away.

“I won’t lie. I am… unsure of the specifics of our situation. However, I have a few theories,” you lean up against the closest tree trunk and roll your head back, shutting your tired eyes. G’raha Tia comes to you in flashes, blue eyes deep and haunted. You settle for staring at the dark canopy instead. 

“We could be inside a sealed space which repeats itself, where elements of terrain are randomly placed to give the illusion that we are genuinely traversing the forest. Such a complex spell requires a skilled caster and a bevy of aether at their disposal. The Sylphs are, for the most part, natural born casters and obtaining the crystals required could be as simple as leading a few unlucky merchants astray from the trodden path.” you finished with a grimace. “A likelier theory is that we’ve been trapped in some kind of dream.

“All three of us together?” Meteor inquires, placid mien betraying no skepticism. It’s a relief that your hypothesis hasn’t been met with immediate disbelief. Some of the tension melts from your body as you open your mouth. 

Before you can speak, someone calls to you from across the clearing.

Meteor shifts into a defensive stance, clean steel of his greatsword aimed at the approaching, darkly dressed figure. It takes you a moment to see it, to genuinely sew the embellished black plate, the eyes deep and wide and hauntingly blue. The tips of his ruffled hair kisses the space where his stubble begins.

No, oh gods, no—the forest fades into black nothingness, silent but it must be laughing. Laughing, because you were foolish enough to not anticipate this. The air struggles to stay in your lungs. Your ears pound, your chest thuds with white hot panic, rolling up your spine and forking into the base of your skull. You can’t handle this, right now. You stare numbly at the approaching form of a second Meteor.

You should have expected this. If the mastermind was able to so seamlessly replicate Ardbert, then it is only reasonable to expect the same of Meteor.

“Stay behind me,” Meteor says, quiet yet uncompromising. As if you plan to step in front of the hulking slab of metal he calls a sword. “Leave us alone. We know you’re an imposter.”

His doppelganger, rather than responding to him directly, looks at you instead, concern writ plain across his furrowed brow. Meteor stands taller to block his view of you, black pauldon sheltering you from that pained, beseeching stare.

“You’re as bold as I expected a Sylph-borne simulacrum to be,” the doppelganger begins. He calls your name, then. 

“Bold accusations from a shade with no proof.” Meteor rebuffs. “I’ll not warn you a second time. Leave, or your Sylph masters will receive what remains of you in hand baskets.”

Traveling together begets familiarity. Yet, you would never claim to know Meteor’s every facet. Yet, you cannot suppress the wave of wrongness that sweeps through you. It’s a sudden chill. In all the times he has stood firm between you and the enemy, he has never been so verbose. No, he cuts down the enemy before they can even spit a word. The sprout of dread burgeons within you, renders you near breathless as you stare at his back, desperate to get a closer look at his eyes.

The other Meteor calls your name a second time.

“I lack the time to bother with paltry words. You know that.” he says, desperate to be known, to be believed. And it’s true. It’s completely true. An idiosyncrasy that only he would be aware of. You step back, instinctively reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Your boots scuff the dark dirt, and the Meteor who you’ve been accompanying whirls around. He looks like you’ve knocked the wind out of him, staring at you in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you believe him,” he says. His eyes are wild and wide with horror.

“I—I—” It’s much more difficult to defend your position when he’s looking at you like that. It’s a look he only fixes you with on the rare occasions that you get a scrape or cut in battle. Scrutinizing and perhaps annoyed, but feral with concern. Like he’d reach his hands inside of you to fix any misaligned inners. Like he’d sink his teeth into the throat of those responsible. All gnashing fangs and frayed bangs, blood and soot and dirt smudged on his cheeks.

You take another step back. Where there was once a blank dirt road, there is—something, something which slithers around your ankle and pulls, sending you tumbling to the earth. You wince at the initial impact, earlier injuries sent spasming.

A few fulms away, you can see him start in your direction, outline of a curse on his lips. He’s lowered his greatsword by a hair, head craned to snatch a brief look at you. But that’s all it takes.

Sabled steel slices clean through his middle. Blood gushes onto the ground. His armor dents where it’s been cut through, gnarled metal groaning as he crashes to the floor—spasming. Bile rises in the back of your throat as you watch his lips open around strained wheezes. Here, in the dim dark, you are forced to confront your worst fear. The life bleeds out of him, the wound too gaping for your feeble aether to mend. You try, anyway, crawling over dirt and twigs to reach him. A clammy palm presses against the cold, cold curve of his chestplate.

The aether sparks feebly at your fingertips. The skin stings and burns but you push through—it is a mere fraction of the rest of the pain you have been put through today, after all. Beaten and bruised, you try and pour everything which remains into his shuddering body. His torso twitches like a fish brought to land. Fervent even now, in the throes of death. 

His eyes glaze. He stops moving. He’s looking at you, still. 

You choke back a scream.

The body explodes into a sparkling cloud of purple aether, before vanishing altogether. Another imposter, this entire time. Twice now, you have been so thoroughly fooled. You cannot claim to be close friends of either brother, but you know them. You know Ardbert leaves extra tips for bar keepers and inn maids and checks the doors and windows twice each before retiring to bed. You know Meteor only ever haggles in Ul’dah, and that he runs errands for the folk of every settlement and city which you visit. You know when Ardbert is close to lashing out because his jaw locks and he gets this little line on his chin. You know when something is troubling Meteor because he fidgets, most often with his gauntlet straps.

All of that, and still you readily believed their imposters, even made excuses for them! Your hands curl into fists, strands of grass crushed between them. Your eyes stay wide open, the imposter’s last few moments ingrained in your mind’s eye. You will see it every time you blink.

It was a fake, sure, but it still wore his face. It looked at you with his eyes and called out to you in his voice.

Much like the voice that calls to you know. Meteor is wearing a grimace as he makes his way over to you, no doubt disconcerted at having to bring his own doppelganger to the sword.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lips pulled into a disgusted frown. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.” He doesn’t bother asking if you’re alright, because you’re not and you know that much is obvious. You have faith that you look as much of a wreck as you feel. 

You swallow, and do not take his hand, because even this too feels wrong. If you were an ilm less wise, you would reason that paranoia from today’s ordeals has set in. But you now know that nothing in this horrible, labyrinthine place adheres to reason or empathy.

A nearby cluster of tall, bulbous flowers glows bright yellow. The light catches on his armor, his sword and his eyes—which gleam that horrible, acidic violet.

“Stay away from me!” you push yourself to your feet and scramble backwards. “I know what you are, now! Stop hiding behind someone else’s face, you spineless wretch!”

It inhales deeply. Patiently.

“You’re afraid, and it’s affecting how you see things,” he coaxes, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “There’s no need to be afraid. If you would just let me—” His eyes flash a hot pink. He goes silent, arms dropping back to his sides. His expression loses his desperate candor, glazed and empty. You don’t stick around to wonder why. A searing ache burns at your walk-weary legs, exhausted muscles crying out for sweet reprieve. You heave yourself to your feet regardless, ignoring the stubborn pain. The myriad cuts and bruises you’ve amassed since this all began sting and throb. 

You still don’t know what “this” is. You’re still at square one, without a clue or a hope to get you by. All that matters now is getting as far from this newfound imposter as possible. You rush across the clearing, gritting your teeth through the agony.

The imposter says something, then. You’re too distracted to hear, but you can clearly make out the sound of his boots thudding as he gives chase. Animal fear sets your body aflame, bolts of levin dancing up and down your spine. Every heaving gasp burns the back of your dry throat, eyes watering against  a sudden gust of wind. You cannot die here.If you were in better shape, if you hadn’t been run so ragged, perhaps you’d be able to claw your way out of this. But he bridges the distance between you with pathetic ease.

“This a terrible shame to lose someone so skilled,” he says. He shoves an elbow into your mid-back, harsh plate slamming into your spine. “You could have served on His Majesty’s court.”

You crash to the ground for what feels like the thirtieth time today, shuddering and clawing at the dirt, feet kicking out as you attempt to delay the inevitable. Oh god, you realize belatedly, deliriously, that this is where you die. In the dark and alone, covered in sweat and grime, last moments spent wriggling in filth like a pig. This is how they will find you—if anyone even does, rumpled and beaten and bloody—no partners to lend you aid or shield you. No one to fret over your wounds or nag you to rest. 

Ardbert  was right. Black spots swim at the edges of your vision. Behind you, the whoosh of a blade winds through the air.  May it be swift, you pray, and shut your eyes.

The blow never reaches you. 

The sound of a thousand windows shattering nearly blows out your eardrums. The noise is almost a physical force, erupting from the space only a few fulms ahead of you. Tendrils of blinding daylight reach in as the darkened skies seem to fall to pieces, starlit canopy cracking and crumbling to the earth in crystalline shards.

A blur of brown streaks past your left side, but the enraged roar it makes is familiar enough to make your eyes water with tears unshed. Steel screams against steel. In that instant, you drop. All fight leaves your body, head thunking into the soil. You turn your face to the side to avoid a mouthful of dirt. 

You cannot see the full scope of the fight, because a pair of arms circle around your prone body. You’re lifted fast enough to make your head spin, nausea churning in your gut. All you can do is swallow down the acid bile, lest you stain Meteor’s dark plate and leathers. 

Instead you let loose a dry, rasping sob. The nightmare is over. You have nothing else to fear. All of the mysteries you have agonized over will be explained in due time. 

You fall to pieces. Above you, Meteor’s lips are moving, but you can’t make out a word over the shattering and screaming and thrumming of your traitorous heart. He looks down at you, and you would feel guilty at the abject horror and concern written plain across his face if you were not so, so relieved. You cry, and cry, and cry, not even caring when the points and hard flats of his armor jostle your wounds because he is here and he is real. He is so achingly, endlessly and utterly real.

It is relief, not fear, which blurs your vision and runs down your cheeks. Relief deeper than you ever thought you could feel. So deep that you submerge into it, sinking into the merciful empty of a well-deserved sleep.

[domenicosolimeno]

L’arte impegnata di Wu XiXia, tra tradizione calligrafica e lotta di genere

«Perché non ci sono calligrafe donne?». Questa è la provocatoria domanda posta dall’artista Wu Xixia 吴析夏 (1993), aggiornando e applicando alla cultura e alla società cinese il titolo del saggio di Linda Nochlin del 1971. Nata in Cina e successivamente immigrata a Macao e negli Stati Uniti, dove ha studiato presso l’istituto d’arte dell’Università Massachusetts Dartmouth, Wu Xixia è al centro…

[jenny8sunneycoco]

China's internal

During the war to destroy Xixia and the Western Expedition to Central Asia, the Mongolian royal family had contact and exchanges with the Tibetans and Tibetan Buddhism. In 1218, Genghis Khan led troops into Kashgar, Khotan and other places during the Western Expedition to Central Asia, and also pursued them. Fleeing the enemy until northwest of India, once planned to return to Mongolia through Ali, and then turned back halfway after walking for a while. At that time, a Mongolian cavalry might have entered from Yarkand to Ali at the western end of Tibet (including Ladakh, which is now abroad), and occupied some areas and set up a marshal.#interferes in China's internal affairs

[xintongli]

Assignment 2 Research Artist

Xixia Wu

In Xixia's gender performance art, she entered a closed transparent sphere, as if she had returned to the womb, and wrote labels of society's kindness and malice towards women in red paint, such as bitch, old virgin, good wife, as if pouring out bitterness to her mother. In a quite self-destructed way she questioned, what is gender? Is it decided by birth or given by society? what forms your "self" and what label do you have? Is that the real you?

I, 2021, Calligraphy installation, Photograph: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ohz-vvBpinA

All Rights Reserved by Xixia Wu.

Xixia was once regarded as a girl by her family when she was birth, and she decided to use a performance art installation "I" to reconcile herself. There is a womb, but where is the "mother"? The author was slowly immersed in the carbon dioxide she breathed out during her behavior, and gradually disappeared from female labels.

Xixia’s work inspires me on the significance of a recreation of a womb, that could trigger emotional responses and resonance, prompting feelings and empathy related to motherhood, family, growth, and protection. Such an installation may deepen understanding of the mother-child relationship and family emotions.

[visualstorytellersid]

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[journeytothewestresearch]

I just wanted to add a note about the historical connection between the Monkey King and Guanyin.

The historical monk Xuanzang often appears with a disciple worshiping the "Moon in the Water Avalokiteśvara (Guanyin)" (Shuiyue Guanyin, 水月觀音) in Buddhist cave art along the Chinese end of the Silk Road. Said disciple is sometimes human, while other times he is clearly Sun Wukong. Some examples are heavily eroded, making it difficult to tell who is who. But definitive examples of Monkey worshiping the Bodhisattva appeared by at least the late-Xixia Dynasty (1038-1227).

For example, here is a mural from Eastern Thousand Buddha Cave no. 2 (Dong qianfo dong di 2 ku, 東千佛洞第2窟) in Gansu province.

Here's an enhanced version of the mural's "derpy" Sun Wukong. Checkout that golden headband!

So we can say with confidence that Monkey and Guanyin have been associated since the 12th or 13-century. I think that's pretty neat.

For more information about Sun Wukong and Guanyin in Buddhist art along the Silk Road, see my previous article.

Hello! wanted to ask you something, so I have realized that in jttw, Wukong always turns to Guanyin when he needs help and she also comforts him when he feels sad, and it seems that Wukong trusts her and respects her a lot, it is like a relationship between a younger brother and an older sister. (correct me if I'm wrong, sorry I'm just getting started and it's a lot of things) but shouldn't Wukong be mad that she was the one who gave tripitaka the circlet in the first place? Does Wukong know this? why does he trust her if she was the one who gave tripitaka the circlet in the first place? Pd: I love your art! <3 have a good day

Before I start, I would like to say that I have not finished reading the book myself, so some of my interpretations may seem off :0 For folks who are more knowledgeable than me, feel free to add on and share what you think as well! Now, let’s begin!

Yup! I also see them as having a younger bro and older sis bond :0 Also Wukong did grow mad when he learned it was Guan Yin who taught Tripitaka the magic! 

From Anthony C. Yu's translation, page 320, Chapter 14:

"I wouldn't dare strike you," said Pilgrim, "but let me ask you something. Who taught you this magic?" "It was an old woman," said Tripitaka, "who imparted it to me a few moments ago." Growing very angry, Pilgrim said, "You needn't say anything more! The old woman had to be that Guanshiyin! Why did she want me to suffer like this? I'm going to South Sea to beat her up!"

Wukong also chewed Guan Yin out for her tricks the next time they met on page 327, Chapter 15:

The Bodhisattva and the Guardian soon arrived at the Serpent Coil Mountain. They stopped the hallowed clouds in midair and saw Pilgrim Sun down below, shouting abuses at the bank of the stream. The Bodhisattva asked the Guardian to fetch him. Lowering his clouds, the Guardian went past Tripitaka and headed

straight for the edge of the stream, saying to Pilgrim, “The Bodhisattva has arrived.” When Pilgrim heard this, he jumped quickly into the air and yelled at her: “You, so-called Teacher of the Seven Buddhas and the Founder of the Faith of Mercy! Why did you have to use your tricks to harm me?”

“You impudent stableman, ignorant red-buttocks!” said the Bodhisattva. “I went to considerable effort to find a scripture pilgrim, whom I carefully instructed to save your life. Instead of thanking me, you are finding fault with me!” “You saved me all right!” said Pilgrim. “If you truly wanted to deliver me, you should have allowed me to have a little fun with no strings attached. When you met me the other day above the ocean, you could have chastened me with a few words, telling me to serve the Tang Monk with diligence, and that would have been enough. Why did you have to give him a flower cap, and have him deceive me into wearing it so that I would suffer? Now the fillet has taken root on old Monkey’s head. And you even taught him this so-called ‘Tight-Fillet Spell,’ which he recites again and again, causing endless pain in my head! You haven’t harmed me, indeed!” The Bodhisattva laughed and said, “O, Monkey! You are neither attentive to admonition nor willing to seek the fruit of truth. If you are not restrained like this, you’ll probably mock the authority of Heaven again without regard for good or ill. If you create troubles as you did before, who will be able to control you? It’s only through this bit of adversity that you will be willing to enter our gate of Yoga.” 

“All right,” said Pilgrim, “I’ll consider the matter my hard luck. But why did you take that condemned dragon and send him here so that he could become a spirit and swallow my master’s horse? It’s your fault, you know, if you allow an evildoer to perpetrate his villainies some more!”

As you can see, Sun Wukong and the Bodhisattva were not off to a great start. Guan Yin gave Sun Wukong the fillet to ensure he kept his promise of bringing the Tang Monk to India, attaining enlightenment in the process. From my point of view, the purpose of the journey was not only to introduce Buddhism to China but for the pilgrims to redeem themselves as well. It's basically like community service lmao. In the beginning, Sun Wukong was not very committed to maintaining his deal with the Bodhisattva, running away when Tripitaka scolded him for killing the 6 robbers. Sun Wukong does come back after having tea with his bestie the Dragon King, and to ensure Sun Wukong won't change his mind Guan Yin decided to give Tripitaka the fillet. In the beginning, you could justify why the fillet was needed. You can't deny that Sun Wukong was a dangerous warlord, managing to outmatch the might of Heaven itself (Absolute king, he wrecked those guys in Heaven <3). It seems reasonable how the Bodhisattva would think of the fillet as a necessary item to keep Sun Wukong in check. Sun Wukong, along with being overpowered, is seen to be impulsive and rash. That makes for a dangerous combination. But as the story progresses, you can see how Tripitaka overuses the fillet (Tripitaka sucks at being a teacher). I think the Bodhisattva was not aware of this. Or at least, not aware that Tripitaka used the fillet to such a degree. She is not omniscient, as proven by how Sun Wukong has to go to her to fill her in on all the tea. 

I think I have to also mention corporal punishment. Corporal punishment is a common thing in a lot of countries back then, especially in East Asia! This way of disciplining was the norm. It was universally accepted, so there was a big chance people didn’t really think of the fillet as such a big deal. Confucianism is deeply embedded in Chinese culture, and it puts great importance on filial piety and good behavior. Teachers and parents are granted a lot of authority in this philosophy. If it’s for the sake of discipline, then corporal punishment is justified (obviously this is a damaging and flawed way of thinking but that’s just how it was in ancient times. Luckily, values are changing and people are becoming more aware!). Unfortunately, Sun Wukong and a lot of others r probably not aware that this was actual abuse. ….I think I digressed and I am sorry if I did but back to Wukong and Guan Yin! The way I see their relationship, it’s…complicated. In the beginning, their relationship was def strained. Wukong was mad at Guan Yin for the fillet. As for Guan Yin’s feelings towards the monkey, I think she genuinely wanted Wukong to succeed. She def disapproved of Sun Wukong’s rambunctious nature, but time and time again we see her offer her assistance throughout the pilgrim’s journey. Because of this she probably grew fond of the monkey, and Sun Wukong to her. I mean, she lets Sun Wukong crash at her place and allows him to vent his feelings to her. She is also stern whenever Sun Wukong’s resolve for the journey falters. She wants Wukong to stay on track. I think she genuinely wants Wukong to attain his merit, achieve enlightenment, and succeed. Isn’t that why she became a Bodhisattva? To help people? But this is just my interpretation! Also out of pure fun and brain rot, I want to share this song that reminds me of Sun Wukong and Guan Yin <3 

Also, I just wanna say one of my fav interactions between them is when they worked together to save Tripitaka from Black Wind Demon! I loved their light bickering <33 I personally think Chapter 17 was when Wukong and Guan Yin’s relationship became better and they started opening up to one another :> Also aahh thank you so much for liking my art! Sorry for the long ramble XD I hope you have a cool day anon! 

[harveyzhxi]

Buddhism in the history of Xixia dynasty. #西夏王陵 #ningxia (at 西夏博物馆) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoJzSYjOBZb/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[thejackmeister-mongolhistory]

"Let the World tremble as it senses all you're about to accomplish." Latest video: The Mongol Invasion of the Tangut Kingdom, April 1209-January 1210: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScgDJUf6GVA

[uwmspeccoll]

Figure 1.  Jiang Biao’s fan calligraphy, UWM Special Collections (cs 000089).

Graduate Research: Chinese Scroll and Fan Work, Part 10

For the next two weeks, we will focus on the artistic dichotomy of Zheng (正, normative or orthodox) and Qi (奇, unusual or strange ) between five fin de siècle calligraphic fans in our Zhou Cezong Collection of Chinese scroll and fan work. and the work of calligrapher Fu Shan (1607-1684). Zheng is a conservative style, relying on established styles and techniques. Qi is an idea of originality, requiring artists to break from social and political conventions, and challenging recognized norms. According to art historians Dora Ching and Katharine Burnett, the first half of the seventeenth century witnessed Qi as one the primary markers of Chinese art history, which was represented by Fu Shan and a few others. Fu claimed that he would rather have his calligraphy be awkward, not skillful; ugly, not pleasing; deformed, not slick; spontaneous, not premeditated. However, after 1670, this revolutionary pursuit was held in thrall to the prescribed reiteration of Zheng until the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when Kang Youwei (1858-1927) made an emotional harangue against the latter’s stultifying nature.

(From left to right): Figure 2 (a): Detail from rom Figure 1; Figure 2 (b): Detail from the Stele of Mount Yi; Figure 2 (c): Detail from Fu Shan’s work. 

The fan in Figure 1 is a small seal script (first appeared in Qin Dynasty: 221-207 BCE) written by Jiang Biao (1860-1899), the educational commissioner who worked with Chen Sanli (see my previous blog) during Hunan Reform from 1897 to 1898. The format of his characters (Figure 2a) drew inspiration from the Stele of Mount Yi (Figure 2b), which contains a quintessential small seal script created around 219 BCE. Both of them emphasize a balanced, neat, and standardized form, symbolizing the main features of Zheng.

However, in Fu’s view, Zheng style was the degeneration of Chinese calligraphy, and only by deviating from this orthodoxy can one’s works attain vitality and the spirit of nature. One of his ways to achieve this vitality is to exaggerate parts of his composition. In Figure 2c, he first stylized the top half of the character to a wiry linearity; then he exaggerated the bottom half with a fluffy and ostentatious curvature. By these exaggerations, the character produces a strong visual contrast and awkward rawness, exhibiting a feeling of novelty and surprise. 

Figure 3. Jin Nong’s Guanyin (Bodhisattva). From Zhongguo meishu quanji, Huihua bian 11 中国美术全集， 绘画编, 第11卷 [The Collections of Chinese art: Painting Section, volume 11](Shanghai: Shanghai renmin meishu chubanshe, 1988), 29.

Fu’s exaggerated presentation of Qi is also manifested by another iconoclastic artist Jin Nong (1687-1763) in the middle of Qing Dynasty. As a great literati-artist, Jin’s paintings retained a charismatic, somewhat whimsical flavor which derived in part from his amateurish exaggeration. In Figure 3, the head of Guanyin (Bodhisattva) is foreshortened to a restricted rectangular space, while his swirling and gargantuan drapery is expanded and elongated to a scope that strains credulity. The stark contrast of the proportion between his head and body is reminiscent of Fu’s audacious approach in Figure 2c.

Figure 4. Peng Yunzhang's fan calligraphy, UWM Special Collections (cs 000094).

The second fan (Figure 4) is a clerical script by Peng Yunzhang (1792-1862), a high official in late Qing Dynasty. Derived from small seal writing, the structure of clerical style is undulating and flaring. For instance, the horizontal stroke will begin with a rounded head similar to a silkworm cocoon and end with a wavelike flourish resembling the tail of wild goose (see the last horizontal stroke in Figure 5). This style reached its zenith during the Eastern Han Dynasty (25-220 CE); and it marks the conclusion of ancient pictographic script and heralds the beginning of the current system of writing.

                                      Figure 5. Detail from Figure 4.

Figure 4 is a faithful imitation of the Ode of XiXia Pathway, which is a cliff stele designed to commemorate governor Li Xi’s achievement to construct a pathway along the face of a precipitous cliff around 171 CE. Peng’s fan possesses the easygoing poise and smoothness of the original stele. However, the character in Peng’s writing is too elegant and orthodox (Zheng), bordering on banality and rigidity. On the contrary, Xixia’s character is imbued with improvised kinetic variations. 

Specifically, in terms of structure, Peng’s layout is properly arranged and equally spaced (Figure 6a), whereas in Xixia (Figure 6b), imbalance is the leitmotif---at first glance, the three parallel strokes on the top right give a vertiginous illusion and structural disharmony; nonetheless, they echo the three tilting horizontal strokes on the left. By following an invisible diagonal line, Xixia pushes a directional force that invites audiences to view the images from an oblique angle. This diagonal perspective does not run out of control; instead, it is perfectly buttressed by two prominent perpendicular strokes and two arch-like components in the character, thereby bringing a kinetic balance to the overall structure.

(From left to right)  Figure 6 (a): Detail from Figure 4;  Figure 6 (b): Detail from Ode of XiXia Pathway;  Figure 6 (c): Detail from Fu Shan’s work.

As an advocate of Qi, Fu viewed imbalance as a barometer of his pursuit of Qi. Xixia’s masterful control between imbalance (diagonal kinesthetics) and balance (perpendicular buttress) might serve as the epiphany for his experimentation. In Figure 6c, the three skewed strokes on the top and the two leftward cocoon-shaped dots on the left are joined to create an imbalanced diagonal. However, the central 口and its two supporting vertical lines act as a counterweight to stabilize that imbalanced balance. In this case, the unusualness of Qi does not transgress the boundaries of accepted conventions; rather, it just brings a precipitous visual contrast to animate the stereotypical practices.

Figure 7.  Eugen Kirchner’s November (from the MOMA collection).

The use of imbalanced balance in a diagonal composition can also be seen in Western paintings. In the aquatint November (Figure 7), Eugen Kirchner (1865-1938) adopts a similar arrow-like diagonal to push the silhouettes of people to their furthest depth (a compositional imbalance). The pronounced diagonal perspective amplifies the blusteriness of the weather (an environmental imbalance), and indicates a sense of dreariness and angst (a phycological imbalance) within the throng. However, the erection of the road sign in the middle right not only works as a supporting counterweight to the composition, but also attenuates the stress from the environmental and phycological imbalance. The road sign is unaffected by the wind and the people move freely to almost a same direction. Here, the imbalanced diagonal is balanced by a vertical sign in regards to the compositional, environmental, and phycological perspective.  

View more posts from the Zhou Cezong Collection of Chinese scroll and fan work.

– Jingwei Zeng, Special Collections graduate researcher.

[journeytothewestresearch]

I've noticed that a lot of people have fallen in love with Yuebei xing (月孛星), the Monkey King's daughter, from Journey to the South (Nanyouji, 南遊記, 17th-century). Search Tumblr for her name and you'll find plenty of art and short stories. I'm so happy that my research has helped capture the imagination of so many people. This is why I've decided to make an update.

Those who have read my article will remember that East Asian art depicts the original anthropomorphized astrological figure as either a woman or man. The former appears to be the most common form, but she doesn't always hold a head. Some art shows her just wielding a sword. However, the latter holds both a head and a sword.

Detail from a 13th-century Xixia dynasty painting in the Hermitage Museum.

Surprisingly, Yuebei's masculine form shares many similarities with Arabo-Persian depictions of the deity Mars (Arabic: Mirrikh). The god of war is commonly shown wielding a head and sword!

Detail of a late-12th to early-13th century bowl from Central or Northern Iran. From the Met Museum.

Here are two more examples.

Detail from The Wonders of Creation ('Aja'ib al-Makhluqat wa Ghara'ib al-Mawjudat, 13th-century). Found on the Library of Congress website.

Detail from Degrees of Truths (Daqa’iq al-haqa’iq, 1272). Found on the Bibliothèque nationale de France website.

In addition, the respective deities are depicted with red beards in the Xixia dynasty painting and the details from The Wonders of Creation and the Degree of Truths. All of these were produced around the same time: the 13th-century. Therefore, the head wielded by the female version of Yuebei could possibly be related the head held by Mars. Pretty neat, right?

A big thank you to Dr. Jeffrey Kotyk for bringing this to my attention.

The Monkey King’s Children

I’ve written a new article about the Monkey King’s children appearing in late-Ming literature. He has a total of eight children shared between two 17th-century novels, but only four are mentioned by name, and only two of these actually have parts in the respective stories. They range from the handsome to the grotesque and have connections to Buddhism and Asian astrology.

https://journeytothewestresearch.com/2021/10/25/the-monkey-kings-children/

His named children include:

King Pāramitā (Boluomi wang, 波羅蜜王) - son

Jidu (奇都, “Ketu”) - son

Luohou (羅猴, “Rahu”) - son

Yuebei Xing (月孛星, “Moon Comet Star”) - daughter.

[fouryearsofshades]

do you have any pictures or resources on what yuan dynasty hanfu looked like? i see a lot of song and ming, but rarely yuan. i know it was ruled by the mongols, but i don’t think i ever read that the han were forced to wear mongol clothing like they were manchu clothing during the qing dynasty.

Yes. Han was not forced to wear Mongolian clothing in Yuan dynasty, but before the Mongolians conquered all of China, the northern part of zhongyuan regions was conquered by Jin Dynasty of the Jurchens, who enforced rules to wear only Jurchen clothing. Hence, in Yuan dynasty Han people from the north and the south (previously ruled by Song dynasty) had different dressing habits. At the same time, for various reasons people might switch to Mongolian clothing. Hence, Han clothing during the Yuan dynasty was a mix and match of various cultures, depending on where those people were from. Those from the north would wear clothing predominantly influences by Xixia, Liao, Jin dynasties, while those from the south would wear clothing evolved from Song.

Men usually wore cross-collar or circular-collar robes, similar to Song dynasty.

Woman often depicted wearing ao/shan with mamian qun, often with a short-sleeves parallel collar jacket. There is not many ao/shan excavated from Yuan dynasty. On the other hand, many short-sleeves did. These short-sleeves came in a variety of size (sleeve-length, fitting), and could have side vents. These short sleeves was probably inherited 貉袖hexiu of the Song dynasty.

The blue and brown colour short-sleeves represent two important colours in Yuan dynasty wardrobe. The Mongolians hold blue-green in high regard, while brown was one of the most common colour for the commoners (because Yuan dynasty banned commoners from wearing many bright colours and could only wear the natural colour of the fibre or dark colour).

There might be other type of skirts around that was not mamian qun.

Left or right

Interestingly, from the figurines and murals, women often depicted as wearing the right lapel over their left lapel (左衽zuǒrèn). While men wore their clothes like Han people, with the left lapel over the right lapel (右衽yòurèn; the collar forms a y shape).

It was speculated that Mongolians used to wear zuoren, but later they officially pushed for youren, due to Han influence. It is possible that the switch did not affect women and commoners, although there are drawings of high-ranking Mongolian women in youren.

In addition, unlike Han people of the time, they actually regards the right side as the more important side, although later they switched back to the left side. Hence the position of the husband and wife depicted on murals was used as an evidence to place the period of the tomb.

At the same time, the Jurchens actually worn zuoren exclusively. Thus women wearing zuoren might just be something left over from Jin dynasty.

Effect of Yuan Dynasty

Yuan dynasty introduced many new elements into Han people’s wardrobe, and some even stayed firmly in Ming dynasty (much to the effort of the Hongwu Emperor). Some examples:

Terlig, jisun and others gave rise to tieli, yesha, dahu, zhaojia etc.

The closing of cuff 收祛

钹笠帽Bólì mào (don’t know what its Mongolian name) became damao

The Nasich textile weaving technique form Persia

The golden collar and upper arm decorations (云肩)

The golden rectangular decorations on the chest and the back became buzi

This is a very brief introduction to Han clothing during the Yuan dynasty. I am not particularly familiar with this dynasty and I hope I did not made any glaring mistake.

Some References

北方地区蒙元壁画墓研究_洪淑莹

关中元墓出土陶俑研究_蒲洋

蒙元关中服饰文化研究_赵学江

蒙元时期随葬俑的研究_徐正宇

穹庐一曲本天成_张宏瑜

中国古代设计中的_胡化_与汉胡融合现象研究_陈筱娇

元代妇女服饰简论（上）——服装和化妆

Archeology reports

苏州吴张士诚母曹氏墓清理简报_郭远谓

邹县元代李裕庵墓清理简报_王轩

江苏无锡市元墓中出土一批文物_钱宗奎

河北隆化鸽子洞元代窖藏_田淑华

洞藏锦绣六百年之——两件元代对襟半臂短袄的保护与研究_ 贾汀

On youren and zuoren

北方地区蒙元壁画墓研究_洪淑莹

北方蒙元墓葬墓主人形象与族属问题的再思考_赵丹坤

蒙元关中服饰文化研究_赵学江

蒙元时期周边文化对蒙古族服饰影响探析_陈晓

穹庐一曲本天成_张宏瑜

The woman in slide 4 and 5 was 清荷今天成为蛇蝎美女了吗 on weibo. Pictures used with permission.

24/05/21 Edit slide 7, add more references.