#i feel like a different song sounds more like cosmic sacrifice for love but that was the first thing that came to mind probably bc

[loveinterestcastiel]

erosion

I wrote some endverse fic based on a @lateral-org post asking a FANTASTIC question:

When/why/how did endverse! cas get rid of the trenchcoat and what was dean's reaction?

Rated M. Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence. Word Count: 4.1k

tagged some mutuals and people I thought might be interested in this under the cut, if you want tagged in this/future fic or want me to remove your tag dm me!

erosion

Of course, Sam said yes in Detroit. So why dream about that? He lived it every day. The redundancy was irritating at best.

Where the fuck did I leave my boots last night? Cas cursed under his breath and embarked on a thorough search of their cabin, the coarse words warm and familiar on his tongue as he yanked on his socks. I really am starting to sound like Dean.

Dean’s boots were already gone, his gun and thigh holster absent too. He’d left his green jacket behind, tossed carelessly aside last night and hidden under the trenchcoat on the floor at the foot of their bed. He slipped his coat on over his clothes and shoved Dean’s jacket into their pack- he knew he’d want it later, even if it was just for the drive back. He slipped on the worn coat, habit- he’d stopped wasting Grace on its upkeep a while ago, but it was still important. It felt like comfort, in some strange way, so he kept on wearing it despite the worn-through elbows or the stubborn little bloodstained spot on the hem.

He’d dreamed of Detroit, last night, again. He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to dreaming, as unsettling and involuntary as it was. It felt like the unfair hijacking of an otherwise enjoyable human bodily function, and he resented it altogether. He snagged a bit of weed from his stash and tucked it in next to his flask, sweeping out the cabin door and into the frigid morning sunshine, giving Chuck a lazy wave as he ambled past his cabin to the truck lot, kicking little pebbles across the packed dirt at imaginary targets with a super-human precision that grated strangely on him today.

“Big run today,” Chuck said with a tentative smile, his hands clasping a chipped mug filled to the brim with his ridiculously indulgent tea, wafting a cascade of steam out over the railing of his cabin porch before dissipating into the air. “Don’t forget the perishables if you can get at them, ok? We’re seriously low on-”

“Toilet paper, milk, cheese, butter,” he interrupted, “plus sugar, flour, canned fruit, hygiene products, toothpaste, toilet paper, coffee, meat if we can get it, .35 and 9mm ammunition, mechanical oil, gasoline, propane, rubbing alcohol, gauze, surgical tape, toilet paper, paracetamol, and oh, toilet paper again!” Cas recited dryly, rolling his eyes. “You gave us a written list yesterday. Twice. Couldn’t fuck up blackout drunk.”

Chuck snorted, shaking his head in self-deprecation. “Just doing my job, Cas.”

“We’ll do ours,” he called over his shoulder, continuing down the central path briskly. “We’ve all got our part to play.”

What was it Lucifer had said to Dean, that night Zachariah stole him out from under Cas’s nose and threw him into the future? No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter… we will always end up here.

It certainly seemed like he was right. Most days, it seemed like they were all hurtling towards the exact same place Dean had caught a wretched glimpse of, once, with the brakes slashed and emergency failsafes offline, and no indicator that the impossible choices they were making every day were anything but inevitable. He knew that Dean still had nightmares about his ending, but he didn’t know much else about Dean’s nightmares anymore but what little snippets he could garner from what Dean mumbled and cried out in his sleep. He’d lost the ability to dreamwalk a while back. Three nights after the Croatoan virus wiped out Fort Worth and they were forced to fall back, he tried to enter Dean’s sleep to watch his dreams in the dubious refuge of a closed down Motel 6 off of interstate 70 as they ran west, to see if there was some piece of information they’d missed, some new choice they could make one day that could change the path they were on.

It simply hadn’t worked. He mourned the loss of one more skill in the darkness of their room that night as Dean slept uneasily in the bed beside him, one more thing which, in its absence, made him ever more useless to Dean, much like the loss of his ability to time travel, or to smite their enemies with ease. Flight was becoming difficult by the day, and he knew in some part of his mind that his wings would be the next to go, and he would be grounded, permanently, on Earth and not in Heaven.

And so it goes.

Anyway, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice about anything these days. Once Michael had taken Adam, they lost their only trump card. Heaven didn’t need Dean anymore, but Hell desperately needed Sam. It was a shame, it really was, that Sam’s gamble hadn’t paid off.

It was a miracle Lucifer let Dean go. He had brushed him off as a non-threat. Unimportant on a cosmic scale, however important Dean was to the vessel. To Sam. So Dean walked out of that run down building alive, and he was the most beautiful, terrible thing Cas had ever seen. His soul shone brighter than even an archangel’s grace in his rage and trembled with the fierce sharpness of grief, and it was glorious, righteous.

Godly.

Even as Cas’s memories softened and blurred, becoming tinged with a mortal haze, that memory of Dean remained in a sparkling clarity. He could imagine no life, no moldable version of the past, in which he did not choose Dean. From the very first moment his soul had reached back to cling to Cas’s Grace in Hell, Cas had fallen, was falling, would fall, for Dean. It was inevitable, his love. They were inevitable. They fell together in the time after Detroit, into battle, into bed, and into cosmic obscurity. Soon, too soon, their losses began to outnumber their wins, and they had to make more and more certain regrettable sacrifices just to stay alive. Cas was used to collateral damage, far more than Dean was, but whatever the other humans in their ragged camp believed of him, he wasn’t unaffected. Just the opposite, in fact. He had never felt anything before, not for billions of years, an incomprehensible existence of light and intent and obedience and war, and now he felt everything. That- not Dean’s disappointment, or the slow loss of his Grace, or his Father’s unyielding silence- was undoubtedly the worst part of becoming something like human.

Some days were better than others, of course. Some days he took precious little blue or white or green pills, all different shapes and sizes and he felt good. Numb, pleased, far away. Quiet. Others, fewer than the days he had his pills, he took shrooms, LSD. Molly, twice. Often he took nothing at all, craving the wicked pain and emptiness it created in him as his sobriety enhanced the ache his dwindling Grace left behind, needing the punishment to feel real before forcing himself into a tumultuous sleep after days spent horribly awake with half a bottle of rotgut sloshing in his stomach. He still liked joints, rolled meticulously, their verdant smoke curling up deliciously in his lungs and setting him up on a lovely little metaphorical cloud the best, and then, they were even more so lovely when he shared them with Dean. There was nothing, nothing like passing it between them, before transitioning into trading hit after hit between their mouths, brushing against his soft lips, breathing his air, watching Dean’s cheeks flush a stunning pink and holding tight to his deep golden hair, dragging him down into slow, languid kisses that desire deepened and turned into a precious sort of holy consumption as the high hit its stride in them both.

He was sober today, mostly, just riding out the last of some gorgeous pink pill from a nearly full bottle he’d just scavenged out a few days before. It made him feel floaty, focused, fearless. He felt almost like he did two years ago, before his reeducation stint in Heaven. Angelic. It was nice. He’d take another, later. Maybe Dean would want to take one, too, and they could fuck high out under the stars on their quilt again like they did last October and feel like the real Gods of this stupid little planet, on top of the world, on top of Dean, cradled in the soft embrace of his thighs, and worship each other.

Take that, brothers. Castiel smiled viciously at the sky. You’ll never fuck God like I have.

Standing impatiently among their motley caravan of vehicles in the sickly yellow light of a midwestern April morning sun, his back to Cas, Dean’s silhouette and the flashing imprint of his soul- the only one Cas could still see clearly- caramelized into a sweet union of tangible and not that pulled at his stomach and swept him into the siren song of Dean’s being and woke up the hungry creature that lived in his heart and craved DeanDeanDeanDean.

No one else was there yet, probably all still dicking around at the camp mess and drinking shitty chicory. His feet fell silently on the earth, leaving behind the sound of the universe and the vibrant humming of Dean’s soul- and oh, he hoped he could always hear that symphony, even when all the rest of his powers had run dry.

Just as he reached out to take Dean by the shoulder and turn him around, Dean moved with a sudden burst of energy, like a coiled snake striking out. He whirled around and met Cas’s eyes, took him by the neck and the waist, and kissed him. His lips moved with a gentleness that contradicted the intensity of the grip of his cold-fingered hands as they worked their way into his hair, wormed their way under his trenchcoat, and touched the bare skin they found where the hem of his t-shirt met his jeans. He met the kiss eagerly, licking teasingly at the seam of his lips, biting down gently and coaxing Dean into opening his mouth. He pushed Dean back until his back hit the nearest rusted army-green truck with a small thudding noise, pressing himself up against Dean and tugging on his hips so they were pressed flush against each other, the contact sending and electric thrill racing up his spine.

“Cas,” Dean gasped out at the sensation of their bodies meeting, the air punched out of his lungs.

“Mmm, morning,” Cas murmured between kisses. “You’re out here early.” Dean’s neck was uncharacteristically bare above the neck of his rough brown sweater, creamy and invitingly unmarked. Cas indulged in the impulse to change that, working his way over the tender skin, sucking and biting until a bruise began to bloom below the junction of Dean’s jaw and neck, worrying it with his teeth until it was a deep reddish-purple.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean whispered, letting his head fall back against the truck window, baring his throat further, and closed his eyes. He seemed almost happy, today. He seemed to light up in the lead-up to their more dangerous missions, and Cas didn’t want to think about that right now. Didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Didn’t want to wake you up,” Dean elaborated.

“I appreciate that.” Satisfied with the rather outrageous hickey he’d created on Dean’s neck, Cas pressed it with one last kiss. “How’d you know I was behind you?” he asked, pressing their foreheads together and slowly grinding their hips together lazily, just breathing Dean in.

“Felt you,” Dean said, bringing their lips together again briefly. “Always can.” One more little kiss.

“Dean, last night, when you couldn’t sleep, I dreamed again about Detroit-” Cas started to confess feverishly, almost against his will, Dean stiffening up at his words in his arms, and was interrupted by the sound of people approaching, footsteps, voices, and an earsplitting wolf-whistle directed at their compromising position.

Dean’s face shuttered immediately, and Cas felt every scrap of easy bliss flee his body.

He pulled back with more than a little reluctance, his stomach twisting as a fakely jovial grin tugged at the corners of his lips, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Let’s go, fearless leader. We’ve got a mission to run, don’t you know?”

“Don’t start with that fearless leader shit,” Dean said tightly, rolling his eyes away from Castiel’s face and fixing on a point somewhere over Cas’s shoulder. “Who’s driving?”

“Looks like Cas is driving,” Joe called out mischievously.

Risa smacked him in the chest. “Get in the truck, idiot.” She turned her gaze to Dean, an odd glint in her eye. It felt sticky and wrong in his core but Cas stamped the feeling down. “Group brief over the radio on the way?” she asked.

“Yeah, at 8,” Dean said, sliding into his unshakeable militaristic persona with a firm nod. “Should be fairly straightforward in and out supply grab. Intel says the Croats cleared out of Roanoke a couple days ago, left major infrastructure and commerce sites relatively untouched. It’s a good thing too,” he added, “we were getting spread a little thin with most goods.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

———————————————————————

It was not, in fact, easy.

Their intel was wrong, so wrong, and Cas didn’t know how the fuck it happened, but they were fine, they were almost finished, closing up the trucks in the alley behind the supermarket and waiting for Dean and Trish to return from sweeping the perimeter, when out of what seemed like thin air and with no more than a broken shout for warning there were more Croats swarming them than he’d ever seen in one place before, and Joe and Maya and Kris were dead, and Dean was nowhere to be found.

The Croats had the remaining seven pinned down against the main truck, snarling and screeching and reeking of blood and gore, strips of flesh and clothing that once adorned their companions now dangling from their teeth. Their single-minded need for the endless consumption of human flesh and that it was currently being denied drove them to a terrifying frenzy, but the hunters were starting to push back, and the Croat numbers were thinning slowly but surely. Cas thought he saw Allen get bitten, but next he glanced at him he looked fine. He’d need to check on that if they made it out alive. He resigned himself quickly to the idea of killing the man before they got back to Chitaqua- Allen was a nice enough man, quick-witted and skilled with a blade and a loom, but nothing was worth bringing a Croat back to camp. He owed it to the man as a human being to grant him a swift death if he’d been infected before Allen himself could realize it. A shot to the back of the head, unawares, had to be better than a clumsy battle and inevitable stab to the chest (Cas knew he would always have the upper hand against a human, even when he had fallen in full) with fear in his heart.

He buried his angel blade to hilt in yet another Croat’s throat, yanking it out and ducking out of the way of the spray of blood that followed in a well-practiced motion uncanny in its speed. They would win this one.

But still no Dean.

Cas felt a bubbly panic rise up in his chest through the haze of battle as it became clear to him that Dean wasn’t coming back. Even from the other side of the building or from inside, there was no way that Dean had not heard the commotion of such a large fight.

Something was stopping Dean from coming back to him.

“Risa,” he shouted over the din to the woman on his left. “Dean and Trish-”

“I know,” she interjected tersely, hacking the head off of a skeletally thin Croat in a tattered suit. “Retrieval? We’ve got this handled here as long as this all the fucking bastards around.”

“I’m going in,” Cas said quickly, slicing at a particularly bold (stupid) Croat trying to charge him. It crumpled to the ground and twitched once, and was still. Some of its companions fell on the body ravenously, and were subsequently cut down in turn as they began to tear at the corpse. “Leave as soon as you’re able; I’ve got the keys to the main truck. Cover your right,” he warned Risa, and, sensing an opportunity in the parting sea of Croats before him, ran.

He was through the service doors of the building before the Croat hoard could even begin to respond to his escape, and their noises were quickly muffled by the service door as it locked automatically behind him, leaving him in relative quiet.

There were a surprising number of crates and boxes remaining in the storage and unloading zones, either empty or nearly so, and he quickly ascertained the area was, apart from himself, devoid of life or anything of interest to the camp.

Cas.

Dean's sudden prayer hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut.

Aisle... his mental voice trailed off for a second into indistinct sounds, colors, and waves of pain. Aisle seven. It's bad.

Cas shoved through the access door into the freezers, and out into the store with a recklessness he would have been ashamed of had he been so terrified.

He turned down aisle seven and skidded to a halt, frozen at the sight that greeted him, and tried to make sense of the hideously macabre tableau.

Trish's decapitated body lay the furthest from him, her ribcage torn open, her organs spilling over her arms and scattered in pieces over the floor. Three dead Croats, all headshots, around her remains. Then a bloody lake on the cheap linoleum tile, thick and viscous and so, so red, two more dead Croats, clearly more hard-won victories, their arms hacked at, heads partially removed, and nearly blocking the last body from view, wedged up against the shelves and bloody as it was.

"Cas," Dean wheezed, lifting his head laboriously to meet his eyes, blood bubbling up between his lips and staining them. "Cas, I'm so sorry-"

"No, no, don't talk like that," Cas said desperately, kneeling beside Dean. He took their pack of his back with shaking hands and shoved his angel blade somewhere inside. "We can fix this. You'll be okay."

"Cas-"

"You will!" he said, too loudly and startling himself.

"My ribs," Dean panted out in pained little gasps. "Broken. There's something in my back." He twitched minutely as if to show Cas the problem and immediately convulsed involuntarily at the pain the movement caused him, a horrible rattling moan in his throat. "My leg. Right one. Broken too." His jaw was clenched so tightly it was a miracle he could speak at all through the teeth-grinding pain he was in.

"Okay," Cas said faintly.

Cas...

Oh, he hated feeling. Sometimes he thought it made him useless. He missed being cold. Brutal, uncaring about pain or death. But this was Dean, and he'd never actually been particularly good at being a machine, anyway. "Okay. Dean, I need to see your back," he warned him, before moving him as gently as he could and angling his body so that he could get an unobstructed view of his back.

There was a crude metal stake wedged just an inch to the left of his second and third thoracic vertebrae, rusted, twisted and cruel-looking.

"Dean, I- I have to try to heal you," he said slowly, knowing that Dean wouldn't want him to be wasteful with his Grace. But this was beyond what human field medicine could help.

Dean didn't respond. He'd fallen unconscious.

"Oh no, no, no, baby," he babbled under his breath, trying to figure out the best way to extract the bar of metal. "Hold on," he muttered, grasping the stake firmly and bracing Dean's body against his own, trying to avoid fucking his broken ribs up more.

"Father, please, if you're still here, if you're listening, if you care at all," he begged, "help me."

Of course, his Father didn't answer. Gritting his teeth, Cas yanked out the stake and tossed it aside, immediately covering the wound with his hand. He summoned his Grace together and it responded sluggishly, but his hand was glowing and Dean's back was knitting back together.

As the skin merged into a puckered, raw-looking pink scar, Cas dropped his hand away from the wound and found himself utterly breathless, gasping for air and drained.

Dean was still unconscious.

He leaned Dean back up against the shelving and took a moment to figure out what to do next. Dean was still dying. He was still in danger. He couldn't be moved, nor could they stay put. He quickly opened up their pack and realized in horror that all the medical supplies were with Risa and AJ on the trucks and so, so far away by now.

He yanked his coat off with a twinge of regret. It was bloodied and worn and what he was about to do with it felt like a milestone he was loathe to reach.

He shredded it into long, wide strips, not letting himself think of how it was the last piece of Jimmy Novak, or how he had repaid the man's sacrifice by being party to the end of the world they both wanted to protect, or how Claire Novak had stopped praying to him weeks ago, now. He got on with the job, this is just a job, I can fix this-

He managed to wrap Dean's leg up decently tight, straight and stiff, but he had quickly discovered it was broken in several places. He didn't know what he could do for Dean's ribs, and he felt, as if from a distance, how Dean's breath was coming shallower and shallower, and he made his choice.

He laid his left hand on Dean's broken leg, as gently as he could. Leaning forward, he smoothed the wispy little baby hairs he loved to tease Dean about back, off his sweaty, pained, precious face, and, placing his right hand on Dean's crushed ribs, near his heart, touched their foreheads together. He looked at Dean's soul, his shining, beautiful (fading) soul and knew.

"I love you," Cas whispered, his voice wrecked. With that finally said, he grabbed his exhausted, weary Grace, and though it fought him and slipped through his grasp, he got hold of it and he pushed everything he could, everything he was into his hands, into Dean.

When he had done it, when he had drained himself down to mists and vapors, and had saved Dean, he gathered him in his arms, and carried him back to the truck on numb feet, leaving the scraps of Jimmy's coat behind in aisle seven.

When the truck broke down thirty miles from Chitaqua, and their radio too, he turned to Dean, pulling on a blue-ish jacket they'd picked up earlier during the run. It fit well.

"It's a good look for you," Dean said gruffly, staring at Cas with an expression he could not recognize. There was blood still smeared on his cheekbone, he noted absently.

"Oh. Yes. Well, thank you," Cas answered, adjusting the sleeves.

Dean tugged at the tan fabric strips on his leg, wincing at the pressure.

"You did a good job, Cas. With this fabric splint from your coat-"

"I know you won't be able to walk it," Cas said quietly, unable to meet his eyes even as he interrupted him. "I did what I could, but you'll be weak for days. You need time."

"You can leave me, Cas," Dean said, a strange, pinched guilt-pain-tenderness on his face. "You can come back for me."

"No," Cas said, smiling, and choking, and took Dean's cheek in the palm of his hand with a terrible ache rising in his throat. "I can't."

April 19th, 2012, under the peak of the Lyrids meteor showers, Cas flew for the last time, right up to the gates of the camp.

When they landed, a millisecond and millennia later, his wings burned away into nothingness in a wave of electric, minty-white pain that forced him to the ground. In the aftermath, panting and sweating and shaking in Dean's arms and clutching at his handprint on Dean's shoulder, he realized his Grace, or what was left of it, anyway, had consolidated into a bright little ball in his chest. Like a soul.

The realization was followed by another. Despite his earlier conviction that it would one day be lost to him, he could still see Dean's soul- behind his teeth, in his chest, radiant like a halo around his head, and worth, a million times over, and a million again, falling for.

Tagged:

@heller-jensen @sunforgrace @rambleoncas @adhdeancas @evermorecastiel @holmesemrys @plantdadcas @good-things-do-happen-dean @jeanne-de-valois @autisticandroids @sonder-stars @yana125 @faithcastiel @cascreamtiel @seffersonjtarship @i-sing-for-me @purgatorybi @bibelphegor @cowboyslikedean @gracefuldean @dimples-of-discontent @judaskissdean @wafflehousegothic @icaruscastiel @67chevyimpala67 @lesbianjenderenvy

#destiel #destiel fic #endverse!destiel #endverse!cas #not immune to endverse cas i repeat not immune vaccine needed now #my fic #my writing #dean winchester #castiel

[lightadept]

Eagle Vision, Hikaru and some very strange MKR symbolism

@aldebaranarfeiniel​ @theblueescapist Writing this hurt my brain. So, let’s dive in.  This is how Cephiro looks. 

It took me embarrassingly long to realize that Cephiro sounds like... Sefirot. Cephiro, as the very name suggests, is apparently based on Sefirot, a Kabbalistic tree of life, which is a system depicting the flow of macrocosmic and microcosmic life energy. 

There is a flow of energy from top to bottom, from divine to material, and vice versa. This is another esoteric representation of the same thing: 

And here are our girls with the same symbols! 

Fuu (Solar, masculine energy)  Hikaru (Solar and Lunar, masculine and feminine energy combined) Umi (Lunar feminine energy) While the three pillars specifically are an Abrahamic esoteric symbol, the Kabbalistic tree of life as an energy flow system exists in numerous religions and beliefs, pagan and modern alike. One of them, which you all know because it’s all across popular culture, is of special interest to us. 

Notice the eagle at the top (ethereal, divine, intellectual) and snake/scorpion (physical, instinctual, passionate) at the bottom! The most famous representation of this symbol is depicted in the zodiac sign of Scorpio, and its dual nature containing both scorpion and eagle. 

Eagle Vision obviously stands for an eagle, but just look at Hikaru. Her braid looks like a scorpion.

The Eagle-Scorpion dual nature of the zodiac sign, once translated to its esoteric/Kabbalistic parallel, depicts the same energy flow that moves up and down those pillars and Sefirot, travelling between spiritual and material planes. Scorpion represents the lower nature, the physical, the body, the earth, the passion, the personal. Eagle is its higher manifestation, all things intellectual, sophisticated, unearthly, ethereal and collective. Scorpion needs the eagle to extend it upwards, to help it grow, to spiritualize it. Eagle, on the other side, needs the scorpion to earth it, to give a physical, mundane manifestation to something that is otherwise purely spiritual. In other words, they complete one another. Divine redeems material, material redeems divine. Most importantly, they are just different manifestations of the same thing! 

In my headcanon, Eagle and Hikaru are really the same person - they are not just drawn to each other, they are each other. She is from Earth, and he is like her counterpart from the astral universe of Cephiro. They are both initially chosen to be pillars because they are just different ends of the same axis.   She greatly admires him and looks up to him, wishing to be like him. He, on the other side, learns from her to exist. He elevates her, her self-esteem, her self-love. He brings out the higher in her. She in return teaches him precisely what scorpions symbolically teach eagles: to value personal happiness over blind, selfless sacrifice for sake of collective, greater good.  Another interesting thing is Emeraude, and how she connects to these two. This is going to be a bit hardcore, but bear with me. In the following picture, she is situated between two pillars.  

It’s a clear reference to this, High Priestess Tarot card:

The explanation of the symbolism is as follows: 

You've most likely encountered the High Priestess before, but in other forms - she can be seen in the archetypes of Persephone, Artemis, Isis and many more. When you encounter her, you will see her sitting on a cubic stone between the two pillars at Solomon’s Temple, Jachin, and Boaz. Jachin (right) is generally referred to as the Pillar of Establishment and Boaz (left) is the Pillar of Strength. The pillars also depict the duality of nature; masculine and feminine, good and evil, negative and positive.

The High Priestess's location between the two suggests that it is her responsibility to serve as a mediator between the depths of the reality. She is the third pillar - the path between. She believes that both pillars are equal and there is knowledge to be learned in both worlds. You will also notice that she wears the crown of Isis which can mean that she is a believer of magic.”

So, the ideal pillar excludes neither physical nor divine, neither personal nor collective notions. This is where Emeraude fucks up big time. By going all self-sacrificial and giving up her personal happiness, the cosmic balance was disturbed.

Now take a look at this:

This is the Indo-European tree of life (again, a pagan counterpart of Sefirot system and those pillars). Configuration is always the same: eagle god at the top and snakes/scorpions at the bottom. But notice how there’s a captive girl at the base of the tree - just like Emeraude, who is a prisoner of the world tree. This is a very common motif in Indo-European mythology: there is a maiden, sometimes a divine pair, divine twins or primordial lovers, who are situated at the base of the world tree, the axis mundi, the cosmic pillar, awaiting redemption, sort of like Adam and Eve. They are respectively dormant masculine and feminine energies that need to be released from their latent, imprisoned nature. The girl would then symbolize dormant feminine energy that needs to be given a proper place in the hearts of people. As long as she is imprisoned and unredeemed, she is also absent from the hearts of people. Masculine energy symbolizes spiritual and collective qualities, feminine earthly and personal. This really fits with the theme of her selflessness and inability to put her own happiness in front of other people’s.  Funnily enough, in Indo-European mythology, there are many folk songs that tell about this captive prisoner/maiden at the bottom who ritually calls forth an eagle from the top of the tree to descend and redeem them. (This is an incredibly interesting blend of Christian/Gnostic and pagan beliefs, as you are probably noticing redemption theme here).

This is just what Emeraude does. She calls forth these legendary warriors who are said to be able to redeem and free her from her tragic fate. But it’s not quite Eagle Vision who saves her as a new pillar, isn’t it? It’s Hikaru, an earthling. Remember, eagle is a symbol of spirituality, of selflessness, all higher qualities. Emeraude doesn’t need to learn selflessness, because that’s what got her in trouble in the first place - she needed to learn to value her personal feelings, to be selfish. That’s why she isn’t saved by Eagle who is equally selfless. 

She is saved by Hikaru from physical realm (Earth). Here material redeems divine, not the other way round! Emeraude who is all divine, self-sacrifical and Christ-like is freed from imprisonment by Hikaru who basically teaches her through Eagle that, hey, it’s okay to be selfish, to want to be happy. So, magic knights are absolving her of her own self-denying divinity - which is a pretty darn cool theme.  What’s interesting here is that both Hikaru and Eagle are like symbolic expressions or emanations of Emeraude’s tragic fate in a way. If Emeraude and Zagato symbolize that dormant, imprisoned energy, a love that was never properly consummated and given a place, then Hikaru, Eagle and Lantis are their extensions, their second chance. Lantis is Zagato. Hikaru and Eagle are both Emeraude. Hikaru is that fire and conviction that Emeraude should have had, and Eagle Vision is a resolution of her conflict - he is the Emeraude who finally learns not to self-sacrifice.  I just fucking love to think of Eagle Vision as an expression or emanation of Emeraude. He is totally moved by her feminine energy. 

#Eagle Vision #Hikaru Shidou #Magic Knight Rayearth #lantis #emeraude #cephiro #another weird meta #i got carried away #why do japanese love occultism so much???

[talesofpanem]

A Wasteland No More

Title: A Wasteland No More.

By @mega-aulover

(Please note lines from Mockingjay were paraphrased.)

PROMPT: Wilderness means an uncultivated, uninhabited, and inhospitable region; neglected or abandoned area of a garden or town; or  a position of disfavor, especially in a political context. In religious context, a wilderness experience refers to a period of pain, struggle, discomfort, and trials.

Rating: M Mature subject as this deals with Katniss’ captivity in Mockingjay after she shot Coin, and her wanting to die. Trigger Warning - This goes right into the Epilogue. Canon Compliant. 

A/N: Not the usual fluff I write, this is a little darker but the prompt spoke to me on many levels. I’d written about Katniss being Willie Loman in Death of a Salesman and this stuck with me. Both were used, dried up shells and were being abandoned by the very same system that created and fostered them. Un-beta’d all mistakes are mine. 

She was the phoenix who burned herself at the altar. A sacrifice to rid Panem of another mutt.  Unbeknownst to those gathered to see President Snow executed, there were plans to have another Hunger Game to continue the massacre of innocent children. In Katniss’s private opinion there’d been enough innocent lives killed, including that of her 13-year-old sister by the hands of that mutt.   

Shooting the arrow straight at Coin was the only solution Katniss could come up with. In that moment Katniss self-imploded. Like, a Phoenix whose flame had been extinguished, all she wanted to do was die. Instead, she found herself locked up in a room, a cage of sorts, forgotten.

Her voice raw and cracked filled the air. “You are my Sunshine my only sunshine-” 

She was a discarded scrap of human flesh, trapped in a wasteland of thoughts. Time stopped. There was no day or night, only the cosmic vacuum where nothing existed except for her voice. Her voice was raw and pink like the grafts on her skin.  It filled the room, today, flickering like a small candle in the midst of darkness.

“The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping

I dreamed I held you in my arms

But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken

And I hung my head and I cried…” Katniss sang to an invisible boy.

Oh, how she missed those arms that comforted her in the dead of night. She lamented and cried over the steadiness they offered. “Peeta,” She half sang half wept, “She’s gone, my sister, my Prim.“ 

Like a Jabberjay her voiced mocked back. "PRIM, is gone. You couldn’t save her. You’re an evil mutt. The mutt. Mutt.”

 The word mutt reverberated in the room, in her ears,and in her soul.

Shaking her head, Katniss began to sing again. “You are my sunshine…”

Katniss rocked back and forth on the floor recalling the moment she’d killed Coin. She’d tried to kill herself by taking the nightlock pill, but Peeta stopped her taking the pill away. Katniss bit his hand accidentally. The taste of his blood still lingered in her mouth as she foamed at the lips, like a feral beast. His desperate look was seared in her brain.  The recollection of their last moments together like one of Peeta’s vivid paintings.

“Let me go!” she snarled at him, trying to get free from his grasp. 

“No.“ He shook his head violently his eyes clouded.  "I can’t,” he said, right before the guards grabbed Katniss and threw her here in this cage.

"Peeta,” She cried. Tears fell from her face. Laying down on the floor she held herself but her spindly arms were not the ones she craved. 

‘PEETA’, her mind the logical, stoic part of her being cried out to her soul. Her heart the part that was concerned with her emotions, was far too damaged and  whispered back.‘He’s dead, the Capitol killed him.’  

The sweet gentle boy she’d known died at the hands of the Capitol. Everything died in the Capitol, Coin, Peeta, Prim, and soon her, for assassinating Coin. Katniss wondered why they were taking so long for her to be executed. Why not kill her quickly? Unless this was the plan. Abandon her to die. Exhaustion gripped her like a vice, forcing her to sleep as she waited for the end. Katniss became a willing participant believing she needed to die.

Time flowed forward like a river determined to reach the shore. To her great shock Katniss was set free from her prison and sent back to District 12. She settled in the Victors Village a different type of prison, a self-imposed one. 

In a near comatose state, Katniss gazes out from her grey orbs into the world. Unable to speak or move. She does not dare close her eyes for what comes next are visions a senseless death and blood and burned children. 

A dead useless Phoenix, whose beautiful feathers have been plucked or singed by the fire. Her gilded cage was her scared burned shell. A taxidermied mutt. Lifeless she’s stuffed daily with enough food to keep her from dying too quickly. She watches from her perch, hungrily waiting for something. No one has what she needs to shed the scarred chrysalis she’s formed around her beaten and battered soul. 

Katniss watches Greasy Sae, who shuffles about the kitchen humming an endless tune. Katniss recognizes the tune, her sunshine song. ‘You are my sunshine,’ mocks her ears. Her sunshine, dandelion is gone, and she’s at the tree hanging waiting to be set free.  

A slight movement to her left causes her eyes to shift. Greasy’s grandchild stands before Katniss. The child gawks like a visitor at a museum. Peering at an odd collectable item. Katniss stares as well until the girl leaves with her grandmother.. 

In the silence she watches the way a speck of dust floats in the air dancing about in the sunlight and settles on the floor once the light is gone. Night descends, and shadows invade her space.

In the darkness the struggle begins to stay awake and keep the nightly terrors away. Once more, she craves for those strong arms. She is in an unspoken agony knowing those arms will never find her again. Peeta is gone, her heart, mind, and soul tells her spirit. Her spirit once more tastes the sweet soft flesh of his hand as he denied her a swift end. He’s still alive her spirit whispers. But this is quickly shoved to the side, in favor of death. This path she’s chosen is longer but her end is near. And she waits for the void to consume her.

Katniss is nearing that point in the fabric of space. Time, like the river is nearing its final destination when the scraping sound of metal and dirt wakes her from her terror. The sound spills forth from her dream  into her reality. In her dream she was being buried, dirt filled her mouth, and was clogging her throat. In her reality it’s the very air she breathes mingled with her screams that have clogged her throat. Her her eyes looked about the room. She expected to see a grave surrounding her not a couch and certainly not a cracked ceiling. 

As she lays there something happens to the cage she so skillfully built. Katniss can see the cracks and the door swung open. She ran through the door. Katniss found herself standing outside. Staring at a wasteland until her eyes find him. 

 Peeta’s face is red from digging. An orange wagon has five small bushes.

“You’re back,” Katniss whispered incredulous. She thought perhaps she was hallucinating. But the light was blinding and she could feel something happening, stirring deep within her. 

“Dr. Aurelius didn’t let me go until yesterday,” Peeta said. “By the way, he mentioned he can’t keep pretending he’s treating you anymore. You need to pick up the phone.” 

Peeta looked thin and had burn scars like Katniss. However, his eyes no longer look tortured. 

He was frowning at her, as though being able to detect she was morphing from the inside out.  It didn’t matter if her hair was matted into clumps or that she was dirty. Her heart pumped with the smoldering embers of liquid fire. Katniss opened her mouth, to try to explain to him but her eyes fell on the wagon. “What are you doing?” 

“I went to the woods when I arrived and dug these up. For her,” he said. “I thought we could plant them along the side of the house.“

At first she thought they were the odious roses people used for funerals. The very same roses Snow preferred. She’s about to spew righteous fire at him when she takes a close look at the bushes. They aren’t the dreaded rose, but evening primrose. The flower her father used to name her sister. Peeta has given Katniss back her sister.

The image of the burning girl is now replaced are the delicate flowers growing other side the house. 

Running back inside she found the source of her discontent. A single perfect rose. With liquid fire running through her veins she tosses the hated bloom into the fire. Katniss feels her body change, her wings stretch from her shoulders and she once more begins to morph into the fiery phoenix. Snow nor Coin could not dampen her fire.

On that day Katniss rose from the ashes and soot. It was a long hard won path but slowly she and her boy with the bread are transformed into a glorious state. Katniss recognizes she is a tamer Phoenix, gentled by sunshine of love. The void is gone and where silence reigned now laughter and giggles fill the air.

Time brought Katniss not to a vast ocean but to a gentle lake. Where she set roots and grew. Today years after Peeta returned, Katniss watched her precious fledglings, as they leap and dance. One day they were take to the air, but for now she will hold them close to her bosom. Katniss hums once more as strong arms surround her.

"You are my sunshine…”

#tales of panem #talesofpanem #week 5 #wilderness #mega-aulover #submission

[templeofulchtar]

Ghost Season Working Part 7/7

“Time makes all things possible.” - Starscream

Welcome to the final Rite of the Ghost Season Working! No matter how your Labors went, take a moment to congratulate yourself. You are a true Seeker indeed to have made it this far. 

Ghost Season officially ends on October 23, my hypothesized anniversary for Starscream’s resurrection. If you’re curious as to my reasoning for choosing this date, take a look at my essay, The Astrology of Starscream’s Death and Resurrection in G1.

If you or your ritual partner can’t do the Rite on October 23, it’s fine to do it on the nearest day that works for you, preferably a Sunday. Sunday is the Sun’s Day, and is thus associated with the element Fire, with resurrection, renewal and enlightenment.

No special tools are required for this ritual, but if you wish, you can include:

★ a gold or violet candle inscribed with: Starscream’s name, the sigil I provided, or a Starscream sigil of your own devising

★ a crown (wearable or otherwise); you might luck out and find one at a store that sells Halloween stuff

★ the annointing oil I described here

★ a playlist of songs that remind you of Starscream

★ celebratory foods

Reviewing Your Journey

Reclaiming the Crown begins with a final check-in. Set aside at least an hour for this. You can add a touch of ceremony by lighting a gold or violet candle, as described above, listening to your playlist, or putting on a dab of the annointing oil. Take some time to review the past 63 days. As always, you can do this in discussion with a ritual partner or, if working as a solitary, in your journal. Here are some prompts to consider:

★ Looking back over your Labors, where do you feel you succeeded?

★ What, if anything, went wrong? Why?

★ Have your goals changed? Are you ready to create new ones, or will you continue working on the ones you set at the beginning of Ghost Season?

★ Going forward, how could you change your actions or goals to address any problems that did come up?

★ What have you learned about yourself in the past 63 days? How is your life different?

★ What more, if anything, remains to be done?

Revisit Your Sacrifices

Now take out the folded list of sacrifices you put away during the Confronting Unicron ritual. Consider each of them, and ask the following questions:

★ How successful were you in setting aside these obstacles?

★ Were some harder to set aside than others?

★ Have your feelings about any of them changed over the past 63 days?

★ Which ones will you re-incorporate into your life?

★ Which ones will you release permanently?

Honor the Seeker

Starscream has been with you through every step of your journey. Thank him for his help and companionship. You can write a letter to him in your journal (I do this all the time), or make an offering (see Chapter 5 for suggestions). Be sure to thank any other allies who have been with you on your journey, and your ritual partner, if you have one.

You are now ready to Reclaim the Crown!

Ritual: Reclaiming the Crown

This rite is far simpler than Confronting Unicron was, and there’s a reason for that. This is a ritual you can carry forward after the end of Ghost Season if you desire. With practice, it takes about five minutes, so if you like, you can reclaim your crown—your inward sense of power and authority—every single day. This is the gift you have earned by undertaking the Ghost Season journey. Over time it will reshape your life, so use it well. May the Seeker keep you always under his wing.

Step One

Stand comfortably with your feet hip-distance apart. You can do this in front of your altar if you have one, or simply choose a place where you feel centered and grounded. You may opt to face East, which is the direction of the rising sun and thus associated with new beginnings, the element Fire, and enlightenment. If you’re working with a partner, you can have them read the text aloud as you do the meditiation, then switch roles and do the same for them.

Step Two

Begin a four-part breath, as follows:

a). Exhale, ‘sending’ your breath down through the soles of your feet and into the earth. You should feel rooted, grounded, and unshakable when you do this.

b). Inhale, drawing energy back up from the earth and into your heart.

c). Exhale, this time sending your breath up through the crown of your head and into the sky. Here, you are making a connection with your own divine nature.

d). Inhale, drawing the energy back down from the sky and into your heart.

Continue to breathe like this.

Begin to notice the dimensions of your body. Notice your height. Notice the distance between the crown of your head and the soles of your feet. Notice how your feet connect with the floor, and how your weight is distributed. Notice the breadth of your shoulders, the weight of your arms, the volume of air passing in and out of your lungs. Become aware of your heartbeat and the sound of your breaths.

Now, you will begin to imagine yourself growing. Root yourself into the earth with every exhale, while with every inhale, your body becomes taller.

First, become as tall as the room you’re standing in. Feel the crown of your head brush the ceiling.

On the next breath, you are taller than the building you’re standing in. Imagine yourself looking down on the top of its roof.

On the next breath, become taller than a skyscraper.

Keep rising. Breath, by breath, by breath.

Your head brushes the clouds, and you see to the farthest horizons. You rise through the atmosphere and gaze down upon the Earth. You are still rooted to the Earth, yet you now have this higher perspective. Every event that has ever happened in your life, the lives of your parents, or indeed human history, has happened on that small blue world beneath your feet.

Gaze outward across the solar system. You can see the planets moving in their orbits. You can see the asteroid belt, you can see moons and stars and the slowly turning hub of the galactic core.

Keep rising.

Expand until you find yourself as large as the universe itself. Your feet remain firmly rooted to the Earth, but your head is now rooted in the cosmos. You are the god of your own universe.

Now.

Realize that you are not alone. There’s a presence behind you. You feel his warmth against your back, solid and familiar. You raise your head in greeting, already knowing who you will see. You gazes meet.

Starscream is shining with his own inner light. It’s the light that has guided you along your path thus far. He’s wearing the crown he reclaimed when he rose from theunderworld, and it’s now time for you to reclaim yours.

“Look up.”

You look up.

Notice there is a crown descending toward you. It might look like Starscream’s crown, or it might look different. Either way, it is yours. When it’s close enough, reach up for it with both hands. Starscream’s hands cup yours as as you draw the crown down onto your head. Can you feel its weight?

Take a moment here to simply be. Feel your strength. Feel your empowerment. Know that you are never anywhere but exactly where you should be. You are the master of your own universe, and you can create anything.

When you’re ready, gently return.

Feel the room around you. Move your fingers, move your toes. Reconnect to the Earth, knowing you are ready to begin anew, fully aware now of your own power.

So mote it be.

Celebration

Congratulations! You have completed your underworld journey, and it’s time to celebrate. If you have a physical crown, put it on! Then treat yourself to the celebratory foods you prepared. Whether this is a feast or a snack, eating is a good way to ground yourself back into physical world after your cosmic voyage. Then:

Reward Yourself.

A lot of us neglect to do this, so here’s your reminder. You have undertaken a brave and powerful journey. You have done something very few people have the courage to do, and you stuck with it for nine weeks. That’s amazing, and regardless of how well—or badly—you think you did in your Labors, you are an intrepid spirit and deserve to reward yourself. Turn to your list of rewards, and pick one that resonates. Make a date to do it within the next week.

If you have been sharing this experience with a ritual partner or with friends, this is also a good time to reach out to them and share your experiences. Also feel free to reach out to me. I would love to hear how your Ghost Season journey went, or to answer any questions you might have. Thank you for taking this journey with me!

#starscream #starscream spirit guide #starscream's crown #pop culture magick #pop culture paganism #pop culture spirituality #pop culture spirit guides #meditation #ritual #Spiritual practice

[doomedandstoned]

Green Lung Renew Connection to the Earth in ‘Woodland Rites’

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

London powerhouse-and-a-half GREEN LUNG are back, just one year after capturing the affections of listeners with the Doom Charts-ranking EP, 'Free The Witch' (2018). Their debut LP, 'Woodland Rites' (2019), shows us the London act's true powers, now a five-member strong team with Tom Templar leading the charge on vocals, Scott Masson on guitar, Andrew Cave on bass, Matt Wiseman on Drums, and John Wright on the organ.

"We've been leading up to the themes of Woodland Rites," the band tells me, "since our very first demo Green Man Rising. It's an eight track heavy-psych LP inspired by folk horror and the sense of the uncanny that pervades parts of the British countryside, in the tradition of proto-metal bands like Black Widow, Comus and Coven. Lyrics explore everything from old British folklore like 'Bella in the wych elm' to the Blind Dead movies, and while the emphasis is on heavy psych, wider musical influences are bubbling in the mix, from NWOBHM to Goth rock."

For whatever reason, Green Lung's first record didn't connect with me quite as powerfully as the effort before us. Blending elements of doom, occult rock, and NWOBHM, Woodland Rites is an extraordinarily thoughtful metal record, enhanced by an organ here, vocal harmonies there, singing dual guitars at another crucial moment. Say what you will, Green Lung know how to work their way to a climax! I also loved the way one song lends itself so naturally to another. At times, I had to check to see if I was listening to a B-section of an early section, like some kind of Queen-esque ballade that continues to surprise with unfolding dimensions. The net result was that I was never tempted to leave the record or to skip around to different tracks.

Photograph by Sally Patti

And now we come to the song before us, receiving its worldwide premiere via Doomed & Stoned. "Call of the Coven," Green Lung tells us, "was the last song we wrote for the album, and probably the one that came together quickest. It's a love letter to Blood on Satan's Claw. Fans of the movie will notice that the chorus lyrics reference the chant in the central woodland ritual scene. The song has one of my favourite of Scott's solos on the album and a galloping NWOBHM feel that reminds me of the band Witchfinder General, but I've gender-flipped the lyrics so that instead of getting hunted, the witches are doing the hunting. Green Lung is a pro-witch band!"

I've already tagged this one for me to revisit when Doomed & Stoned considers the Heavy Best of 2019. This is exceptional in every way. Look for Woodland Rites to drop via Kozmik Artifactz on March 20th (pre-order here).

Give ear...

Woodland Rites by GREEN LUNG

Some Buzz

South London-based heavy rock quintet Green Lung have announced details of their debut album. 'Woodland Rites' (2019) will be released on heavyweight vinyl, CD, cassette and digital editions on March 20, the Spring Equinox. The band captured the attention of the international underground in 2018 with the release of their much acclaimed EP, 'Free the Witch,' and spent the year sharing stages with the likes of Conan, Conjurer and Primitive Man before signing to cult Berlin-based label Kozmik Artifactz.

With the addition of new member John Wright on organ, the band have also expanded their horizons musically, voyaging beyond the doomy psych of the EP to explore a spectrum of heavy music. On Let the Devil In they conjure up a blasphemous, arena-baiting hard rock single, while on Templar Dawn they veer into the cavernous (free)masonry of traditional doom metal. The psyched-out, prog-inflected The Ritual Tree attempts to answer the mystery of ‘Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?’ while May Queen is an ergot-tinged ballad of failing harvests and human sacrifice. The overall, irresistible impression is of a young band summoning up the eccentric English spectres of '70s proto-metal, early-'80s NWOBHM and '90s stoner rock and dragging those sounds kicking and screaming into the 21st Century.

Free the Witch EP by GREEN LUNG

Singer Tom Templar said, "With the response to 'Free the Witch,' the introduction of a new member and the chance to write a full LP we've been spurred on to take our sound to the next level -- so expect a pro-witch party album of diabolical riffs, harmonized solos, inescapable hooks and lyrics inspired by folk horror films like The Wicker Man and Blood on Satan's Claw. We hope Woodland Rites will become the soundtrack to many a debauched backwoods Sabbath in 2019."

'Woodland Rites' was recorded and mixed by Wayne Adams (Vodun, Ghold) who reprised his Free The Witch duties at Bear Bites Horse Studios. Mastering was undertaken by Brad Boatright at Audiosiege. Woodland Rites will be packaged in hallucinatory artwork by renowned woodcut artist, Richard Wells (The Wicker Man, Doctor Who) on vinyl and CD, with the cassette cover featuring photography by Courtney Brooke.

Green Lung will be on tour in April with Puppy, then touring both the UK and EU with label mates Deathbell in May, with confirmed shows in Paris, London, Liege and Cologne; more information will be available in due course. The band will also appear at HRH Doom vs Stoner alongside Monolord, Orange Goblin and Church of the Cosmic Skull on September 29.

17 April - Southampton - The Joiners 18 April - Bristol - The Exchange 19 April - Birmingham - The Flapper 20 April - Manchester - The Star & Garter 21 April - Glasgow - Garage Attic 22 April - Newcastle - Think Tank 23 April - Nottingham - Bodega Social Club 24 April - Leeds - Brudenell Social Club 25 April - London - Underworld

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

#D&S Debuts #Green Lung #London #England #UK #Doom #Metal #Doom Metal #Heavy Metal #Stoner Rock #Occult #NWOBHM #Kozmik Artifactz #HeavyBest19 #Witchcraft #Doomed & Stoned

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, BECKY! You’ve been accepted for the role of GONERIL with an approved FC change to URSULA CORBERO. Admin Jen: Truly, Becky, you have left us speechless with this wonderful application! Your take on Grace was a bit unusual, and certainly not what I was expecting as I had established her in my mind as very cold and clinical. But the way you integrated emotions into her portrayal was brilliant -- it gave her a touch of volatility and extremism that accentuated the terror that Grace embodies so perfectly. I loved your future plots especially the evil scheme that you elaborated on and your writing sample left me trembling in both fear and admiration; everything just came together so intricately! I can’t wait to watch as she burns Verona to the ground! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Becky

Age | 22

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I’ve sold my soul to you now, I can’t ever leave

Timezone | Ok so I wrote BST on Odessa’s app but the rest of the UK gang put GMT (time is a social construct and I’m actually a cosmic entity floating around the globe giving u all forehead kisses)

Current/Past RP Accounts | x  x

In Character

Ok so I know you didn’t exactly accept her as an FC for Grace but I’m hoping you warm to edgy-looking neo-noir Úrsula Corberó once you’ve read the app. I admit that my idea of Grace may not be quite what you’re looking for but I wanted to give applying for her a shot because I love me Hot Mess of a character! (but I am also happy to come up with alternatives if not)

Is evil something you are?      Or is it something you do?

Character | Grace ‘Goneril’ Daly

What drew you to this character? | So like any good prophecy/vision/intervention of fate, I woke up one morning with a mighty need to play a character who is Odessa’s opposite, the black fur coat leather skirt cigarette ash psycho babe to my honey sweet lace and silk angel of retribution, so I’ve sort of been slyly waiting for Grace’s bio to be released.

It’s her contrast to Odessa that initially drew me in with the chance to explore another character whose existence and presence in Verona revolves around her father’s ties to a mob, but resulting in a drastically alternate result. It will be very different playing a character who doesn’t particularly have a motive for killing (beyond self-preservation and power-lust) and is loyal to only herself.

Whilst I would usually play a character like Grace as being a cold-hearted, emotionless ice queen, I feel as though Grace is better suited to burning. She is a slave to her emotions, the rise and fall of them dictating her mood, all while highly strung and fuelled by a chaotic form of energy. You can very much tell when she is happy and when she is not. She’ll cry in front of you just as gladly as she’ll laugh and kiss you. She’s unkind, ruthless, impulsive, emotional, and she’s ready to antagonise people to her tar-black heart’s content.

Character inspo: Azula from Avatar, Jennifer Check from Jennifer’s Body, Bellatrix Lestrange from Harry Potter, War from Good Omens. Trope inspo Alpha Bitch, Ambiguous Disorder, Blatant Lies, Daddy’s Little Villain, Go-Getter Girl, Hair-Trigger Temper, Improbable Weapon User, Jerkass, Sadist, Spoiled Brat, Virtue is Weakness.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

i.                    A masterplan;

Step One: Grow to become an important part of the mob you were all but born into. Turn yourself into the perfect player, capable with weapons and unblinking in the face of danger. Step Two: Leave them. Join their rivals. Prove yourself to them by dispatching of a few former associates, low hanging fruit. Become just as relevant within their ranks. Step Three: Collate what you have learnt about the two mobs. Their strengths, their weaknesses. Make a few friends with similar goals to yourself. Corrupt them. Step Four: Start your own mob. You now know your enemies intimately. You know what it takes to break them. Bit by bit, steal Verona out from under their noses. Laugh at their mistakes and dance in the ashes of their burning empires as you build your own. Step Five: Be remembered forever.

ii.                   The double agent;

Traitor. Grace wears the title with pride, her smile sharp when she comes face to face with both Capulets and Montagues alike. Slinking from one mob to the other was a seemingly effortless transition, welcomed by none other than Damiano himself. She fed him information about Cosimo and his crew, spilling secrets around the end of her lipstick-stained cigarette. It was an easy way in, but now that she’s settled amongst her new comrades she finds herself looking back across the bridge with interest. Power is power but information is advantageous – Grace isn’t above feeding Montague-whispers back to her old associates, not if it means she wins friends on both sides of Verona. That way, it’s impossible for her not to win this war.

iii.                  Sisters, sisters

Regina and Catherine. Both are equally as disgraceful to the Daly name – one can’t even bring herself to be enthusiastic about the opportunities that lie, shiny and golden, before them, and the other flutters her lashes and talks of peace, of all things. Grace has never paid them much attention, but now that she’s sided with the Montagues she’s realised that the Capulets could do with having their numbers thinned. Whether she’ll try to convince them to switch sides with her for the Montague brownie-points or simply wipe her sister off of the face of the earth forever remains to be seen, but if Regina and Catherine think they can keep their heads down and get away with making the Dalys seem anything less than destined for greatness, they’ve got one hell of a storm coming.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | I sure am, same goes for Odessa now, it’s time to make like Grace and embrace reckless abandon

In Depth

In-Character Para Sample:

She is the thing watching you from the edge of the road, where long grass shivers with the motion of something far more alive than it has any right to be; a pair of eyes that glint in the final rays of the sunlight’s reaches, bleached white enamel teeth ready to sink themselves into those who mistake the night’s cloak as a thing to hide under rather than be consumed by.

She is fresh fruit in the heat, a slow rotting taking place at the centre disguised by mouth-watering scents and a flesh that glistens under the sheen of morning dew. Decay is a dance, slow and tantalising, the heart turning to a sticky dark mess that slides through the fingers of anyone who dares to try and save it.

She is a doctor who has never been able to stop her hands from shaking at the prospect of a new body, eager to pick up the scalpel and press it down into soft flesh, revealing a mass of life clinging to the bones. Her favourite colour is red, the sort that looks black in the evening, droplets turning to pools that spread through pressed shirts and silk pyjamas like tears on pillows. There’s blood on her hands, not always metaphorical. She licks it off, rarely quite satisfied.

Grace fucks like the meeting of hips will reveal the monster that lies beneath her, as though touching there and there and there will unlock ribcages and unleash what’s trapped inside of hearts. But to understand why, you must crawl inside her skull and make sense of what lurks there beneath the smoke of burning houses and vultures picking at once-satisfied things–

“Please take a seat,” Damiano says, and Grace lingers before lowering herself onto the chair, her gaze gliding over the mahogany desk between them before raising to study the man himself.

He smells like her father. That’s the first thing she notices, the faint cologne. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and the signet ring on his finger keeps catching on things, releasing a dull metallic sound each time. His presence is more regal than Cosimo’s and yet she finds herself thinking the exact same thing – you aren’t worthy.

These men had all inherited their empires, passed down like heirlooms, and as a result they had become lazy. Content. Uninspiring.

“I’m very happy to be here,” she chimes pleasantly. “However… unexpected it may be.” She doesn’t tell him how much she wants this. Doesn’t explain that being welcomed into the inner sanctum of the Montagues is as pleasing as a night of post-murder hot sex. “I’ve always been a huge fan of your work.”

Damiano doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t need to. Grace is well aware that she wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t intend to offer her something. “I have a proposition.”

I bet you do, she thinks, her well-orchestrated plan playing out like the sweetest of songs. Black-nail-polished fingers press to her chest, feigning surprise. “For me? Damiano, you’re spoiling me.” The words curl up from her lips like tendrils of cigarette smoke. She punctuates them with a light laugh.

The deal is a simple one: information for protection. Spill some secrets to join the ranks. Grace does so without blinking, switching silver for gold, and slowly the pieces begin to fall into place. As with any self-proclaimed god, she grazes her knees on carpet to say thanks to Damiano, sacrifices those she’s left behind, and fills her head with only the loveliest visions of tearing his and Cosimo’s empires to the ground.

Extras:

Pinterest board

Time for more of ‘Becky attempts to write headcanons’:

Her parent’s little angel turned little devil. Spoilt from a young age, she soon learnt that she could get away with near enough anything provided she smiled sweetly to her parents and told them just how much she loved them. When her sisters were born, the attention that had been on her drifted and Grace found that she had to work harder and harder to hear her name on her parent’s lips.

Grace grew up restless. Her ambitions would flit like moths around a lightbulb, becoming half-planned dreams and broken things. It wasn’t until she was rushed to hospital following a road traffic accident* (which resulted in the removal of a kidney) that she decided to train to become a paramedic. *Her parents later suggested that it was no accident and had in fact been planned by the Montagues,

As a paramedic, she always manages to be first on the scene when an incident linked to the mobs is called in. Strategically, if someone fails to complete a murder she can finish the job herself, or silence any witnesses. Similarly, it also gives her the opportunity to plant fake evidence or remove weapons from the scene. For those evading the eyes of the authorities, she can also help those who have been hurt and can’t risk a trip to the hospital.

She is resourceful and will use whatever is to hand as a weapon. Has been known to dish out the odd black eye, broken nose, crushed windpipe, and acrylic nail scratches. Her father himself trained her to use a pistol and rifle under the guise that he was teaching her to hunt (which, technically, wasn’t a lie – they just never specified the quarry).

She lives by 3 important rules. One: trust only those you would die for. Two: protect what is yours. Three: if something is boring or unimportant, do not waste time on it.

Grace needs to be needed and wants to be wanted. She can’t stand shrinking into shadows and being forgotten. No, she must remain the life of the party and attract the attention (be it good or bad) of everyone.

She was once arrested and fined for drunk and disorderly behaviour on whilst on holiday in England. She slept it off in a cell and was released the next morning with a hefty fine.

She is a big fan of piercings and has a stick n poke shark on her ribs.

Inspo quotes:

“I’m a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise.

“Her mood is cruel, her nature dangerous. Her will fierce and intractable” – Euripides (translated by Philip Vellacott), Medea

“But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.” – Junot Diaz, The Brief Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao

#accepted: goneril #accepted

[angelofseeking]

just more rambling

about memories and how absolutely fucking angelkin i am lmao

Soo, I’m not saying I’m Raphael because I’ve literally never thought about him even for a second, or prayed to him or anything. (Which... I guess that would be kind of weird and like praying to myself? Maybe I was avoiding it subconsciously? I dunno.) But the more I read about him, the more I feel this really strong connection, if I’m being completely honest.

My search for otherkin stuff began shortly after I had a nightmare about a demon. Some signs were presented to me that led me to research Azazel, who was not a demon but a fallen archangel. I’ve heard many stories about the Watchers and the Nephilim and the Annunaki and so on, and... I can’t say that I necessarily place any stock in them, but for the first time I started to really sympathize with the Watchers. It’s definitely something I want to look into further.

I’ve pretty much ignored Christianity since leaving the Catholic Church, so I’m rather out of touch with it but I’m familiar enough with the context and archetypes and so on. My brief study of Kabbalah has brought me back to Judeo-Christian concepts. But I was searching for more information about archangels and found a painting of Raphael by Murillo and I was kinda struck by the resemblance? Which, like, this is an artist’s interpretation, but still it led me to research more about Raphael.

Raphael is the patron “saint” of healers, the blind, travelers, medicine, and music (among other things). He is only really mentioned in the Catholic Bible in the Book of Tobit, where he disguised himself as a human named Azarias, who claimed to be a traveler, cast out a demon in the desert, and healed a blind man. His counterpart Israfel in Islam is supposed to signal the end times with his trumpet and was also said to be “a beautiful angel who is a master of music, Israfil sings praises to God in a thousand different languages, the breath of which is used to inject life into hosts of angels who add to the songs themselves.”

And you know what else? He was the archangel who bound Azazel and cast him into darkness.

So, I’m thinking about all the other angels I’ve researched. Raziel stood out to me for the longest time, at first because I had an OC named Rasiel (pronounced the same way) and thought I had invented the name. I had a great liking for Raziel as a figure, but I never had the confidence to suggest he was myself. I thought maybe even Azazel was a possibility, because I sympathized with him a lot. Then I thought it was Azrael, because I have a morbid fascination with death and meditate on mortality and the liminal space of nonexistence a lot. But... It just didn’t feel right.

And this? Feels right. If God (Michael) tasked me to bind Azazel, would I feel guilty? Would I feel justified? Was I torn about the decision to follow orders? (I use these names/events more symbolically, as I believe that the truth is not able to be conveyed in a way that humans can understand.)

Because I feel like I still carry this regret. I feel like I understood why Azazel chose his actions. I feel like I loved Michael and Gabriel but that I felt as though I was living in their shadow. I feel like a coward for not joining Azazel when I wanted to. I am frustrated that I chose my love for my brothers over a cause that I believed in. I feel responsible. I feel responsible.

On a lighter note, I find it significant that Raphael is tied to music, and music is central to my practices. I rely heavily upon music to do any kind of spell/energy work. I believe resonance/vibration is extremely important. My mom told me I sang before I ever spoke my first words. Singing is often a spiritual experience for me, and this was nurtured throughout my childhood. When I make music, I perform best when I close my eyes and really put my heart into the sound. It’s kitschy to say, but that’s the only way I can explain why, like... bitch I might be Raphael.

The only time I am ever flirted with or hit on is when I’m at a karaoke bar. As time goes on, I feel I am becoming more asexual and aromantic. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the attention, but I think too much about obligation and I’m real bad at telling people “no thank you, but I’m flattered.” I’m just awkward.

It’s not just because it’s a place where people drink. And it’s probably very egotistical of me, but I think it’s because I have a nice voice? But the amount of people who get crushes on me after hearing me sing is evidence enough. I’m going to delete this later probably.

Anyway. Two boys hit on me. Usually when I get hit on at these places, I can brush it off because it’s folks I’m just not into. Tonight tho, they were actually cute. And I’m like “cool” but... Nooo? I really wanna be your friend but!! Dating is just too weird!!

But I have been thinking lately about how being angelkin has affirmed my sexuality. Being ace/aro is absolutely a normal human thing (like being non-binary) but it just makes so much sense now why I’m so... like, I really like the idea of sex, I just don’t want to actually do it? I think because it’s one thing to fantasize, but when I do it with other people I just feel embarrassed? It’s not even insecurity, I don’t think. It’s just such an awkward ritual and I don’t think I can enjoy it in the way I’m supposed to. But I guess I’m not fully ruling it out. I just feel like it’s not going to happen again.

when i do stop and think about being in a relationship again, i think about being with another angel. i think about how we communicated/connected through a kind of cosmic music or resonance or whatever. i don’t know what to call it and it’s not just “singing.” i realized i have memories of communicating this way, so that it wasn’t exactly having sex but rather the act of love itself allowed me to connect to another being on a subatomic level.

it’s honestly like the difference between animals mating and humans mating. animals mainly do it for reproduction or pleasure. humans are the ones who mix feelings into it, although not always. doesn’t make it better, just makes it a little more complex. well, i have done it with a decent number of a variety of humans in a variety of ways, but it just doesn’t do it for me. i think that’s why i kept “falling in love” with the people i had sex with. i was so desperate to connect deeply in the only way that i was familiar, the way i was able to do before, but it just left me feeling empty and unfulfilled. that’s how i realized that i was not going to get any fulfillment out of a relationship with a human. it places far too much expectation on them, and it’s completely unfair on my part to do so.

but conversely, i expect a lot from myself in relationships. (and in general) i have always had this frustratingly overwhelming need to help and protect people, and it’s led to fucked up dynamics in relationships. i transform myself to suit the needs of a romantic interest -- not uncommon, of course, especially for survivors of abuse. but in my case it’s also possible that i was coerced to believe that the only way to truly love/value someone is to be involved with them romantically. this is absolutely false.

i love. i love deeply. i see so much goodness and beauty in everything. there is bliss in sadness. the night is bright and full of stars. the trees in winter have a serene beauty. death brings us peace and completion, returns us to the earth. there is bravery in weakness and passion in sacrifice. i turn away from nothing and listen to every perspective.

i don’t believe that everyone is right. i believe that anyone is wrong if they believe only they are right. i can’t bring myself to avert my gaze from the horrors of existence, because... i want to know. i want to understand. if i don’t hear every perspective, how can i know who is wrong and who is right? how can i decide my own opinion?

it takes me a long time to make up my mind but i can never take any perspective at face value. and when i do settle on a position, i ride it into the goddamn ground. fuck cops. eat the rich.

also meant to mention: i don’t know what i would do if somehow i met an angelkin that i felt connected to in a potentially romantic way. i feel like it wouldn’t be any different from connecting with a human. the last person i developed intense feelings for was angelic in the way that they were androgynous and pretty but also felt very ancient and shared my passion for justice. it was better that they did not reciprocate my feelings, and it made me reflect a lot concerning my capacity to exist in a romantic relationship. i wanted more from them, likely because i thought it would make me happy. i let this desire blind me, and i hurt them more than i’ve ever hurt another human, and i’m too full of shame and regret to make the same mistakes.

it’s perfectly natural and human to realize that a romantic relationship is not for everyone, just like having kids or getting married or making any kind of life choice is not the only choice. i just feel like there’s this added layer of “i can’t connect with people romantically even though i care about them deeply.” it’s a poor analogy, but i always compare it to the relationship between a pet and their owner. you love them deeply and would absolutely make any sacrifice for them, and crave their love and company, but you’re... well, you’re two different species.

my body is human. i am not human. 

if i found someone exactly like me, there’s no telling whether they conceptualize it the way i do. are they really like me? if they were, the closest we might be able to get towards a remnant of that deep connection we had as angels, it would be something involved with music. ideally, we’d make music together.

that might’ve been why i thought i was in love with that “angelic” person. we spent a lot of time just cuddling and listening to music. it led to other stuff. i didn’t mind to other stuff, but i might’ve been fine without it.

in the words of miike snow “ooh, i wanna make up my mind / but i don’t know myself”

#my posts

[tiedyepix-blog]

The Grammys 2017

vThe Grammys were awarded this week, honoring popular American music across original genres. I’m looking at you, Best Urban Contemporary Album. The ceremony and its accompanying performances are the most visible musical event in the country. Part of the Grammys’ appeal is celebrity. These musicians are stars, and the fanfare surrounding their appearance, behavior, and politics carries as much weight as the audience reaction. While a lot of pixels have been committed to the style behind the show, the musical performances and the winning musicians will receive the attention here.

The host opened with a rap in the style of Lin-Manuel Miranda about the show to come. Ardent and earnest, but on a mundane topic (”tonight’s presenters include...”, “performances by...”, “... and I’m your host, James Gordon. We have a great show for you tonight, so stick around...”), the style -- pioneered by Eminem in 8 Mile’s “Lose Yourself” and brought to apotheosis by Miranda on the soundtrack to Hamilton -- was killed live at the 2017 Grammys, an event akin to Hollywood and Broadway, by the host of a late night talk show. The form has exhausted its emotive potential for the moment, a turn in the right direction for those who don’t like their parents listening to rap.

Now, to sacrifice a person, I offer Paris Jackson, the daughter of pop legend Michael Jackson, and presenter of the Weeknd’s “I Feel it Comin’”. Jackson got pity-applause for mentioning the Dakota pipeline and uttering something about #GOdapple,which sounded like a pose, more than a conviction. She further embarrassed lovers of mother Gaia by flubbing a quote. “A legend once said,” she said, launching into the introduction proper, “that a star can never die. It just turns back into a smile, and melts, back into the cosmic music.” She then called the next act cosmic. That is how you talk on ecstasy. Hook.

The first performance of the night, by the Weeknd and Daft Punk, was nothing short of solid. The song grooves on a single lyric, sung with melodic variation. Little differences. Abel Tesfaye sang in falsetto over the beat and commanded the stage at a slow tempo, like watching a candle burn for three minutes. Good entertainment.

The award for best new artist went to Chance the Rapper, the most exuberant individual living. He thanked God for Chicago, and the crowd applauded. The people love bubbly, and Chicago, apparently.

The night was long, and much of the performances missable. Looper solo singer-songwriter; country stars; Beyonce; cover songs; impersonation. Things picked up when Katy Perry sang a mediocre new track before a set of white picket fences that morphed into the preamble to the Constitution. This theme continued with A Tribe Called Quest performing “We the People” with Busta Rhyme denouncing President Trump to the moniker “President Agent Orange.” Real people of minority race and religion marched onto the stage, dressed in everyday clothes (both hijab, and Mexican going-to-work boots) alongside the rappers. Not angry enough, but a step in the right direction.

Metallica and Lady Gaga performed together, and, if the costumes were phony, the vibe was, on the whole, sheer fun. Props to Metalliga.

Adele won best Album in what maybe was the safe/obvious choice. Traditional verse-chorus-bridge-chorus arrangements of real instruments. New York Times music critic Jon Pareles notes that the votes fear the drum machine. Frank Ocean boycotted and Kanye just didn’t show.

The Tye Dye Pixel will continue examining American pop music. Sound good?

[ricardosousalemos]

Julie Byrne: Not Even Happiness

There are two things you can’t escape: the sky and yourself. It serves us, then, to understand both. Not Even Happiness, the pristine new album from singer-songwriter Julie Byrne, probes cosmic notions such as these with wonder and aplomb. Wanderer, dreamer, naturist, loner, romantic—with her bold fingerpicking and deep voice, Byrne makes these well-worn identities feel newly alive. Not Even Happiness has all the lucidity and tactility of a healing crystal—or more to the point, a rose quartz, the one that might help you to love.


Blending folk, new age, and silence, Not Even Happiness is a balm. In both sound and sensibility, it strives for clarity, that ultimate marker of enlightenment. Orchestral arrangements sit subtly in the mix; an occasional flute slides in, or a sample of crashing waves. Byrne solemnly charts the places she’s seen—Kansas, Arkansas, Montana, Wyoming—and fills her lyrics with elemental things. She lies in a “verdant field,” catches “stars from a back porch,” watches a “dove over the prairie.” Her language is diffuse, braiding together themes of autonomy, desire, and struggle, but despite the heft of her poetry, the music exudes disarming ease. It feels much shorter than its 33 minutes. Not Even Happiness imagines a cross-section of Leonard Cohen’s mysticism and Judee Sill’s vulnerability—like the latter artist, Byrne’s keen pop sense and stacked harmonies play out like wind carrying her along. “Because they take themselves lightly, angels can fly,” the philosopher Alan Watts notes in his book Become What You Are, and Byrne seems to mind this idea sonically.


Byrne named her album Not Even Happiness because happiness, perhaps, is not always the point. There are virtues beyond happiness—strength, wisdom, integrity, self-possession—and Byrne honors these. Though she is a nomad, she doesn’t romanticize the position; her rootlessness sounds more like a calling, one that chose her, with sacrifices and doubts. “I have dragged my lives across the country/And wondered if travel lead me anywhere,” Byrne sings on “I Live Now As a Singer,” conjuring the sweep of This Mortal Coil’s “Song to the Siren.” She sounds devoted to an inner compass only. On opener “Follow My Voice,” Byrne sings, “I was made for the green, made to be alone,” and she prioritizes her solitude with a sly turn: “I’ve been called heartbreaker/For doing justice to my own.” Not unlike Phil Elverum, Byrne paints sublime, awestruck moments when simple things become overwhelming. “Will I know a truer time/Than when I stood alone in the snow,” she sings. “And the moon was in the sky and shone.” Nearly a capella, she intones, “I’ve been seeking God within.”

Despite this self-reliance, these are patently love songs, processing the unravelling of a heart sewn shut. The human heart is never easy in a Byrne song, though, by nature of its connection to an active human mind. Byrne knows the difference between solitude and loneliness, and she bears the lessons of the former while endeavoring the enormous task of navigating the latter with dignity. On “Morning Dove,” her tone evokes Gillian Welch, as she vividly paints her surroundings—the woods, the endless river—but sweetly admits to trailing off: “I thought of you so presently,” she sings. “I could not wait to tell you the truth.”

Gleaming and steadied and wide, “Sleepwalker” is Not Even Happiness’ most gripping moment. It captures both the infatuated feeling of nascent love and how a dream of life can tempt you to lose control of your own. “I traveled only in service of my dreams,” Byrne sings, “I stood before them all/I was a sleepwalker.” Few contemporary songwriters earn a comparison to Angel Olsen, but in its acuity and grace—what Leonard Cohen called “that kind of balance with which you ride the chaos that you find around you”—Not Even Happiness makes a case for Byrne as one of them.

Throughout Not Even Happiness, Byrne sounds like a person who might worship the sky, but the majestic “Natural Blue” is a proper ode. There’s nothing particularly unusual about her tale of driving through familiar southwestern towns on tour, but her images evoke the life-affirming feeling of catching the exquisite light just so through a moving car window, while meditating on the changing scenery as it flickers by. “When I first saw you/That feeling, it came over me, too/Natural blue,” Byrne sings. Were “Natural Blue” released a decade ago, perhaps the poet Maggie Nelson would have found something in it to include in her 2009 prose-poem Bluets, a radiant reflection on the color. “When I was alive, I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light” goes Bluets’ final sentence, and a similar logic guides Not Even Happiness, in which the most worthy wandering happens on roads within.

#reviews-albums

[ricardosousalemos]

Julie Byrne: Not Even Happiness

There are two things you can’t escape: the sky and yourself. It serves us, then, to understand both. Not Even Happiness, the pristine new album from singer-songwriter Julie Byrne, probes cosmic notions such as these with wonder and aplomb. Wanderer, dreamer, naturist, loner, romantic—with her bold fingerpicking and deep voice, Byrne makes these well-worn identities feel newly alive. Not Even Happiness has all the lucidity and tactility of a healing crystal—or more to the point, a rose quartz, the one that might help you to love.


Blending folk, new age, and silence, Not Even Happiness is a balm. In both sound and sensibility, it strives for clarity, that ultimate marker of enlightenment. Orchestral arrangements sit subtly in the mix; an occasional flute slides in, or a sample of crashing waves. Byrne solemnly charts the places she’s seen—Kansas, Arkansas, Montana, Wyoming—and fills her lyrics with elemental things. She lies in a “verdant field,” catches “stars from a back porch,” watches a “dove over the prairie.” Her language is diffuse, braiding together themes of autonomy, desire, and struggle, but despite the heft of her poetry, the music exudes disarming ease. It feels much shorter than its 33 minutes. Not Even Happiness imagines a cross-section of Leonard Cohen’s mysticism and Judee Sill’s vulnerability—like the latter artist, Byrne’s keen pop sense and stacked harmonies play out like wind carrying her along. “Because they take themselves lightly, angels can fly,” the philosopher Alan Watts notes in his book Become What You Are, and Byrne seems to mind this idea sonically.


Byrne named her album Not Even Happiness because happiness, perhaps, is not always the point. There are virtues beyond happiness—strength, wisdom, integrity, self-possession—and Byrne honors these. Though she is a nomad, she doesn’t romanticize the position; her rootlessness sounds more like a calling, one that chose her, with sacrifices and doubts. “I have dragged my lives across the country/And wondered if travel lead me anywhere,” Byrne sings on “I Live Now As a Singer,” conjuring the sweep of This Mortal Coil’s “Song to the Siren.” She sounds devoted to an inner compass only. On opener “Follow My Voice,” Byrne sings, “I was made for the green, made to be alone,” and she prioritizes her solitude with a sly turn: “I’ve been called heartbreaker/For doing justice to my own.” Not unlike Phil Elverum, Byrne paints sublime, awestruck moments when simple things become overwhelming. “Will I know a truer time/Than when I stood alone in the snow,” she sings. “And the moon was in the sky and shone.” Nearly a capella, she intones, “I’ve been seeking God within.”

Despite this self-reliance, these are patently love songs, processing the unravelling of a heart sewn shut. The human heart is never easy in a Byrne song, though, by nature of its connection to an active human mind. Byrne knows the difference between solitude and loneliness, and she bears the lessons of the former while endeavoring the enormous task of navigating the latter with dignity. On “Morning Dove,” her tone evokes Gillian Welch, as she vividly paints her surroundings—the woods, the endless river—but sweetly admits to trailing off: “I thought of you so presently,” she sings. “I could not wait to tell you the truth.”

Gleaming and steadied and wide, “Sleepwalker” is Not Even Happiness’ most gripping moment. It captures both the infatuated feeling of nascent love and how a dream of life can tempt you to lose control of your own. “I traveled only in service of my dreams,” Byrne sings, “I stood before them all/I was a sleepwalker.” Few contemporary songwriters earn a comparison to Angel Olsen, but in its acuity and grace—what Leonard Cohen called “that kind of balance with which you ride the chaos that you find around you”—Not Even Happiness makes a case for Byrne as one of them.

Throughout Not Even Happiness, Byrne sounds like a person who might worship the sky, but the majestic “Natural Blue” is a proper ode. There’s nothing particularly unusual about her tale of driving through familiar southwestern towns on tour, but her images evoke the life-affirming feeling of catching the exquisite light just so through a moving car window, while meditating on the changing scenery as it flickers by. “When I first saw you/That feeling, it came over me, too/Natural blue,” Byrne sings. Were “Natural Blue” released a decade ago, perhaps the poet Maggie Nelson would have found something in it to include in her 2009 prose-poem Bluets, a radiant reflection on the color. “When I was alive, I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light” goes Bluets’ final sentence, and a similar logic guides Not Even Happiness, in which the most worthy wandering happens on roads within.

#best-albums