#zephyrs essays

[norimorii]

About This Blog!

Sammi

17

They/Them

Anxiety Prone

Procrastinator

Favourites

Book: "Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde

Piece of Art: "Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette" By: Vincent Van Gogh

Artist: Vincent Van Gogh

Thing to Study: Literature

Food: Sunny-side-up Eggs

Main Studies:

Criminal Psychology

English Literature

Hobbies:

Drawing, Crochet, Reading, Writing, Cooking, and Gardening

I am working on a novel in my free time.

A lot of things at once, Hoping to post study tips that helped me, and things I've been learning in my studies. Taking a few College in High School classes so that should give you guys some interesting posts.

Here to make friends so my dms and ask boxes are open!

[wrathofrats]

Ifrit with bad anxiety sometimes and zephyr who holds his hand when they can tell he’s having a bad time because it calms him down. Zephyr can physically see the tension leave his body when they touch him.

Ifrit with ocd behaviors and zephyr constantly reassures him that things are ok and talks him through his worries and never complains.

Zephyr who is a bitch to everyone but softens their voice and demeanor with ifrit so they don’t cause him any more anxiety because they know it upsets him sometimes and zephyr doesn’t want to do that to him

Zephrit 🫶

[hopefulhaven]

I want to see more long and in depth writing about alterhumanity and theriantrophy. the experience, the discovery and growing up alterhuman, the community, all of it!! the sillier side of the community is great and all, and feels relaxed and comfy,,, but I do really want to see deeper dives on the experience and why we feel this way

I would love if anyone could point me towards writings or videos like this if they've created some or know someone who has, and I think I probably will in the future ... I might make video essays of my own, who knows?

[trashpremiium]

sometimes i look at doctors that show little to no regard for their patient's wellbeing, or actively disregard best practice in favor of money or their own personal beliefs, and i think to myself - "how did they get through that many years of school and gain neither the compassion nor the pragmatism to do what's best for the people in their care". and then i remember i'm a biology major and a lot of people in my courses are pre-med track, and some of them are such major assholes i am no longer surprised.

[thenerdwithadhdanddeppression]

Guys.. I did a thing

So for context: My Language arts teacher gave us a 'writing portfolio' project. In this project, we chose one topic (I chose Apollo) and had to write 3 different essays about said topic, all in varying genres. I chose poem, myth (duh), and finally fantasy. But, I sorta chose Hyacinthus and Apollo for the story..

Now, I don't believe she is homophobic. I've talked to her about books that were queer/lgbt and she thought they were interesting/expressed no obvious distaste

I'm just wondering if its a bit to much? I'm a fanfic writer, so I'm just used to laying on the romance aspect of it a bit thicker

(Story under the cut)

Apollo sat on Olympus, godly nectar in his goblet. He sipped lazily, bored of his godly duties. He decided to take a peek at the mortals, wondering what they would be doing this fine day. He closed his eyes, simply scanning the mortal realm as he pleased. His eyes caught on the beautiful Spartan prince, Hyacinthus. Apollo opened his eyes once more. His day was going to get a lot less boring.

He brought his presence down to the palace of Sparta, simply appearing in the prince's room.

“Hello,” Apollo said, grinning like a madman.

Hyacinth jumped, startled by the sudden presence.

“W-who are you? Why are you in my room?” The prince asked, hand going to his side. Most likely a dagger, Apollo thought.

“Relax, relax. I am Apollo, god of music, poetry, and the sun among many, many other things. You caught my eye, Prince Hyacinthus, and I am simply curious about you.” Apollo explained, sitting himself down on the prince's bed as if he owned the palace.

Hyacinthus seemed to relax at ‘god’, since they had been known to just pop up wherever they pleased.

“I caught your eye, your ah… godliness..?” Hyacinthus tried, feeling rather awkward with a god in his room. One wrong word and he could be zapped from this plane of existence. Apollo merely laughed. Oh this mortal was adorable.

“You can just call me Apollo, as long as I get to call you Hyacinthus,” Apollo said, tilting his head curiously at the prince.

“Ah, of course.. Apollo,” the prince said in response, testing the name in his mouth as if tasting a fine wine.

Apollo continued this cycle, visiting every day and interrupting the Spartan prince. Some days he’d pluck whatever silly book he had out of his hand, forcing Hyacinthus to pay attention to him, other days interrupting a sparring match and simply handing the opposing person a bit of gold to get rid of them.

Apollo and Hyacinthus would spend their days in the fields. Some days they would play games- discus being Hyacinthus’s favorite- and other days they would simply talk, Apollo's head lying in Hyacinthus’s lap.

It was a bright sunny day when Apollo was stuck in his palace, forced to do his godly duties by his father- Zeus. He sat beside Zephyr, writing poems boredly.

“You know, I’ve heard you’ve been mingling with mortals once again. Is this true, Apollo?” Zephyr asked suddenly, looking over at the sun god. Apollo only smiled at Zephyr, placing down his quill.

“That would be true, yes. Oh he is simply lovely, Zephyr. He has these adorable doe eyes and the softest brown hair. You wouldn’t believe how happy I am. I’m actually thinking of bestowing him god-hood so I won’t be so miserably lonely here,” Apollo ranted. He must have had hearts in his eyes, the way he was speaking. What Apollo didn’t know, however, was that Zephyr was also highly interested in Hyacinthus. The supposed ‘gentle’ west wind wanted the Spartan prince all to himself.

“That's great for you, Apollo,” Zephyr managed to say through gritted teeth.

Apollo, love-struckenly oblivious to Zephyr’s jealousy, only grinned at him.

“I know.”

It was another bright day, the wind gently blowing in from the west. Hyacinthus was waiting for Apollo at the gates, holding his favorite disc.

Apollo teleported behind him, hugging him from behind. Hyacinthus only laughed, leaning back into the sun god.

“Hello. I thought we could play discus again, today?” Hyacinthus proposed, turning his head back to look at Apollo.

“That would be amazing, actually. My father has been keeping me all cooped up on Olympus, so I have bouts of endless energy,” Apollo explained, untangling himself from Hyacinthus.

They both jogged off into the field, laughing and simply enjoying the others' presence.

They tossed the discus back and forth. Apollo caught it once again, running his hand daintily along the edge.

“Did you miss me?” Apollo asked teasingly, throwing the discus back.

“Oh you know I did,” Hyacinthus answered with a playful eyeroll, catching it easily and tossing it with grace.

“Hm, I know. I may have spied on you just a bit,” Apollo said in reply, catching it.

But as he was tossing it back, the wind suddenly picked up. The gentle wind suddenly grew strong, gusting the disc right at Hyacinthus’s head. The prince cried out, crumpling to the ground. Apollo immediately ran over, sitting beside his prince and gently lifting him into his arms.

Hycanithus’s head was covered in blood, the wound still streaming heavily. Apollo’s heart quickened as he put his hand over the wound, trying to heal it.

“It’s going to be okay- I promise it's going to be okay..” Apollo was muttering. Why wasn’t anything working? 

Hyacinthus looked up at the god, smiling sadly.

“It’s okay, Apollo. It’ll be okay, just calm down,” Hyacinthus tried to comfort, bringing up his hand to cup Apollo’s face. Apollo saw the light fading from his eyes. He couldn’t do this- why wasn’t he healing whywhywhywhywhy-

Apollo suddenly remembered how Daphne had turned into a laurel plant. Could he do the same with Hyacinthus? Hyacinthus breathed in one last time, and Apollo put in all of his energy.

Hyacinthus seemed to disintegrate in his hands. Apollo felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Had he messed up? But then the dust started to form, building up into something new. And from Hyacinthus’s dust, grew a flower. The flowers grew in a tight bunch on the top of the plant, the color being the purple of Hyacinthus’s eyes.

Apollo felt rather empty, sitting by the flower. It was then he looked up at the sky, seeing a familiar face. Zephyr waved back down at him, smiling cruelly.

“Where's your lovely Hyacinthus, Apollo?” He taunted cruelly, sitting atop the clouds.

It was from then Apollo and Zephyr had a rivalry. They were at eachothers throats for many millennia, both trying to sabotage the other. Apollo never knew how to let go of those he had loved, and now he paid the price by having his rivalry.

That is the story of how the Hyacinth flower came to be.

[cowboysanddragons23]

Deconstructing the ending, which just like my earlier essay Deconstructing Stalka, is superficially speaking a good ending, until you start digging in and see the cracks:

-Hiccup and Astrid get married and have two wonderful children, Zephyr and Nuffink....and ends up being a miserable marriage because their parents have absolutely nothing in common and not only have extremely opposite personalities, but also wanted different things from life. This causes that Zephyr and Nuffink end up growing on an extremely fractured home, with a father who spends most of his time absent from home and seeking adventures, running away from his chiefly functions as much as possible and a mother who is not only stuck with raising the future heiress, but also being the chieftess of Berk, which causes their marriage to finish fracturing, yet can't separate because they have to project an image of unity, but at that point, all the romance would be gone because Astrid would be understandably resentful with Hiccup because he is constantly neglecting his duties as a chief, but also as a parent, because it's also his duty to also raise the future chieftess, who is Zephyr.

-Berk not only mocks Hiccup, but also gives all the credit from his tales to Stoick, while Hiccup doesn't do anything and Astrid laughs along with them: This sits a bad precedent because the message they are sending is that the royal family can be disrespected with no consequences. It doesn't make them kind, it makes them pushovers.

Weak leaders don't last long in rulership. How much time is going to pass until Berk starts growing discontent with them and decide to start a revolution to depose and eventually kill the entire Haddock family (because as long as one of them is still alive they would be always a political threat to the new regime)? Or if the Berkians are on a better mood, conspire against Hiccup with Astrid's help and she ends up murdering him discreetly, with Zephyr and Nuffink none the wiser and rules Berk as the sole chieftess, with the Berkians looking the other way due to being glad of the removal of an incompetent leader who is constantly jumping from blunder after blunder and running away from his duties, with Astrid having to clean up the messes left by her now deceased husband, while raising two children by herself.

-The dragons, after leaving to the Hidden World, they would end up killing each other, because they would start fighting over territory and some of the dragons that live there eat other dragons and also because in the Hidden World, there would be no food or territory for everyone and no sunlight enters that cave.

-New Berk can only be accesed with dragons. But now the dragons are gone, so what they have is people isolated from the entire Archipielago that eventually would end up dead and mad due to starvation and isolation, due to the fact that supplies are not unlimited and that they have no contact with the outside world.

[luvahhart]

Big happy request from my short stinky best friend Nick (best listen to Hey Lover by The Daughters of Eve and Love Grows by Edison Lighthouse !!)

!! Disclaimer: There might be a lot of mischaracterization. I’m sorry for that, I don’t know much about this game .·°՞(≧□≦)՞°·.

Ask darling, and u shall receive !!! @xhstdstuffs

Bamboozled in The Best Way ever🎀

Time Keeper’s POV

(Late Valentines lolol)

My professor and lover, both an essential part of my life, forgot another occassion. My birthday and valentines, it wasn’t anything surprising but kind of upsetting. Earlier lunch I decided to visit him in his office where he was grading half-assed essays and my barely there thesis. Nobody really knows that we’re a thing but with the way I’ve been visiting people would probably start talking, he noticed me standing at the side of the door with an unreadable expression, he almost glares at me with confusion as he pouts “yes?” I pout too. Thats my boyfriend and he still keeps his proffessional act. He was upset, and I knew it. “Kind of tense ‘round the shoulders aren’t ya?” I said trying to break the evergrowing tension between us, he flicked his rotting fingers beckoning me closer and I did. Standing in front of him, he grabbed my waist and sat me down on his lap, he grabbed his gas mask from the table on the far-right and clipped it on to prevent me from quite literally dropping dead. “This is your grade” he showed me, 100. I didn’t quite know how to react “ah…” I managed to reply as his hands slithered from the waist down. It was 3:40 and I was already late by 2 minutes for a lecture on the next class over, I took his hand in mine and set it back to his side “I’m gonna be late, sir.” I said it too get back at him for his insufferable proffession. Well, if he loves being a teacher then I love being a student.

I walked out, leaving him scratching his chin, glaring at me as if he’d pounce on me any minute.

Subspace’s POV

I done fucked up. He would never walk out on me like that! Have I forgotten something? His birthday maybe? Nooo… That was a month ago, what could it possibly be?… I was lecturing a class on business, occassionally slipping in jokes as I did. I found myself looking for a sleeping Time Keeper in my class but the more I remember he doesn’t take my class at this time, the more I understand how much I fucked up. After my class I fell flat on ass, my chair spinning and unstable from the sudden pressure, Medkit, my unsufferable coworker glares at me like I just killed a couple. “Fuck off Medkit” I said, rubbing my temple and I practically heard him furrow his eyebrows “fuck you Subspace” he went back to clacking on his keyboard and I went back to contemplating what I did to piss off the love of my senseless life. I sat up to grade test papers and noticed the date, it was Valentines Day. That’s what Time Keeper was so upset about? Cuz I didn’t have any plans? “Well, I did forget 2 of his birthdays… Maybe he was hoping for something this time” and it occured to me. I was so busy being a piece of shit that I completely forgot to give my boyfriend some loving every now and then!

<<Time Skip …>>

Third Person

Time Keeper came home tired and sleepy, he had missed the last bus home so he walked. Completely exhausted and still pissed off with hus lover, he must have forgotten to open the lights when he plopped down on the couch, barely taking the time to walk to his bedroom.

Cotton, one of the master teachers at campus was standing stiffly in front of the TV holding a cake “why hasn’t he opened the lights” he very stiffly said to Subspace who was all the more confused. He just slept? Like that? “Piss off he’s tired” he hissed, Spring, not a teacher but an old friend of Subspaces said in the far corner holding balloons and a box of glazed donuts said “we should definitely do something”

Time Keeper’s eyes fluttered and groaned at the whispering, disrupting his peaceful slumber. Subspace shushed everybody as they heard him get up “shit I must’ve… fallen asleep on the couch” he stood up and opened the lights to see 3 recognizeable faces standing awkwardly in front of his flat screen TV. “HAPPY VALENTINES DAY MY LOVE IM SORRY I FORGOT” Subspace yelled out as Spring blew his party whistle in celebration. Cotton immediately played something on the phone she had in her hand in Careless Whisper began to play. Time Keeper stood there flabbergasted in a way that made him want to kiss Subspace without the mask. “Oh, love” Time Keeper whispered softly as he stumblex over, grabbing Subpace by his cheeks, he has to admit though, the rotting parts did feel a little weird.

It was the first time in the relationship that Subspace had felt Time Keepers lips. It made him feel all fluffy and light inside as he guided his hands to find Keeper’s waist. “I’m sorry Keeper, I’ll remember next time” he whispered softly.

Spring and Cotton stood in the corner as the two kissed a little too passionately for either demons liking. A twisted grimace on each others face, they walked placed the cake on the table and tried to walk outh when Subspace grabbed the both of them, still kissing Keeper. (How the fuck is that even possible?)

((3 minutes later their eating and chatting))

“How many times exactly did Subspace forget these kinds of things?” Cotton asked as she stuffed her face in with cake “two of my birthdays, 3 anniversarries and 2 Valentines” Time answered as Spring’s jaw was on the floor “could NEVER be me!” He said as he glanced briefly at his wife (Cotton) then back at Time, Subspace’s eyes narrowed and Keeper took his hand in his. “Glad to experience being Bamboozled in The Best Way ever though” Keeper said warmly as he gazed into those scary-beautiful eyes. His right eye’s sclera was full black, while his pupils grew a hot pink. Keeper was so intranced by everything about Subspace and so was he. “You’re driving me crazy with the staring, eat some more” Subspace said shortly, he wasn’t at all the most affectionate person but with Time, he wanted to try.

“I love you Subspace.”

“… I love you too Keeper, happy Valentines”

“EUUUUGGGGHHHHH—”

Hai thx for reading heheheh…

[xhuuya]

Zephyr and Tempest.

Cats that are likely to make me fall asleep on the couch mid-afternoon in the midst of video essay YT.

[disproportionatelysculpting]

Prompt - an old man is sitting in the park below the old tree the old tree here signifies his old age and he is seeing the child play , mid age people giggling, couple walking holding hands and a family man sitting silent in the corner. Like basically he is seeing every phase of human life and you can relate an excited child with butterflies , similarly relating every human phase with something present in the park

I wanted to write in this theme but now you can write if you find the idea nice 👍 you can alter and change accordingly

Happy writing 🎇

Flower for you too 🌷

I want to write this in more of a essay form, might get boring//

In this era of rush, everyone in a chase for something like hamsters stuck on rolling wheels, so am I. Tired of all this craving to find the perfect life and all the ways to be successful, I wished to run away or ruin myself. To take a break from these all, chaos, thoughts, I went on a walk to the grounds nearby, to ground my own pace in this world.

There was an old man sitting on the dais below a tree and I sat beside, breathing in the changing atmosphere from the dull exhausted air of afternoon, to the cold, heavy, yet crisp fresh zephyrs of evening.

I began to notice his face and features, there was a calm and little smile, while his eyes danced around and there were wrinkle and smile lines on his face just like the tree behind us. I followed where his eyes went, to see what made him feel at such peace, one we all are searching, one I couldn't find.

I followed everywhere his eyes went, wondering what was so good about this? I took a look back at his eyes and his smile grew wider. I wanted to ask, why? What is so good about it all? So I took the courage and asked him.

He talked a while, and then told me about how he viewed the world and I think I learned something that day I can never let go of anymore.

There are people around, children hiding and seeking, playing with joys of childhood. Look at the kids, they are so young, carefree, they don't even care about the worldly belonging, because their world is just full of love, like the bees in this tree, they roam around, collecting sweet things in the fields. That's childhood you see.

Groups of teenagers walking back to home, laughing together maybe cracking jokes about how their days went, or about some teacher of their who sucks at school, or maybe something else. Look at those teens and these ants climbing behind the tree, hardworking, to keep themselves alive when the world grows cold, finding little joys even in the competition to survive, greeting each other with smiles and they will fight for their lives. You see that is youth.

Then there is a couple sitting beside a food stall, holding hands, giggling, waiting for the food. Look at those young people so adorably into each other, even getting a little treat is like whole world for them, you see these moments are fleeting, they will disappear just like the food and maybe after a while they will find new recipes to try but the love will always flow in those veins. You see that is love.

There is a young man carrying grocery bags and other with his child in his lapel, reconnecting after seeing each other randomly. They are like bunch of caterpillars fed on same plant but different species, one evolved into a small butterfly other into a moth, maybe one of their friend will be a majestic kind, both pretty in their own kind. Different paths but the process they went is the same. You see that's adulting.

And then there is he, An old man, like this old tree, watching everyone, everything, finding joy in mundanity of these little things, in the minuscule worth of human life. And then there is you, trying to make sense of this world, trying to find a way to bring happiness to your soul without searching the beauty in simplicity. Life is a pathetically abusive race, It took me ages to learn how to appreciate it and I noticed how you craves that knowledge, just like me in my youth. I hope you grow like this tree, it was younger when I was a child, still quite old but it continues to grow more. And look how peaceful it is to sit beneath it and how enormous it is, don't forget life is a race but its also your only life. Don't lose yourself in admist the chaos, I hope you age beautifully, Child.

[otwdfanfic]

For the wip ask game!! Dude both For the Dancing and the Dreaming and The Susan Problem intrigue me so much (I don't think you've ever mentioned For the Dancing and the Dreaming LMAO)

As for The Susan Problem, that's always such a good premise. I adore Narnia and have been interested in that particular part of the story for ages now!! I'm very curious as to how you're gonna tackle it!!

If you don't mind, would you like to share some things about these wips? <333

Phew, sorry I took so long to respond but I was rushing all week to make a costume for the new hunger games movie premiere! I finished it just in time to see the movie yesterday

I don't wanna accidentally spoil plot stuff but For the Dancing and the Dreaming will be a short Snoggletog focused fic, sort of the otwd version of Gift of the Night Fury and Homecoming but it will progress the plot. No huge drama but a lot of interpersonal drama and cozy Snoggletog vibes (idk if you can tell from itpn but I'm just obsessed with the vibes of Snoggletog on Berk). There's 3 things in this fic I'm really excited for:

It takes place a full year after itpn, so we get updates on how everyone's doing and there's a larger time jump between itpn and totg that this fic sits in the middleish of

It's split between the POVs of the whole gang, not just the 3 (including Baldur in his fic) POVs we've seen so far. However there will be 1 new POV in itpn, so there's really only 1 new one left for this

Cute new outfits! Idk if I'll have the energy for the usual fancy character portraits but I'll at least sketch them all like I did for Zephyr's Thawfest dress.

The Susan Problem is named after Gaiman's famous "The Problem of Susan" essay. I don't agree with the idea that there's a sexism problem with Lewis's portrayal of Susan rejecting Narnia in the last book since she's based on his own experience losing his faith as an adult and then returning later. He said that Susan would find her way back to Aslan's Country on her own, so I tried to imagine what that story might look like if he'd written it:

After a year or two living in America, Susan returns to Cambridge for Christmas with her aunt and uncle. She tends to avoid painful memories after her family all died in the book 7 train crash, but oddly her aunt finds her bow and horn in the attic storage. When Susan curiously blows the horn she accidentally brings some of the things that couldn't be destroyed with the rest of Narnia, like the gods Tash and Bacchus, into our world along with some of her vague Narnian memories. I include a lot of strange things like moving stained glass windows, snow sprites dancing in a blizzard, and Peter's voice which is revealed to be the god Apollo acting as a sort of guardian angel guiding her to save our world from some of the darker entities that have crept through the door. Inspired by Lewis's writing about Apollo on a trip to Delphi, the inclusion of greek myth in Narnia, and use of sun imagery with Aslan and Peter, Apollo here is actually another form of Aslan.

I LOVE Lewis's strange, abstract and Hellenistic portrayal of Christianity in Narnia. The borderline fever dream quality it often has feels very me, like Nuffink's dream about the three suns and tall grass and the red man. So I really enjoyed creating my own Narnia story with a Christmas fever dream quality to it! Here's a snippet of my favorite part:

The spectral form became more and more solid, like a person walking toward you with a spotlight behind him. The light dazzled her eyes, and she squinted into it. “Susan,” he repeated. As he stepped forward she could just make out his brilliant golden hair and magnificent shining crown. “Peter!” she shrieked, rushing towards the light and into the very glow that surrounded him. “Oh, Peter, I knew that you were only—” But she stopped short, because within the light he became clear, and she realized with a start that the man wasn’t her brother at all. His crown was rays of pure golden rippling light, not rubies and oak leaves. His hair flowed around his collarbone like Peter’s once had a long time ago, when he was much older than the age he’d died. This man looked her brother’s age though, and his face had the youthful but strong, honest, kingly look of Peter’s. She felt all kinds of sorrow and longing and curiosity. Wariness, too. “Who are you?” The specter smiled softly. “Gentle Susan of the Horn,” he greeted her with a deep, familiar voice. “I am called Apollo, the destroyer.” She frowned. “The destroyer,” she repeated, taking an unconscious step back, but his smile only grew in a way that reached his eyes, light crow’s feet crinkling with amusement. She found that when she stepped away, he became more obscured. “Do not worry,” he told her. “I am the lord of plagues and truth, but I am also the bringer of cures and protector of the herd. The bow you carry is mine, for I am the lord of archery. I am the southern sun, sworn to you. Harm will not come to you by my hand.”

[neurotypical-sonic]

should i write an essay about what i think each of the chao fruits would taste like

I think I've seen a few of these floating around including zephyrs which made me insane slash pos and I would love to see more. So yes PLEASE

[spacedykez]

red apple, hot pepper and grape with an oc of your choosing

red apple: Who does your OC value above all else?

zephyus: above everything, zephyr values entertainment. he starts drama because it's fun to watch and influence. she gets involved in political plots because they are fun. trick LOVES to play with people and toy with them because it's fun. if you can keep zephyr entertained, you can keep yourself alive. if zephyr's NOT entertained, or gets bored of you, or you aren't interesting enough, then bye bye bye baby.

notos: notos values family above everything else. he wants his family to love him, accept him, and get along. but stars family happens to be Literal Gods with extremely diverse personalities that Do Not Always Get Along. and so poor notos (and also boreas, but thats a different essay) is left trying to make everyone get along. buddy is such a people pleaser it hurts. of course you have purple hair, space aesthetics, and abandonment issues.

hot pepper: Who would your OC declare their sworn enemy if they could meet them?

aeolus: taylor swift, because excuse you actually AEOLUS should be the most popular singer ANYWHERE

grape: what's their circle of people/their species like? What dynamic would they be called?

spades & pinecone: they are from a species called scale-beasts, who i have an entire backstory for. here's the summary:

the bugs of Wing-Wood used to be one species. they lived on the forest floor when the trees were young. but as the trees grew, it grew harder to live among their giant roots and they started to disagree abt where to live. the ancestors of Spiral-Wings (the other species of bug) thought it would be better to find food in the trees and plants and so they evolved to live among the treetops thus their wings and flexible tails and fingers that grip the tree bark and the flowers that can photosynthesize extra food for them. meanwhile the Scale-Beasts dug under the ground to live in the caverns created by the massive tree-roots and be protected by them. they hunt the animals that live on the forest floor and also grow their own plants in their caves they evolved thick scales to protect themselves from the beasts they hunted; long, agile bodies to better move through the tunnels; and many sensitive antennae to help them hear, when they are in dark caves with no light.

i think a group of scale-beasts would be called a hunt. and a group of spiral-wings would be a flutter. or maybe a grove? something like that

[will-sigma]

Alan adjusted the gauntlet on his left arm as he stepped up to the ring, feeling the air currents shift as the protective enchantments activated. Across the ring, Corinn was stepping across the boundary and taking up a ready stance.

"I don't have to win," Alan muttered to himself. "I just have to pass." He stepped up and tried to feel as confident as his opponent looked. Corinn was particularly good at combat magic; more annoyingly, he was competitive about it.

Both students settled into place as the officiant activated the magic circle around the ring. Alan again felt the slight shift in pressure as zephyrs changed their minds about what direction to drift in. It was only a test, of course, but students were known to get excited. Alan and Corinn bowed to each other, returned to a ready stance, and waited.

A whistle blew. Alan dropped into a low stance, moving down and right, left arm staying up to deflect the ice bolt coming his way. It slid harmlessly off the enchantments as intended, but more importantly he had the opening he wanted. His right arm was already in motion, conjuring his own return blast of

...glitter?

The air shimmered between them as his spell flowed at Corinn. He had summoned a shield to deflect the direct force, but now a shining cloud was swirling around him. This was no magical show of lights. The motes drifting and settling on them were clearly physical in nature, but couldnt have harmed him even in unprotected combat. He locked eyes with Alan, mild confusion in his eyes.

For Alan, adrenaline was already roaring in his ears, each moment a snapshot with a detailed essay attached to them with notes he didn't have time to read. He understood what happened, of course. He could still feel the way he had channeled his energy ever so slightly wrong, conjuring the wrong material.

The moment passed, and Corinn launched a new attack, trying to push Alan to the edge. Alan allowed him to advance, engaging in direct hand to hand to better deflect and interrupt magical attacks. It would be just as impossible for him to get off an attack, of course, but he realized with mounting terror that the only thing left in his head was glitter.

And then it clicked for him. He found an opening in their brawling, pulled back, and let forth another burst of glitter into Corinn's face.

The wards on Corinn's headband correctly identified the magical flux as an attack. The glitter, each piece shining octamarine as the burst into being, discorporated just as fast before any harm could be done. That didn't stop the slimmer man from yelping in sudden panic and jerking back instinctively.

Alan was ready. He grabbed his opponent by the front of his robes and slammed him to the ground, pinning his arms. Corinn gasped, stretched experimentally for a few seconds, then attempted to relax against the hold.

"I yield," he called out, tapping the ground with a foot. Alan released him and pulled back, offering a hand up. Corinn accepted it; for a moment they locked eyes, and the heat of battle shone in both sets. Then Corinn squeezed Alan's hand for one second, released and stepped back.

The officiant stared at the two of them as they turned to attention. As Alan waited for further instructions, he became aware of how sparkly he was. How sparkly they both were. To say nothing of most of the ring they were standing in.

"Gentlemen, you have both acquitted yourselves well in this match. I give you both passing marks for this test and wish you both the best of luck with your graduation."

Alan and Corinn looked at each other, excitement on both of their faces. Corinn gave a small nod, and Alan flushed at the acknowledgement.

"One more thing, if you please. If you would please dispell all that glitter while I make some notes."

As a mage, your last test is to battle with another student with your magic. The only spell you memorize (before the duel) correctly is to summon craft glitter!

[blogueericdescarries]

Lincoln Aviator 2025

Le 20 mars 2025

Je n’ai jamais refusé un essai routier de Lincoln. Puis, je l’avoue, je suis un amateur de la marque de prestige américaine. Si vous avez l’opportunité de feuilleter un livre sur l’histoire de Lincoln (née en 1922), vous y verrez certes de superbes photos de grandes limousines de cette marque qui rivalisaient à l’époque avec les Cadillac, Duesenberg, Packard et plusieurs autres marques dont la majorité sont disparues.

Lorsque je suis né, mon père m’a ramené à la maison à bord d’une grande berline Lincoln-Zephyr 1940 (à moteur V12, s’il-vous-plaît!). Personnellement, je possède toujours une Lincoln Versailles 1977 (V8 351) alors que ma voiture de tous les jours (surtout pour les voyages) est une Lincoln MKZ 2011(V6 3,5 litres). La dernière automobile que Lincoln a essayé de lancer en Amérique du Nord fut la superbe Continental 2017. Elle fut discontinuée en 2020 car les ventes n’y étaient plus. La seule berline de Lincoln qui existe toujours est la Zephyr…chinoise! Voyez-vous, les Chinois aiment cela les Lincoln (ils aiment aussi les Buick).

Par conséquent, Ford, le constructeur de Lincoln, ne propose plus que des VUS sous cette enseigne. Ce qui est plus navrant, c’est que la marque Lincoln elle-même a de la difficulté à survivre dans le créneau des véhicules de luxe. Certaines marques européennes et asiatiques l’ont supplanté à divers niveaux. Était-ce le fait que Ford avait décidé de construire ses Lincoln sur des bases de véhicules Ford plus communes (une pratique adoptée par l’industrie à l’époque de cette décision comme on a vu des Honda transformées en Acura, des Toyota transformées en Lexus et ainsi de suite)? Qu’importe, la dernière « vraie » Lincoln à connaître le succès en Amérique fut l’imposante Town Car qui n’a pas mis de temps à s’imposer dans le segment des limousines commerciales. Il y en a encore quelques-unes sur nos routes aujourd’hui mais les opérateurs de limousines n’ont jamais accepté la familiale MKT transformée en Town Car. D’ailleurs, la MKT n’existe plus non plus. Quelle Lincoln pourrait la remplacer aujourd’hui?

J’ai donc eu l’opportunité de conduire la toute dernière génération de Lincoln Aviator la semaine dernière. Je n’ai pu résister, vous comprendrez pourquoi en lisant les premières lignes de ce texte. Aussi parce que l’Aviator (qui est avec nous depuis quelques temps déjà) a subi quelques retouches à divers niveaux pour 2025.

Le plus élégant des Lincoln actuellement est certes le grand VUS Aviator basé sur l’architecture de la Ford Explorer. (Photo Éric Descarries)

Au départ, les amateurs de voitures qui ont l’œil averti verront tout de suite que la calandre et les phares de l’Aviator ont été redessinés pour 2025 ainsi que quelques ornementations et, bien entendu, les roues. Autrement, ce VUS intermédiaire conserve la même silhouette. Incidemment, oui, l’Aviator repose sur une architecture presque jumelle à celle de la Ford Explorer. Toutefois, il y a tellement de différences entre les deux que l’on peut assumer que l’Aviator est une vraie Lincoln. Saviez-vous que le légendaire Bob Lutz, l’ancien administrateur vedette de General Motors (et vrai « gars de char » !) a déjà passé un commentaire très positif sur le design de l’Aviator ajoutant que c’est ce qui manquait à GM, des designer du calibre de ceux de Lincoln.  Moi aussi, j’estime que le design de ce grand VUS est d’allure internationale surtout grâce à son toit légèrement penché vers l’arrière et son devant court avec des roues le plus avancées que possible.

Vu de l’arrière, l’Aviator garde une certaine attitude de véhicule de luxe. (Photo Éric Descarries)

L’intérieur de l’Aviator est aussi superbe, surtout dans sa version Reserve comme celle qui ornait l’habitacle de mon Lincoln d’essai. À ce niveau, il se distingue même de celui de ses concurrents européens (chez Mercedes ou Audi) et même asiatiques grâce à un design et un choix de matériaux recherché. Le tableau de bord est à la fois discret et élégant avec une finition de bois modérée. L’inévitable écran trône en son centre mais c’est exactement ce que la clientèle veut. Les informations et les images (surtout celles de la navigation) sont très claires et faciles à retrouver. La console centrale est un peu large, j’en conviens mais ce qui peut surprendre, c’est le « clavier » qui sert de levier de vitesses avec des touches basculante pour passer de Park à Reverse à Neutral à Drive!

Sans tomber dans un excès de « styling », le tableau de bord de l’Aviator revêt une certaine élégance. (Photo Éric Descarries)

La plus belle pièce doit être le volant coussiné avec l’emblème de la marque en son centre. Il n’est pas nécessairement envahi par une foule de commandes, seules celles les plus importantes y sont sous le coussin. La véritable force de l’Aviator doit résider dans le confort de ses sièges (chauffés et ventilés, bien entendu). Et surtout de leurs si nombreux ajustements aux places avant (dont les commandes sont dans les garnitures de portières qui incluent une partie des 28 haut-parleurs de la chaîne audio Revel Ultima 3D) !

Les places du centre sont accueillantes à souhait même pour de longues distances. (Photo Éric Descarries)

L’Aviator est disponible avec six ou sept places grâce à la troisième rangée tout à l’arrière. Au centre, le véhicule peut être équipé de deux sièges baquets (très confortables) qui se replient pour permettre l’accès à la troisième rangée. Celle-ci est aussi invitante (surtout que le plancher est suffisamment plat pour permettre un bon débattement aux jambes) mais, malgré son luxe et sa finition, elle est mieux adaptée aux petites personnes (surtout les enfants) s’il s’agit de longs voyages.

La troisième rangée est accueillante mais un peu serrée. (Photo Éric Descarries)

Quant au coffre (que l’opérateur peut ouvrir en passant le pied sous le pare-chocs), il peut être un peu serré si la troisième banquette est déployée. Toutefois, il devient plus que logeable en rabattant les dossiers de la troisième rangée et définitivement caverneux si l’on rabat aussi le dossier des sièges du centre. Quant à l’éclairage, le grand panneau vitré servant de toiture laisse également pénétrer la lumière…à moins qu’on y referme le store !

Le coffre est un peu restreint si la troisième banquette est en place. (Photo Éric Descarries)

Mais avec ses commandes électriques, il peut révéler beaucoup d’espace utile. (Photo Éric Descarries)

Mécaniquement parlant, il n’y a pas grand-chose à dire des éléments motopropulseurs éprouvés de l’Aviator. Le (seul) moteur disponible y est le vénérable V6 biturbo de 3,0 litres de Lincoln combiné à la boîte automatique à 10 rapports et à la traction intégrale (le marché américain a droit à la Lincoln Aviator à propulsion seulement, pas les Canadiens). Il fait 400 chevaux et 415 li-pi de couple! En passant, il n’y a pas de version hybride au catalogue de l’Aviator.  La suspension (ajustable) est indépendante aux quatre roues alors que les pneus sont des 275/40 R22. Mon véhicule d’essai était chaussé de Michelin X-Ice Snow SUV qui continuent de se distinguer pour leur efficacité. Ils sont aussi relativement silencieux sur pavé sec!

Le seul moteur disponible (et bien caché sous cet amas de câbles et de fils) est un V6 biturbo de 3,0 litres de 400 chevaux. (Photo Éric Descarries)

Sur la route

Comment décrire le Lincoln Aviator sur la route? Ce serait trop facile de le comparer à l’ancienne Town Car. Mais ce serait aussi erroné. Tout d’abord, question accélérations, il en est nettement plus rapide. Passer du point mort à 100 km/h demande moins de sept secondes. Même poussé, le moteur demeure doux et la boîte de vitesses auto à dix rapports ne donne aucun coup. Le passage des vitesses se fait rapidement et très discrètement. En vitesse de croisière, c’est aussi un véhicule d’une grande douceur. Toutefois, là où la comparaison avec une ancienne Town Car s’arrête, c’est au niveau de la tenue de route, Malgré son poids élevé, l’Aviator garde son cap avec assurance. La suspension, même en mode de grande douceur, ne devient pas molle est elle réagit aux moindres commandes du conducteur sans déséquilibrer le véhicule. La direction aussi demeure stable. Seule note discordante, l’Aviator trahit son poids élevé, près de 5000 livres, surtout au freinage! Toutefois, le grand véhicule est capable d’une vitesse de pointe plus élevée que celle des anciennes Town Car. Un « sports truck » ? Peut-être. Mais pas comme un de ses rivaux comme le BMW X5 ou le Volvo XC90.

Michelin propose des pneus d’hiver appropriés pour le Lincoln Aviator, les X-Ice Snow SUV. (Photo Éric Descarries)

L’Aviator est équipé d’usine du régulateur de vitesse qui peut devenir un outil autonome comme le Super Cruise de GM ce que Ford appelle le Blue Cruise. Malgré le fait que j’ai eu plusieurs déplacements sur grand route à faire, je ne l’ai pas utilisé. Je l’ai essayé…mais pas longtemps! J’aime trop conduire…Et, contrairement aux anciennes Town Car, l’Aviator est un véhicule à conduire! Même en hiver (on apprécie sa traction intégrale surtout avec les pneus appropriés)! Ironiquement, ce Lincoln n’est pas si difficile à garer malgré son gabarit imposant. On peut remercier les multiples détecteurs et les caméras tout le tour du véhicule pour ce faire! Ah oui! Si vous prévoyez faire du caravaning, sachez que l’Aviator a une capacité de traction de 5600 livres!

Question consommation, j’ai obtenu une moyenne de 14,1 l./100 km en conduite moitié-moitié, urbaine ou autoroute, alors que l’ordinateur de bord indiquait 13,1. Les estimations d’EnerGuide Canada sont de 11,9 l./100 km. Quant au prix, Ford affiche 80 100 $ d’entrée alors que mon véhicule d’essai avait pour 16 050 $ d’options (incluant 7000 $ pour l’ensemble de luxe 201 A, 3500 $ pour l’ensemble de comportement routier supérieur, 750 $ pour la console centrale arrière, 950 $ pour la peinture blanche spéciale et 3500 $ pour l’ensemble d’apparence!). Ajoutez à cela 2395 $ de frais de livraison et préparation et la facture totale passe à 98 545 $ plus les taxes locales.

L’Aviator doit concurrencer des véhicules aussi prestigieux que ceux nommés plus haut en plus des Genesis GV80 3.5T et Mercedes-Benz GLE450. Fait-il le poids? Outre un peu de snobisme des « importés », je dirais que oui. Mais alors, quelle en serait la valeur de revente? Même les concurrents n’auront pas le diable plus de valeur de revente à la longue. Ce serait tellement plus agréable si la marque Lincoln redevenait aussi prestigieuse qu’auparavant. Car elle les a, les véhicules, pour le faire, des véhicules comme l’Aviator!

[char1ottee]

Street Art

Graffiti🍒

Graffiti is art that is written, painted or drawn on a wall or other surface, usually without permission and within public view. Graffiti ranges from simple written words to elaborate wall paintings, and has existed since ancient times, with examples dating back to ancient Egypt, ancient Greece, and the Roman Empire .

Graffiti is a controversial subject. In most countries, marking or painting property without permission is considered by property owners and civic authorities as defacement and vandalism, which is a punishable crime, citing the use of graffiti by street gangs to mark territory or to serve as an indicator of gang-related activities. Graffiti has become visualized as a growing urban "problem" for many cities in industrialized nations, spreading from the New York City subway system and Philadelphia in the early 1970s to the rest of the United States and Europe and other world regions.

Modern Graffiti

Modern graffiti art has its origins with young people in 1960s and 70s in New York City and Philadelphia. Tags were the first form of stylised contemporary graffiti. Eventually, throw-ups and pieces evolved with the desire to create larger art. Writers used spray paint and other kind of materials to leave tags or to create images on the sides subway trains.[29] and eventually moved into the city after the NYC metro began to buy new trains and paint over graffiti.

While the art had many advocates and appreciators—including the cultural critic Norman Mailer—others, including New York City mayor Ed Koch, considered it to be defacement of public property, and saw it as a form of public blight.[31] The ‘taggers’ called what they did ‘writing’—though an important 1974 essay by Mailer referred to it using the term ‘graffiti.’

Contemporary graffiti style has been heavily influenced by hip hop culture and the myriad international styles derived from Philadelphia and New York City Subway graffiti; however, there are many other traditions of notable graffiti in the twentieth century. Graffiti have long appeared on building walls, in latrines, railroad boxcars, subways, and bridges.

An early graffito outside of New York or Philadelphia was the inscription in London reading "Clapton is God" in reference to the guitarist Eric Clapton. Creating the cult of the guitar hero, the phrase was spray-painted by an admirer on a wall in an Islington, north London in the autumn of 1967. The graffito was captured in a photograph, in which a dog is urinating on the wall.

Films like Style Wars in the 80s depicting famous writers such as Skeme, Dondi, MinOne, and ZEPHYR reinforced graffiti's role within New York's emerging hip-hop culture. Although many officers of the New York City Police Department found this film to be controversial, Style Wars is still recognized as the most prolific film representation of what was going on within the young hip hop culture of the early 1980s. Fab 5 Freddy and Futura 2000 took hip hop graffiti to Paris and London as part of the New York City Rap Tour in 1983.

Commercialization and entrance into mainstream pop culture

With the popularity and legitimization of graffiti has come a level of commercialization. In 2001, computer giant IBM launched an advertising campaign in Chicago and San Francisco which involved people spray painting on sidewalks a peace symbol, a heart, and a penguin (Linux mascot), to represent "Peace, Love, and Linux." IBM paid Chicago and San Francisco collectively US$120,000 for punitive damages and clean-up costs.

In 2005, a similar ad campaign was launched by Sony and executed by its advertising agency in New York, Chicago, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, and Miami, to market its handheld PSP gaming system. In this campaign, taking notice of the legal problems of the IBM campaign, Sony paid building owners for the rights to paint on their buildings "a collection of dizzy-eyed urban kids playing with the PSP as if it were a skateboard, a paddle, or a rocking horse".

Types of graffiti

Methods and production

The modern-day graffitists can be found with an arsenal of various materials that allow for a successful production of a piece.[48] This includes such techniques as scribing. However, spray paint in aerosol cans is the number one medium for graffiti. From this commodity comes different styles, technique, and abilities to form master works of graffiti. Spray paint can be found at hardware and art stores and comes in virtually every color.

Stencil graffiti

Stencil graffiti is created by cutting out shapes and designs in a stiff material (such as cardboard or subject folders) to form an overall design or image. The stencil is then placed on the "canvas" gently and with quick, easy strokes of the aerosol can, the image begins to appear on the intended surface.

Some of the first examples were created in 1981 by artists Blek le Rat in Paris, in 1982 by Jef Aerosol in Tours (France);[citation needed] by 1985 stencils had appeared in other cities including New York City, Sydney, and Melbourne, where they were documented by American photographer Charles Gatewood and Australian photographer Rennie Ellis.

Tagging

Tagging is the practice of someone spray-painting "their name, initial or logo onto a public surface"[50] in a handstyle unique to the writer. Tags were the first form of modern graffiti.

A number of recent examples of graffiti make use of hashtags.

[winterfable03]

Introduction: Frog Conjunctions

The Pregnant Virgin is a study in process. In its conception, it was called Chrysalis. By the time it was born, the baby had outgrown its chosen name. Its skeleton—the process of metamorphosis from caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly—was intact. The whole, however, had become more than the sum of its parts. The parts concentrate on the periods in the chrysalis when life as we have known it is over. No longer who we were, we know not who we may become. We experience ourselves as living mush, fearful of the journey down the birth canal. The whole has to do with the process of psychological pregnancy—the virgin forever a virgin, forever pregnant, forever open to possibilities.

The analogy between the virgin with child and the chrysalis with butterfly does not originate with me. In ancient Greece, the word for soul was psyche, often imaged as a butterfly. The emergence of the butterfly from the chrysalis was analogous to the birth of the soul from matter, a birth commonly identified with release, hence a symbol of immortality. The Divine Child, the Redeemer, the child of the spirit shaping in the womb of the virgin, finds a natural image in the winged butterfly transforming in the chrysalis, preparing to be free of the creature that crawls on its belly. This book does not, however, make the traditional body/soul distinction between caterpillar and butterfly, mortal and immortal life. Rather it explores the presence of the one in the other, suggesting that immortality is a reality contained within mortality and, in this life, dependent upon it. The Pregnant Virgin, that is, looks at ways of restoring the unity of body and soul.

Flora, one of the figures in Botticelli's Primavera, captures the paradoxical external stillness and internal kindling of pregnancy. She embodies the evanescent beauty of the maiden blossoming into womanhood. As the shy earth­nymph Chloris, she has surrendered to the breath of Zephyr, and is now being awakened into the calm, luxuriant Flora. Like Mary, impregnated by the Holy Spirit, she stands radiant and full of grace, her femininity forthright and lyrically tender as she looks the beholder straight in the eye.

Writing The Pregnant Virgin has been a nine months' pregnancy. The book rejected its preconceived pattern; it evolved in its own metamorphic process. Last August in my second month, I suffered severe morning sickness. One look at an expanse of white paper made me ill. I feared a miscarriage. Then, as usually happens when I am conscious enough to ask the right question, the answer came in a dream:

I am sitting on steps near the waters of Georgian Bay. I am attempting to roll a big lily pad into the shape of a cylinder. It won't do what I want it to do. One end keeps falling open as I hold the other end rolled. Behind me is an old hotel. Two men are fighting on the balcony. I can feel their blows in my bones. I think I should try to do something about that, but a voice says, "Fashion your pipe."

I continue with the lily pad, and suddenly one man throws the other off the balcony, right over my head. Now I really must do something. I am about to rise when the voice commands again, "Fashion your pipe."

Now I understand—I am creating an instrument. I see beside me and a little behind, a huge smiling frog sitting in a po of green eggs, immensely proud of herself and waiting for me to finish the piccolo-pipe so the eggs can go through and be played into meaningful sounds.

I woke up knowing what the problem was. Instead of putting my full concentration into making the "pipe," I was allowing my energy to be drained by the blows of the two men on the balcony. Their voices I knew well enough: "Forget writing. Live your life as you always have. You can't write anyway." But there was another voice, a submerged feminine voice, tenacious and proud: "I want to write, but I don't want to write essays. I want to write my way." There was the impasse.

I walked through the bush to Iris Bay. I thought about the water lily—the Canadian lotus, whose blossom carries much the same symbolism as the rose. Its roots grow deep in the life-bestowing mud, sending nourishment up the sturdy stem to the leaves and flowers. Serene in its creamy white simplicity, the blossom opens petal by petal to the sun, symbolic of the Goddess—Prajnaparamita, Tara, Sophia—Creation opening herself to Consciousness. She is the blossom in the heart, the knowing, the dawning of God in the soul. Her divine wisdom brings release from the passion and pain of ego desire.

I picked a lily pad. I concentrated on fashioning my pipe. I remembered my grinning frog. Surely the lotus leaf was the right instrument to pipe her eggs. But how? How does one put psychological concepts through a lotus leaf? What would frog syntax sound like? How would it conjunct? Certainly not with "and," "but," and "for." It would have much more to do with leaping through the air from lily pad to lily pad, leaping intuitively with the imagination, or swimming through water. Leap—leap—out of sheer faith in my froggy instincts. Leap—trusting in another lily pad. Leap—knowing that other frogs would understand. Leap—leap—remembering my journal that looks like a Beethoven manuscript—blots, blue ink, red, yellow and green, pages torn by an angry pen, smudged with tears, leaping with joy from exclamation marks to dashes that speak more than the words between, my journal that dances with the heartbeat of a process in motion. How does one fashion a pipe that can contain that honesty, and be at the same time professionally credible? How can a woman write from her authentic center without being labeled "histrionic" or ''hysterical"? Splat! Long Pause!

And then my frog spoke from the mud.

"Why don't you write as you feel? Be a virgin. Surrender to the whirlwind and see what happens."

"Impossible!" I replied. "I'm not going to make a fool of myself. I'm not going to set myself up to be shot down. I know the guns too well."

That conversation put Chrysalis into a cocoon. For weeks I tried to find a syntax that could simultaneously contain the passion of my heart and the analytic  detachment of my mind.

I was encouraged by a picture of an Indian Goddess holding her hands in a gesture that would contain the lily pad. Known as "link of increase," meaning "marriage" or "coronation," its highly differentiated fingers seem to cradle a pearl or flower. The tips of the two middle fingers, gently brought together, symbolize a coincidence of opposites. Some firm, gentle, androgynous style seemed to be indicated.

Further enlightenment came with Nietzsche's essay "Truth and Falsity," in which he writes, "I'm afraid we are not rid of God because we still have faith in grammar." Yes, I did feel answerable to that hatchet god—Jehovah, by whatever name—that god who stares down with his "thou shalts" writ in stone, a demonic parody of the creative imagination. Unaware of leaping, he keeps everything concrete and literal.

And then I read Carolyn Heilbrun's review of Lyndall Gordon's biography of Virginia Woolf. Heilbrun points out that Woolf was, like all women, trained to silence, that "the unlovable woman was always the woman who used words to effect. She was caricatured as a tattle, a scold, a shrew, a witch." Women felt "the pressure to relinquish language, and 'nice' women" were quiet. She concludes that "muted by centuries of training, women writers especially have found that when they attempted truthfully to record their own lives, language failed."

If that is true of the artist, it is no less true of any woman attempting to speak with her own voice. It is also true of the man who dares to articulate his soul process. The word "feminine," as I understand it, has very little to do with gender, nor is woman the custodian of femininity. Both men and women are searching for their pregnant virgin. She is the part of us who is outcast, the part who comes to consciousness through going into darkness, mining our leaden darkness, until we bring her silver out.

Anyone who tries to work creatively understands this. I remember, for example, when I was directing creative theater with high school students. We worked without a script for months before the show. Students who were trained to "give a good performance" found the process intolerable. Their rigidity, their fear of being "the hole in the program" blocked their creativity. They waited to be told what their lines were, what their moves had to be, what their attitudes should be. The quiet introverts who were accustomed to dropping into their own space had no difficulty concentrating until the images that sprang from their own bodies came alive. They loved being free. They loved to play. They loved to be challenged to go deeper into the darkness, to allow whatever wanted to happen to happen.

And things did happen. The whole theater came alive with roars, tears, laughter, movements of poignant beauty and hilarious irony. The curious visitors who ventured through the theater door shook their heads and fled from the chaos. But for those of us inside, it was contained chaos. We were used to the intensity. Two months before the show, the students, the dance director, the music director and I decided what movements we wanted to explore further, what poems, what music. This basic skeleton was added to and subtracted from until the very last performance.

All of us involved, whether actors, directors or stagehands, were responsible for our own process. As our confidence grew, for example, our energies increased, and our student stage manager had to look within himself to find new ways of keeping discipline backstage without destroying the fire. At the time, I had no conceptualized idea of what was going on. In retrospect, however, I see our theater as the womb of the Great Mother in which the virgin souls of the students came to birth in their own bodies and emerged to a level of psychological consciousness, confident enough and flexible enough to allow the wind of the spirit to blow through. Part of their process was to recognize in themselves and in each other whether their poem or dance was being allowed to live its own life or whether they were obstructing it with "a good performance."

What we were interested in was individual process, group process and eventually process between the audience and the cast. Since it was theater-in-the round, the students usually seated their parents so that at some point in the program they would kneel two feet away and look them straight in the eye.  More than one parent found the naked encounter with their own adult-child overwhelming, and struggled to choke back the unexpected tears.

What we were not interested in was product or external performance. In the Tostal, the theater, there was no examination, no predetermined goal, no such thing as failure except betrayal of the process. In other areas of the school we might undergo dismemberment—history student in Room, poor athlete in the gym, excellent flutist in the music room. Culturally, we might also be dismembered—smelly feet in the shoe store, myopic eyes at the optometrist's, armpits in the drugstore, acne at the doctor's. In that room, we took our bodies out of the culture that tinkered with its parts. There we could be whole. We came from our own place of vulnerability, and by staying with that vulnerability we perceived our own strength and our own wounds.

The Pregnant Virgin is coming from that same place. All my analysands are a part of this book. Together we have experienced death and rebirth, together we have analyzed hundreds of dreams. Many of the repetitive motifs introduced in my two earlier books are further developed here. While many of my analysands have eating disorders and hence struggle with some form of food addiction, their psychological framework has much in common with those who are addicted in other ways—to work, alcohol, drugs, sleep, futile relationships, etc. The soul material presented here, my analysands have generously agreed to share, in the hope that it will shed some light on emerging feminine consciousness. Knowing that others are on the same demanding journey seems to ease the load.

I, too, am on the journey. The process that goes on in the kitchen in chapter I is the same process that goes on in India in chapter 7, with one crucial difference. The butterfly on the curtain (page 13) is transforming according to the laws of nature; the butterfly on the ceiling (page 178) is transforming through the fire of conscious choice. And this book too is on the journey. Two of the chapters were originally written for lectures, two for journals, and the others are attempts to wrestle light out of darkness. Each one is a prism through which the difficulties of Becoming and Being may be looked at from different angles.

I have not yet solved the problem of frog conjunctions, but my frog is still laying eggs. I think she enjoys my syntactical pregnancy. Meanwhile, this is not an apology for a polliwog. It is a challenge to myself and my readers to listen with the heart, to hear the language that lives in the Silence as surely as it lives in the Word.

--Marion Woodman en "The pregnant Virgin"