#spiritualist press

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Harry Edwards - A Guide To Spirit Healing - Spiritualist Press - 1965

#witches #healers #occult #vintage #a guide to apirit healing #spiritualism #spiritualists #spiritualist press #harry edwards #1965 #spirit healing

[diejager]

wdyt of the idea of high society victorian cod characters cus i saw one glimpse of the idea and thought hmmm occult ghost and im praying we get it

I can’t believe I went google searching for this Drabble XD

PS. I wrote this before seeing @justadeadreaper ‘s AU!

The Past Cw: SLIGHT DARK, DUB-CON, spiritualism, occult, sex magic, smut, cunnilingus, fingering, oral sex, tell me if I missed any.

You’d heard from other women that the dark and mystery-shrouded man was one of the best spiritualists in England —if not the only man practicing the dark arts. You were warned through loose lips and gossiping whispered that he was a giant for your time, dressed in the finest silks a man could buy for himself and portrayed an aura of pride and excellence, holding an air of finesse and savagery in every words he spoke. You had your own expectations before you met him, fingers trembling as you wrote your letter, a grieving tear rolling down your powdered cheek.

You waited with bated breath and tense shoulders for his reply, and when a letter arrived, the little skull wax seal playing a part to your excitement, you ripped in open and settled in your desk in an unladylike manner. For a man you didn’t know, you couldn’t help but admire his calligraphy, the hand which he used to write was skilfully gentle, his words curled with a gracefulness you envied. In the black lettering, he gave you a date and location, touched by your plight, he invited you to his house in an unknown part of Manchester.

You rode out a few days early to meet him, being aware that he’d extended his invitation to a week long stay after your second exchange. He expressed his solemnity and sympathy towards you, promising that he’d be able to help you and you couldn’t be any happier to be able to let the past rest.

But your expectations of him fell the moment he greeted you at the wide mahogany doors of his house, he was broad and talks, a giant dressed in black. The cuffs and collar of his long coat were woven with silver roses and vines, gracing pant-clad thighs, thick and strong as a tree’s tough bark. He wore leather gloves - black as the rest of his attire - and a gem-clipped cravat stuffed under his black waist coat, buttons holding it to his sculpted chest and a flared end with silver intricacies, silver flowers and plants sown into the fabric. He was dressed beautifully, like a phantom of the opera, but when you gazed up, his dark eyes stared back, skin painted black and face hidden with a mask, a smooth skull stitched into the fabric of his cover.

He was a masterpiece in dark garments, handsome and mysterious when he ushered you in, the rumble of his voice making your body tingle, warmth filling your abdomen. He was a quiet man, eyes expressing more than words could, he had a gentle silence to him with tender and guiding hands, herding you to his seance room —or so you thought. There weren’t any tables, only plush cushions and soft-padded chairs in the dimly lit room, shadows dancing on the dark walls when he laid you down, coaxing you to relax under his care.

“I need you to relax,” he whispered, pressing his covered mouth you your forehead, brushing your locks off your sweaty skin, “do you trust me, love?”

You felt light-headed, mind dazed with the warmth and comfort he provided you, you choked down a sob, your voice dying in your throat. So you gave him a small nod, shuddering when his hands grazed up your hips to cradle your cheek, brushing away your stray tear.

“Good, close your eyes for me, yeah?”

Darkness embraced you with soothing calmness as he cradled you in his arms, feeling you up until his hands slipped under your petticoat, his calloused - when had he taken his gloves off? - fingers hooking the band of your lacy underwear. He spread your legs, hanging them over his wide shoulders, his hot breath hitting your sensitive mound. You flinched when he pressed his lips to your covered slit, burying his nose in your thick bush as he drew a calming pattern on your inner thighs.

The fire brewing in your core boiled, strong and coming forth in giant waves. It was unknown, a strange sensation that rocked you whole. He dragged his tongue up your wet hole, circling your blinking cunt and to your twitching clit, lifting the hood to have better access to your sensitive nerve. You shuddered and jerked with every touch, little mewls and whimpers slipping past your painted lips and graced his ears with your pretty sounds.

His tongue was skilled, nimble as he dove into you, pumping your tight cunt with his hot muscle, slurping up your slick and rolling your virgin clit with his thumb, rough and calloused, yet gentle with you. You squirmed and murmured incoherent words, something about it feeling weird, about your body burning and your mind lost to it, but he only coaxed you further, praising you for being so good and compliant for him.

“Good girl, telling me how good you feel,” he panted, diving back into your gummy walls, tongue brushing your softness before he replaced them with his strong and thick finger, plunging into you and hitting your sweet spot, “M name’s Ghost, love. Scream my name, yeah?”

His soft praises and talented fingers had you tipping over, the fire spilling over the edge with a blinding light. You cried out his name - is moniker - with mewls and gasps, arching beneath him and wrapped your legs tightly around his head as you came, gushing around his fingers. He slowly pumped his fingers, tongue lapping and drinking up your slick, gorging on your drooling cunt as if it were the sacred waters of the fountain of youth.

He left you limp and numb, lashes fluttering, peering at him with tired eyes, bathing in the adoring eyes of the spiritualist that made you come with his mouth and fingers alone —something new to you, a stranger in your heart and throbbing core. With his mask pulled over his tongue, mouth and chin still wet with your slick, he mumbled to you, tender words coaxing you to sit up for him.

“Reckon we get started, love?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #mw2 smut #Victorain au #simon x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #ghost simon riley #simon riley smut #simon riley #mw2 ghost #ghost smut #cod smut #tw: dark content #tw: dub con #tw: dubcon #Occult!ghost #Victorian cod au

[uwmspeccoll]

It’s Fine Press Friday! 

Today we’re taking a deep dive into Songs for Gaia, a slim edition of poetry by Gary Snyder (b. 1930). This understated, beautifully-crafted letterpress volume was printed in 1979 for Kah Tai Alliance at Copper Canyon in Port Townsend, WA, a fine press dedicated solely to poetry since its founding in 1972, and was handbound by poet and bookbinder Samuel Green. It features woodblock illustrations by poet and printmaker Michael Corr (b. 1940), who learned his craft while living in Kyoto from block printer and illustrator Takeji Asano (1900-1999). Asano was a notable figure in Japan’s Sōsaku-hanga woodblock printing movement. The book is quarter bound in cloth with a cover marbled in a finely executed combed feather pattern, a touch that lends a hint of psychedelia to its otherwise traditional aesthetics. It was released in a limited edition of 300 copies.   

Snyder, who is popularly known for his time amongst and spiritualist influence on the Beat poets and the counterculture of their generation (along with Kerouac’s portrayal of him as Japhy Ryder in the 1958 novel The Dharma Bums) spent 13 years in Japan (1956-1968) studying Zen Buddhism, forestry, and ecology. A scholar of Asian languages versed in cultural anthropology, he also studied calligraphy with accomplished calligrapher and seal carver Charles Leong during his time at Reed College. Snyder’s calligraphic signature graces the half-title page of this edition.  

This modest yet potent edition of Songs for Gaia is a fitting form for the work of a poet whom writer Bob Steuding once characterized as cultivating an “accessible” style and “a new kind of poetry that is direct, concrete, non-Romantic and ecological.” As Snyder wrote of his own work in A Controversy of Poets, “I try to hold both history and wilderness in mind, that my poems may approach the true measure of things and stand against the unbalance and ignorance of our times.”  

View more Fine Press Friday posts

View more woodblock illustration posts

View more marbling posts (shout out to Alice, our resident marbling expert!)

-Ana, Special Collections Graduate Fieldworker

#Fine Press Friday #fine press fridays #marbling #Gary Snyder #poetry #Copper Canyon Press #Songs for Gaia #Samuel Green #Michael Corr #woodblock illustration #woodblock #letterpress #fine press #feather pattern marbling #UWM Special Collections #handbound book #hand binding #Ana

[idesofrevolution]

The Architect

It was supposed to be my magnum opus. Ravenswood- my last creation and my forever home. For years I had suffered and degraded myself in firms filled with peons who wouldn't know architectural integrity if it hit them on the nose, and when I finally finished that last project, it took all of fifteen minutes for me to type up my resignation and slap it on the boss' desk. I'd gotten the severance I'd worked nearly 31 years for, and had built up the name Drake Astramore to a prominent name in the business. Finally, I was free. Free to create unrestricted by the trivial boundaries set by those beneath me.

Work was slow in the beginning, my modern designs never seemed to convey the right mood or tone which I was seeking. Completely dejected, I resorted to corresponding with a peer of my own caliber who specialized in Eastlake-Tradition Victorian revival: James Lafreniere. The man was perhaps in his late 80's, far past his prime, but I did value his insight purely to help spur some sort of creative spark. He insisted on a large, rambling estate on a large plot just outside the city. He envisioned towers, stained glass, mahogany... some vacuous opulence that did not speak to my taste whatsoever. I was unconvinced, I saw Victorian architecture as tasteless fluff and ornamentation. Though, as old Mr. Lafreniere pushed, I suppose I did cave in quite a bit. His design was based on some sort of "sacred geometry" he'd studied while in Haiti some time ago. The man was a dog with a bone, frantically trying to persuade me into confirming his "spiritualist" idea for the house. The more he pressed, the less I firmly stood my ground. After all, I was happy with the layout he'd drafted and with my final additions and perfections to his concept, I was satisfied.

Thus, on that foggy winters day, a mere week or two since old Lafreniere was dead and buried, the house was nearing completion after nearly 13 months. I was coming in to do a final inspection, specifically confirming the four crystal chandeliers that were to be placed in the ballroom. Reynolds, the contractor I had hired, went radio silent two days prior, and I was eager to give him a modicum of advice on professionalism. As I pulled up to the antique wrought iron gates, I was perturbed to see them still chained tightly with a large padlock. I had no key, and had no response from Reynolds. Just as I prepared to go to the local hardware store to purchase a pair of bolt cutters, I saw a bulldozer slowly meandering up the gravel driveway through the dense fog. Perhaps Reynolds hadn't abandoned me as I'd thought. Exiting the car, I stood behind the iron gates as the machine came to a halt just on the other side. The door opened and instead of the middle aged potbelly which I had hired, a young man with a peculiar look in his eye exited the vehicle and sat on the steps of the machine.

"Who are you?" The young man glibly chided from his perch.

"What the hell do you mean who am I? I am the owner of this property. Who are you?" He sat idly staring me up and down, some flippant smirk forming slowly on his face. He hopped down, his massive rubber boots landing in a puddle, splashing muddy water up and down his clothes.

"Mr. Astramore, I was wondering if I'd ever get to meet you in person." He sauntered over to the gates, unlocking the heavy padlock as the gates creaked open on their own. I hadn't recalled requesting hydraulic automation on the main gate, but I assumed incorrectly that it was part of the system I'd purchased. "The name is Jimmy. Reynolds proved to be... unreliable on the job. So the company sent me as a replacement. I'm surprised you hadn't heard."

"I most certainly have not heard. I should like to have known about staffing changes. He has completely ignored me for days now." The man looked down, chuckling under his breath.

"Yeah. The guy just up and left one day. Never called the company or anything. Just poof. Vanished." Contractors. The bane of every architect. Unreliable thieves, the lot of them. This young man certainly mimicked that aura of untrustworthiness, but as the job was nearly complete, I preferred at the time to simply allow him to finish. "The house is ready for you, sir. Take this, please let me know if you need anything from me, I'll be finishing the landscaping for the raingardens today." He pulled off a two-way radio from his belt, handing it to me. I could smell the putrid scent of hard labor wafting from him as I snatched the muddy radio from his sweaty hands.

"That will be fine, James." I huffed as I got back into my car, beginning the two minute trek up the driveway toward the house. As I passed him, I could see the filthy worker smile at me. There was something off about his presence, though at the time I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Again, I believe it was his eyes. So familiar, as if I'd known them myself for a time. As I left him behind in the dust of the gravel, I promised myself I would launch a complaint against these unprofessional ruffians the moment I could.

After weaving past the carefully planned and restored bayous, the white tower proudly peeked from above the tree canopy. The woodlands cleared and before me stood the massive edifice that was Ravenswood. It was primed white, awaiting the final paint job in dark greens and black which I had demanded. Yet another setback I was not looking forward to enduring. The elaborate trim graced the balconies and verandas which were perfectly calculated to receive the ideal amount of sun and shade during the hot Louisiana summers. Each glazed window was placed to maximize natural light in the house's otherwise dark confines. Perhaps Lafreniere was right- this was my masterpiece.

I put the car in park, and exited the vehicle. I stood and marveled at the house. On paper, it was grand and idyllic. In person, however, it took on a very different aura. Dark clouds and fog seemed to hang around the house, giving it a distinct sense of foreboding which I had not intended. Knowing funds were scarce as is, it was too late to change anything. This was to be my forever home, shortcomings and perfections alike. Pressing against the front doors, I entered the main hall, then aglow from the stained glass window and edison-bulb-illuminated chandelier. Lafreniere assured me that the house would be sufficiently lit, and that no dark corners would find their way into it's winding halls. I was disappointed beyond words to see that it was not the case.

The house seemed to breathe with a cold draft that whipped around the walls, just strong enough to notice, but not enough to disturb. While it was certainly built to my specifications, Ravenswood took on an identity of it's own before my eyes as it stood before me. Grumbling under my breath, I began my inspection.

Room by room, I went about with my clipboard and checklist. Bronze lightplates, check. Mahogany waiscotting, check. Brass and crystal chandeliers, check. From the library to the conservatory, the drawing room to the gallery; each room was just as I designed it, yet it seemed inundated with some indescribable weight which I had anticipated from the beginning. My modern, airy, open concept home which I had originally envisioned slowly simmered into flames before my own eyes. It was magnificent, yes. The house dripped character and ethereal essence from every nook and cranny. But was it an Astramore home? Certainly not.

Looking back, I should have left. I should have tossed the clipboard onto the dark herringbone parquet floors and stomped back to my car- back to the safety and comfort of my car. I should have driven away like a bat out of hell from this place and never returned. Yet, in my arrogance, I believed I could salvage it somehow. Thus, it was in that moment, as I was checking the finials on the grand staircase that I heard it. Groaning. Ever so quiet, yet echoing throughout the cavernous halls. I looked above me, my eyes tracking the noise further and further up the staircase onto the third floor. I assumed that it was emanating from the observatory in the main tower, though how I could have possibly known that I still do not know. I ascended the steps, slowly at first, toward the sound. Every creaking floorboard perturbed me, a new construction shouldn't behave as if it had stood for over a hundred years. This growing rage at the destruction of my vision translated directly into a quickening pace. My body seemingly did the work for me as I climbed faster, eventually skipping steps on my way to the high observatory.

Blinded by anger, I could not see the various shapes and figures which I had blown past on the landings, the dark shadows waiting in the corners and cornices. Every ounce of my being was focused entirely on releasing this pent up aggression, built within myself over decades, on whatever pathetic creature dared to whine within my walls. Arriving on the final landing, I burst through the door with the last of my strength.

The shutters in the observatory were drawn and shut, the unfinished plaster and floorboards were illuminated only by the dull light from the stairwell behind me. There, in the center of the room and crouched like a devious little gremlin was some degenerate young man. Tattoos sprawled across his lean body, and his greasy mop of hair obscured his line of sight. The man shielded his face from the gleaming light, as if burned by it's glow. His pants and shoes were weathered and well worn; scuffed, torn, and stained from what I can only assume was some ill-begotten lifestyle of antisocial youths.

"Get out!" I shouted at the boy, as he cowered on the sawdust-laden floor. His hand slowly retracted from his face, revealing what he was trying to conceal. Upon his inked face were two fully black eyes, which seemed to suck the remnants of light straight out of the room. They were empty, cold, and devious. This thing was not of this world, it was not of God, it was not of nature. I stood there, frozen in place as he stood up, easily a height of over 6 feet tall. My hairs stood on end, as he smiled down at me. I turned to run, but as I did, I was confronted by the grinning visage of Jimmy.

"Going somewhere, Astramore?" His eyes were black as night, just like the creature behind me. I couldn't speak, any word I tried to mutter was caught in my throat and merely exited as gasping utterances. Two icy cold hands slowly wrapped around my gut. I could only let out a whimper as I was sharply pulled back into the room as Jimmy leaned against the doorframe, his arms and ankles crossed comfortably as if nothing was out of place.

Tossed down onto the ground, my extremities pulled in every which direction as if bound by invisible leather straps. My clothes were ripped from my body, leaving me vulnerable and cold in the nude. The thing circled me like a predator observing it's prey. I thrashed against my constraints, spitting insults and threats with the last of my energy. I should have realized the intent of their misdeeds then and there. Blinded yet again, and for the last time by my own rage, I could not see... they were exhausting me. My strength depleted, my nerves shot, I was a mere shell of myself. This was their moment.

The thing stood above me, straddling my bony torso, as he slowly lowered himself atop me. With his cold fingers, nails black and skin dirty, he gripped the bottom of my chin, prying my mouth open. With a momentum far beyond the order of nature, his hand plowed directly into my open maw. It seemed to contract in on itself, as if he were not solid, but rather in a plasmic state of matter. As it squirmed deeper into my throat, the second hand fed itself into the orifice with ease. It felt as if I were drowning, yet could still breathe. It flowed like slime inside of me, pooling into my expanding stomach. I could hear myself gurgling and choking on him as his head squeezed into my mouth, the miasmic odor of unwashed manscent wafting from his acrid form. He slithered his entire form within me, my gut protruding more and more with his writhing shape beneath my stretching skin. As his lower half finally slid past my tongue, I could feel the rough texture of his denim pants scratch against my esophagus, I could taste the sweaty leather of his musky battered sneakers brush on my tongue until the last of the rubber sole slipped into my mouth; disappearing into my body.

Within me, I could feel him breathing. Expanding and contracting from beneath my skin. I could just barely cock my head down enough to see my grotesquely inflated midsection wriggling and pulsating. There was no pain, only tightness and fullness inside. From the doorway, Jimmy had lowered his coveralls down to his boots, pulled his rancid jockstrap to his knees, and was pleasuring himself with manic fervor. Whatever was happening to me was nothing short of pornography for him, he savored every moment with bated breath. Though I had no time to dwell on such displays of vulgarity and immorality. As quickly as the thing had entered me, it began to spread.

I cocked my head toward my arm, as I watched the protruding outline of the thing's hand slowly snake towards my own from under my skin. I could see it's added mass inflate my musculature as it slid effortlessly past my elbow and up my forearm. It's fingers pushed into mine like a hollow latex glove. His stature considerably larger than mine, I could see my entire arm stretch outward, and his own muscles falling into place within mine. In just a few seconds, my arm had grown, large biceps and colorful tattoos seeping up through my dermis until it was unrecognizable. I observed it in horror as I felt my second arm endure the same process, though my gaze was thoroughly cemented at the strong, youthful, virile arm which once was mine.

My legs soon followed suit, my thighs ballooning outward with firm slabs of muscle as the outline of the thing's massive feet barreled down toward my own. Hairs sprung up like weeds across my inflating calves and quadriceps, until I could feel the slimy pressure of his foot sliding into mine. My body again stretched to accommodate his frame, feeling the soles of my massive sweating feet slide across the hardwood floor until it was finally fully in place. My toes wriggled against my will. A stirring in my groin, and my worn hands pawing at my privates signaled his insertion there as well. Every slick sweaty pump of my member seemed to thrust his into mine further and further. It was quickly engorged, thick and dripping with pre as my balls swelled with his thick, unholy seed. The foreskin tightened around my tip, slick and dripping, and there was then only one part of me left that was untouched.

I could feel him pressing up my throat. It's head firmly making it's way up my esophagus, his face protruding from beneath my sweating skin. There was no fight left in me, all I could do was close my eyes and pray that oblivion was not as empty as I had assumed. With the very last of my strength giving way, there was no resistance as it's head shot up into my skull. Everything went dark almost immediately, there was no light, and an atonal ringing in my ears distorted the squelching and cracking noises I could faintly hear as it adjusted my face atop his. Feeling his plasmic form beneath mine, integrating itself into every possible crevice, nook, and space; it was maddening. I felt myself begin to drift away... disconnected from my corporeal tether. The last thing I could see before I finally wasted away into the unknown was my blurred reflection in the mirror, a face no longer my own, merely a shadow of who I once was. I bitterly accepted this fate. I let him have that sweaty, smelly, vulgar body... it was all his. The lights went out, and all was silent.

----

New Orleans Tribune, December 20th, 2022:

Local Architect Declared Dead After Week Long Search Efforts

Recent attempts to locate Drake Astramore (69) of Thibodaux have been called off by New Orleans authorities after a week of searching through the architect's sprawling estate. Neighbors to the gated complex reported faint screams coming from within the mansion, even from a 1/4 mile away, which led investigators to deliver a search warrant to the residence.

Upon arrival, authorities were met with the groundskeeper of the premises, James Lafreniere (25), who explained Astramore had disappeared during a routine inspection of the mansion, which was at the time nearing completion:

"He was only in there for a few hours. I wish I knew what could have happened to the guy. But I am so glad that his son has decided to take up the torch on the house. It wasn't all for nothing, then."

While Astramore had no family to speak of, the few who knew him personally described him as "difficult" and "degrading," often going to far lengths to place himself above others. In fact, a number of former coworkers at architecture firm Guillory, Darensbourg, & Combs alluded to mysterious dealings with an unidentified elderly man during the design phase of his home, described as having a "dark energy" about him. While there is no evidence to support foul play at this time, investigators have not ruled out furthering their analysis into these claims.

As for Ravenswood Estate, it has now fallen into the hands of the missing architect's son, Drake Astramore II (27). A self-proclaimed "spiritualist," the young man plans to give tours of the sprawling mansion dedicated to the mysterious and unusual process of design of Ravenswood. Joining with his partner in business and in life, James Lafreniere, the duo intend on opening a bed and breakfast type model for the horror inclined.

"I didn't know my pop all that much, he never really acknowledged me or anything. But I'm happy to show the world what he created. This place is special, it was designed to be special. There's an magnetism here that gathers together the essences of many, many of the dearly departed. If you don't believe me, come take a look. I'm happy to show you around. I guarantee you'll leave a completely changed person."

#male possession #male transformation #ghost possession #badass transformation #architect #original #gay transformation #gay possession #body horror #musky #punkification #male tf

[critlore]

Apparition is a roleplaying game for 4-5 players, which takes between 2-4 hours to play. As the Spiritualists explore a haunted location, they ‘reveal’ clues to the nature and identity of the haunting. They are in fact defining that haunting through the power of their belief, which the Psyche uses as the Apparition.

All you need to play is a small number of six-sided dice, some scrap paper, and a few buttons.

Apparition is available as PDF at itch.io

Or print at Indie Press Revolution https://www.indiepressrevolution.com/xcart/Apparition.html

#ttrpg #ex stasis games #horror games #horror ttrpg

[c-estmabiologie]

Pretty Box of Evil (Candela Obscura Fic)

I'm already obsessed with Arlo Black, so here's a teeny-tiny character study that I'm sure I'm going to have to rewrite in a month.

Also on AO3

You get used to the bleed. That was what the professor had told her the first time. Arlo sat at her vanity, remembering. She stared into the mirror, at her room reflected behind her. Her gaze didn’t land anywhere in particular, just floated among the comfort of everything that was hers: leather-bound books with foxed pages, pinned beetles and butterflies in frames, and meticulously dusted bell jars. You get used to the bleed, he’d said, after she had touched something that she shouldn’t have touched, because she was always touching what she shouldn’t, and the pain had been exquisite and bright with cold. The professor had pulled her hand back too late, like he had wanted her to learn what it could feel like. (That was his fault.)

Even now, Arlo wouldn’t say that she was used to the bleed, but it had become familiar. It never stopped crawling around and flapping at the edges of her vision like black butterflies come alive and unpinned. She’d had to learn to turn her head to see anything beside her. It was a constant susurrus under conversation, so she’d learned to listen more carefully. Sometimes it made simple tasks take twice as long as they used to, and made her twice as tired, but she didn’t mind if it meant she might understand it. She didn’t understand it yet. 

Maybe it was because she was thinking of it that the bleed began to overwhelm her. Her face in the mirror blurred and darkened, and then disappeared completely as if she’d closed her eyes. She replaced her comb on the vanity by touch and folded her hands in her lap. She would wait it out. Times like these never lasted too long. 

No, she wouldn’t say that she was used to the bleed, and she still didn’t know it well. But she was desperate to know it. Arlo couldn’t help herself. She wanted to understand the bleed with her hands. She wanted to let it in. She was so excited to touch the flame of it and snuff it out that she often forgot to lick her fingers first. (This fault was all her own.)

After a moment, the bleed scurried away, and Arlo saw herself reflected again. The candlelight was just bright enough to show that her face had become pale and colourless. She pressed her lips together to bring the blood back. Just a young woman like any other. Pretty, a little distracted perhaps, but that could be overlooked because she was pretty. There was nothing to otherwise mark her as peculiar except that she only wore one glove, but that was another affectation that could be overlooked. Arlo had no illusions about her advantages. She pulled her hair back from her face before her sight could fail her again. The bleed seemed particularly active tonight. Just as well that her Circle planned to meet within the hour.

She’d begun her studies thinking she’d make a career as a spiritualist — she hadn’t really known the difference between spiritualism and occultism. She’d just known that people listened even when she spoke softly, especially when she spoke softly, and that making people listen (and listening to them in turn) might make for a way to spend the time that her father would disapprove of only slightly less than her current endeavours. She recalled how she’d practiced her penmanship for hours in case it was her calling to become an automatic writer, filling tomes with loops and flourishes. Her script would be fluid no matter who or what guided her hand. Or how she’d thought that maybe she’d translate rappings on tabletops and read into the tiny flutters of eyelids and muscle twitches of her hopeful audience. She’d always been good at that, reading people. Everything else about people still eluded her somewhat, but she liked the idea of helping them.

She had joined Candela to be helpful. The professor had helped her see that she had a knack for seeing things that others couldn’t. That spirits were drawn to her in ways that made rappings and automatic writing seem like play. He’d encouraged her to embrace the visions that they granted, and with practice and study and more than a little abandon she’d helped so many people with her first Circle.

But the professor was quicker now to throw his hand in front of her, to speak a word of warning, to touch her wrist and stay her hand. He’d grown wary and protective after—

They both knew that he couldn’t stop her every time or they would never learn enough to keep their places within their Circle. (Whose fault was this, in the end?)

The professor used to call her Pandora. It was supposed to have been funny, a nickname to pick at the scab of her curiosity for every darkness hidden in the world, not really taking the danger of it seriously. He’d stopped using the nickname almost a year ago. She wished he hadn’t stopped. Arlo liked the idea that if someone would find hope buried beneath so much awful it would be her. But she knew he blamed himself for what had happened. He’d never admit that he oughtn’t be responsible for his student’s actions. She wasn’t a child, after all, and hadn’t been a child then. She’d done what she’d done out of the fascination for the occult that he had nurtured in her, but that was as far as his responsibility could extend. That people had died…well, that was just something that happened when the bleed was involved. Candela only knew what she and the professor had chosen to tell.

Arlo pulled the glove off of her right hand and examined the corrupted skin and graveyard fingernails. She ran a finger across her palm — heart line, head line, life — and up her wrist. It felt like nothing. It was never short of bizarre to see her hand, know it was hers, touch it and use it, but not be able to feel it as part of her body anymore. She knew not to hope that it would ever be a part of her again; she could just hope that she wouldn’t lose more of herself. 

A gentle knock on her door let her know that her carriage was waiting.

“I will be down in a moment,” she called out. She rose to find her coat.

With one last look in the mirror, she reached over with her dead hand and snuffed her candle out. The skin on her fingers didn’t blister anymore, but neither did they feel the sting of the flame. It was still so curious. Arlo sighed as she slipped on her glove and left the darkness of her room.

#Candela Obscura #Candela Obscura spoilers #Arlo Black #new scrunglie time for sure #the way I'd wanted to fill this text with a thousand ellipses but that would have made it unreadable

[trulybetty]

oct' x 30 - seance (2/2)

Prompt: seance Pairing: dieter x bryony (ofc) Word Count: 628 Warnings: un-beta'd is the name of the game, alot of domestic fluff, mention of a ouija board Summary: dieter does some unconventional shopping for a forthcoming arrival

A/N: I had two ideas for today's prompt and couldn't choose between the two, so you get both! 🙌

x. masterlist

The sound of Dieter's boundless energy startled Bryony awake as he entered the bedroom. He dropped himself onto the end of the bed with enthusiasm that Bryony couldn't fathom possessing so early in the morning.

“Eurgh, Dieter.” Bryony groaned from under the heavy duvet, “it’s too early, don’t you have a yoga class to be in?”

“Daff,” he checked his watch, “I’ve been back from there for an hour now.”

Another groan of annoyance came from Bryony, muffled by the overstuffed pillows she hid her face in.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Dieter kicked off his sneakers and crawled up the bed to lay atop the covers next to Bryony, the only part of her visible being the crown of her head and mussed hair from sleep.

“What was that?” Bryony asked, the blankets muffling Dieter’s voice to her ears.

He pulled back the blanket, revealing her less than amused face, “I said I bought something.”

Dieter buying something was not usually cause for concern, what was concerning was the grin on his face and the padded envelope he was ripping open.

“What did you buy?” Bryony asked cautiously.

Instead of answering, Dieter pulled out a wooden board from the envelope; the sight of it alone was enough to produce a fit of laughter from him which only proved to add to Bryony’s concern.

“What did you buy?” she asked again, her brow furrowed framing her face in a picture of annoyance before even finding out what it was.

Dieter flipped the wooden board, revealing a bright yellow facade with brightly coloured wooden alphabet pieces slotted in two rows underlined by a line of numbers one through ten.

“A baby's first Ouija board? Really?” Bryony said sardonically as she looked from the board to Dieter's laughing eyes.

He snorted, trying to contain his laughter. “Come on! I thought it was hilarious. And cute! Look at the little ghost on the top corner!”

She stared at the board and then back at him, one brow arched high. “Dieter, do you think I'm having Rosemary's Baby?”

Dieter grinned, placing the board on the nightstand. “Well, who knows? I mean, they are fifty percent my genes. Pretty sure I have a great-grandmother somewhere who was a spiritualist.”

Despite her exasperation, Bryony couldn't help but chuckle at his antics. She reached out, giving his hand a squeeze. “You really are something, Bravo.”

He winked at her. “That's why you love me. Anyway just imagine the look on people's faces when they see Baby Bravo playing with it.”

Bryony rolled her eyes. “My mother will have a fit.”

Dieter pulled the duvet down further, revealing Bryony’s swollen stomach under one of Dieter’s shirts she’d long made her own.

“And that,” Dieter said, leaning in closer to her, his hand travelling the swell of her stomach, “will be worth the price of paying for overnight express shipping.”

As his hand rested on her belly, he felt a strong kick against his palm. Dieter's eyes widened in delight. “Whoa! Someone's got my reflexes!”

Bryony laughed, her hand joining his on her belly. “Yeah, and apparently, my patience too. Can't blame them for reacting to your antics.”

Before Bryony could react, Dieter had pressed his ear to her stomach, humming softly. He paused for a moment, a mock-concentrated look on his face.

“What are you doing?” Bryony giggled.

“Shhh,” he whispered theatrically, “We’re communicating.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, is the baby saying to you?”

Dieter looked up at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “They're saying not to cross out any of the names on Daddy's list. Especially the top one.”

Bryony groaned as she pulled the duvet back over her head, “Not happening Bravo, not in your wildest dreams.”

#october x 500 #autumnal offerings #dieter x bryony #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x oc #pedro pascal character fanfiction

[creature-wizard]

Hi there, “?” Here.

TL:DR, spent a few years after being a lifelong skeptic talking to “spiritualists” of a whole bunch of backgrounds and belief systems because I just kinda tend to like them more, usually told that I was some sort of “starseed” or “new soul” type deal and just kind of believing it because I didn’t really know what else to do. Followed up on an existing feeling of just general disenfranchisement with these beliefs until I eventually went full circle into not believing in much of anything at all, and recently some kind of switch flipped in me. Apathy turned to something I can’t really identify, and almost overnight things have started to look up in quite frankly unusual ways. Within a week I applied, interviewed, and was hired for a job that I would’ve been unable to get with years of trying mere months ago, and my general relationships with the world and the people around me are exponentially better. The progression feels a bit like (for lack of better terms) “mirror>glass>black hole>empty>?”. The point is, for the first time in my life I feel not just like myself but like a small piece of driftwood that I can take with me wherever I go, way better in comparison to this feeling of drowning that I’ve experienced and seen mirrored in those around me. As much as I’d like to begin a practice because I’ve always felt drawn to the general concept of spirituality, I’m hard pressed to look around for it given the initial experiences I had with the pseudo-scientific minefield I initially saw. Additionally, the entire time I was doing this, it kind of felt like there was another hand on the wheel. People around me would tell me it was various deities depending on the situation it was “guiding” me through, and each time I’d believe it and my experiences would begin to mirror that. Eventually I started to see it as formless, and now it feels like my own and not my own at the same time. My general experience feels more like a wordless dialogue than anything else, and I’m kinda digging it? I guess what I’m really asking is, as the kind of person who seems to have a generally well-rounded and substantiated understanding of, for lack of a better term “metaphysics”, in your honest opinion, what gives?

Heck if I know, but Become One With The Mysterious Mystical Forces is an approach that slaps, IMO.

#answered #magic #spirituality

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Gabriel von Max - In memoriam, 1892.

Gabriel von Max, who the Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus in Munich honoured with a comprehensive retrospective exhibition with a brilliant catalogue in 2010/11, is today mainly known for his brilliantly painted depictions of monkeys. However in his own time he was also famed for his historic and figural paintings with literary, christian or spiritualist motifs, the public viewings of which often caused traffic jams near his studio in Munich (cf. exhib. cat. Gabriel von Max, p. 158). Gabriel von Max used a variety of different painting techniques in his works in order to achieve everything from a porcelain-smooth surface to textured structures using fabric pressed into the paintings. The present work shows a young woman standing by a stele with the inscription "In Memoriam", and displays all the characteristics that made this artist a "star" among painters: Strong contrasts between dark and light; unusually pale flesh tones; large, dark-shadowed eyes and a skilfull use of numerous shades of white. According to Friedrich von Boetticher, whose standard work "Malerwerke des Neunzehnten Jahrhunderts" was published around the time the painting was made, states that von Max donated the work to the city of Hamburg to help the town's destitute. (Text source)

#Gabriel von Max #In memoriam #sadness #melancholy

[etymologyofmind]

Litany

Stone was a universal conductor of faith. Regardless of where one went, whose beliefs were being explored, what struggle between which factors was in play, faith gained permanence among the faithful when its images were gravened not only on the hearts, minds, and spirits of the faithful, but hewn into the stones on which they plied worship. Great pantheons ran the gamut from fragile clay dolls made of dried mud or roughly cracked rocks, bristling with natural geodesic beauty, to opulent carvings in details which may be precise or esoteric, specific or interpretive, depending on the faith, the faithful, and the era in which these images were evoked. Across the stars, temples were etched out of mountainsides, driven into plateaus, or raised from plains on the sturdiness that was the bones of a homeworld, and into their structure was poured the meaning, the feeling, the love, the hate, the doctrine and the demands of those who interpreted the words of their spiritual forces.

Bajor was no different, and yet, as with every temple of every faith Ren Sogra had visited in her pilgrimage, they were beautifully unique, original, and imbued with the spiritual energy of an enlightenment specific to the Bajoran people. Despite, perhaps even in spite, of the generation spent trying to crush it under heel, the spirit of this world and its people thrummed through the culture, its places, its practices, and its people, and Ren had known when she arrived, having been granted a petition to visit one of their holiest sites, that she would never forget the experience.

Far to the north, deep in the heart of the Lonar province, a mountain range older than life on Bajor had been aging gracefully into the subtle yet treacherous hills and valleys of the Tahali Expanse. Where much of wealth of the world, whether it had been agricultural or mineral or biological in nature, had been exploited during the occupation, Tahali had remained mostly unexplored, unaddressed, and unmanaged due to its harshness, its remoteness, and its relative lack of defining features; there was simply too much else on this wealthy world for pirates to plunder without resolving to dig into its ancient rocks. The few forays into the caves and settlements of the wilder nomads of the north which the Cardassians bothered to launch were so unproductive and expensive that they simply opted to leave their inhabitants to their own devices for the most part, resolving to claim them when the time came. As such, some of the most venerated temples of ancient Bajor had survived here, largely unscathed, while the rest struggled to endure the pressures of an alien invasion.

There was no Orb here; most who petitioned Bajor’s ministry of Culture for access seemed to want to speak to the Prophets themselves, and most were rebuffed. Few and far between were the pilgrims and spiritualists who were granted leave by the keepers to see an Orb, and most who asked did not know that their petition alone was what disqualified them. Were they meant to face the Prophets, they would, and one could seek their answers on any corner of any street, at any hearth, within any home. Some wanted to see the newly restored high temples, and that was often indulged, as it was a perk of the public work that brought fresh interest and trade to many city centers, and a respectful visit to a Bajoran holy site was most often welcomed. Many tourist traps drew the curious, and many mysteries drew the inquisitive, but there were some, like Ren, whose pursuit of faith held other goals, and sought other insights, and when she had asked leave to visit this particular site, it has taken some time to see her request approved, if only because very few even among the Bajoran people knew of this temple, or its works.

And so, kneeling on the stone of one of Bajor’s most ancient temples, nestled deep in the countryside of one of the most scarcely populated provinces, she pressed her forehead to the ancient cobbles and let tears flow freely from her eyes into the cracks between as she steeped in the meaning of this place. Beyond the vaulted balustrade of windswept rock, glittering with inclusions which had been hidden when they were first carved, but that had been exposed by the endless wind, the sun hung in a perpetual twilight for much of the year as the planet’s orbit lengthened days into weeks, and a dusting of snow over the smooth, craggy, glacial mountains lit many of the valleys with an inherited glow as it channeled daylight through crystalline icepack. Often during this season, meteor showers replete with rich minerals cast off from the astronomically local Badlands would drift through the atmosphere, streaking sharp lines of bright light through the playfully dancing borealis which many said had grown in frequency and resplendence since the Temple of the Prophets had been opened to pilgrims. Taken together with the subtle light of hooded sconces which lined prayer halls like the one Ren had been led in to, wandering bands of light played across the exposed stone in a hypnotic flow that many who had witnessed it credited with visions, vivid dreams, and creative inspiration.

Ren Sogra had been at the temple for three standard days. The monks had allowed her to bed in the commons with the acolytes, of which there were only two. That there was a tradition of bedding acolytes in the commons spoke of a time when the temple was vivid with life among those who honoured the dead, but the path from the commons to the galleries passed many empty cells, beds unmade, waiting a monk to fill them; clearly this place had seen better days.

On her first night, Ren had been shown a tour of the parts of the temple allowed to the uninitiated, and on the second, after an evening repast which had been wonderful, rich with conversation with the monks, the scribes, and the acolytes, including the ancient Vedek whose post it was to speak for the Prophets here, she had evidently shown her respect for Bajoran religion well enough to be treated as an honorary acolyte herself, though it had been an endeavor to permit the Vedek to sense her Pagh, given the constraints of her own religious trappings. Ultimately it had been permissible only because the ancient man was, and had always been, blind.

On her second night, having spent the day cleaning cells and preparing a meal, being shown how to treat the various ingredients for the palatability of the monks and the observation of rights of gratitude, she had been able to inquire more specific details from those she had been allowed to watch work. Specifically, she had made the potential gaffe of asking what exactly it was they were scrawling on the walls, as at the time she did not yet know. The gallery had fallen silent, and each member of the temple had descended quietly into personal prayer for the rest of the evening, foregoing their meals. Ren had been at a loss, realizing she must have committed some awful taboo, and was surprised when a child she had not known to live among the monks had tugged at her elbow and led her from the room.

She had been led, over the course of a silent hour, on a path through the temple she was certain she was not meant to be shown. In that time, they saw not another soul, and her guide said not a word. Ren took the chance to observe them while they clambered about, walking through dark tunnels at times, stepping over fallen masonry at others, and at one point even climbing to another, higher floor along the jagged face of a broken wall: always the paths led upward. Throughout, she could not discern if her guide was a boy or a girl, a late child or an early teen, just that they had been barefoot long enough and taken enough rough roads that the soles of their feet and palms of their hands were roughly calloused and even flecked with the glittering fragments of monastic stone, and that the simple white shift they wore had been tattered from overlong wear. The family earring they wore bore no sigil or crest, and its chain was woven thread, which to the Mizarian pastor’s learnings suggested that they were both forsaken and an orphan.

When, finally, they reached the room where she was being led, Ren found herself looking down on a courtyard atrium somewhere deep within the temple. The window she looked out from was so high up the wall that she doubted anyone below could hear her if she spoke unless she shouted, but her sharp eyesight showed her a number of monks moving about from station to station, collecting information from machines and equipment as they went. The centerpiece of the courtyard was a subspace communication array of relatively modern complexity, seemingly based on Cardassian technology, but recently modified and upgraded with Star Fleet equipment. While she looked, a sound behind her startled her out of her observations, and she spun to find its source: an ancient Bajoran, older even than the Vedek, sitting on a stone shelf in the corner and huddled as an undefined humanoid mass in a pile of ancient grey tattered robes. They muttered something again, still too quiet to be discernible, and Ren began to pace, cautiously, closer to them in order to hear what was being said.

“They say ‘This is where we listen for the names of the dead, this is where we pen their names into the scrolls. This is where those who have lost faith must come to know of our people’s passing.’” Came a voice from the stairwell she had recently vacated to enter this room. Ren’s eyes darted to that side, trying to keep the ancient figure in her line of sight at the same time, and failing: the room was unlit, save for the warbling light of the aurora above, and the brightness of the two moons that lit up the dim twilight. In the door a figure leaned, wearing a similar shift to the young guide, who had also disappeared somewhere out of sight, though much more tattered. Like the elder and the younger, the figure in the door was of undiscernible gender, androgynous in the dim light.

The newcomer stepped into the room, barefoot and pale, save for the black skin on hand and foot, rugged with wear and dirt and glittering with grit. They walked in a languid stride to the half-wall which blocked the room off from the courtyard beyond, and leaned over to look down. “The monks below do the good work of the Prophets, and listen for the names of the dead, as they always have here. An array of networked broadcast towers across Bajor and satellites in orbit, repeaters studded into colonial worlds and so on, listen for data worthless to all but the most meticulous of spies: whether or not a child of Bajor yet lives, or has died. Rarely is this information pertinent to any but they here who listen, and even rarer still is it heard by anyone else.”

The newcomer touched something against a wall, and there was a click of a switch. A moment later, a holographic projector hummed to life from somewhere in the wall, and an interface Ren was totally unfamiliar with flickered to being. A few gestures and taps went by, and a dim translucent display filled much of the open window space, displaying signal bands from radio to subspace, all producing an unfathomable cacophonous static. Her new guide straightened their back, began tapping at the keys on the interface in a steady pattern, as if playing music, and mathematical equations spilled into the milling frequencies, cancelling out some bands, enhancing others, and synchronizing an underlying message fabric which would have been absolutely impossible to isolate without knowing exactly what had been done to do so. The language on the display was some form of Bajoran Ren had never seen before, but as she watched, it distorted and flickered, resolving into modern Bajoran, which she could read well.

Before her was a litany of names, and it was being added to as the moments passed in a steady stream. “This is what we hear, here. This is all we receive. All else is irrelevant. These are the names of the Children of Bajor, whether they be of our blood or of our spirit, and we hear them in their release. Below, the monks gather them like lost children, holding their names in cradles, waiting to be tended, and when the time comes the scribes pen them to pages of vellum for the monks to etch into the stone of Bajor’s bones. It has been thus since the first name, it will be thus until the last.”

They gestured at the screen, and the litany of names scattered, shattering as the virtual display broke, motes of light drifting into the receiver array below. There was a flurry of movement, and the monks general chatter rattled wordlessly up the walls, past their alcove, and into the night. Behind her, she heard the murmur of the Elder, and turned to listen instinctively, but again, it was uninterpretable. Beside her in a place they could not have crossed to without moving in front of her, the new guide translated, and she had to turn away from the Elder to see the guide.

“The Elder believes people should not need these trinkets and toys to hear the dead, and that there should be enough listening to receive and imbue all the names. The Elder is set in their ways, and dreams of a better time for Bajor. We have lost so much, pilgrim, and so quickly: our people have been staggered, our culture shocked, our ways challenged and trampled, our lives forfeit to a great, dark travesty. It was foretold, and yet our people did not attend the warning, as we knew they would not, as it would not be foretold very well if it didn’t come to be. Prophecies are tricky things unless they come to pass.” A rueful look passed across their face, happy, and yet sad. “And your prophecy is as bright as the sun, and darkest before the Dawn. We cannot tell you what will pass, only that you will do what is meant to be done. We will hold a place for your name here.”

Ren tried to speak, but found that she could not, her voice lost, the words missing. She brought a hand to her lips, mind reeling at what was going on around her, and could do little more than gesture in silence, a common sign for the deaf which meant, on Bajor, ‘Thank You’. It was all she could think to do. The guide smiled, and then went on.

“Yes, you are welcome, Pilgrim. This is not a place, nor a time, for voices. Like the child, you are silent, as you do not yet know your voice. When the time comes, you will be loud and clear, and use your voice to guide those in need, and after, as the Elder, you will fade to a murmur, important but past your time. This is the way of the Pagh for you: this is your prophecy.” At her elbow, she felt a tug, and looked down. The child had returned, and to her surprise there was no one beyond them, the place where the Elder had sat, looking as though they had never moved from it was occupied by a wisp of long rotted cloth. The child took her hand, and pulled her towards the stairs, and she knew she was not meant to look back. The guide’s voice followed her down the stair well as she descended.

“Know, Pilgrim, that the litany of names is long, and the dead are deep and waiting. The Scribes write names of those who died in the earliest atrocities of the war that preceded the occupation, when our people first began to be culled by the Cardassians who found them, peaceful and wanting for nothing. Know that the names the monks have heard here, and have yet to etch, are nearly half as numbered as all the names that have been written before, and growing: more have fallen since the dawn of the occupation than fell in the two great wars before the skies opened to the Children. By the time the litany ends, the Cardassians will be forgotten foes, and the mountains will be dust in the skies, as Bajor will persevere. But now is a hard time, and there is a need of those who will listen. Before you go to the Prophets, it is our wish that you should speak of the litany on the dais at the high temple: you will be heard there, and marked, even if you are not welcomed. Those who listen will come, even as you are asked to go elsewhere. When that time comes, follow the man with the bladeless hilt: he will take you where you are most needed.”

As they hurried through the darkness, the guide’s voice did not fade or grow distant, as if they were at her shoulder the whole way. At first, the child led her on a path she remembered climbing to reach the tower, but soon among the hurried twists and turns and slips and falls, she had lost her way, and the light which crawled mesmerically throughout the temple began to fog her mind, tire her eyes, and weigh down her heart. At some point, the world faded out, and she woke with a start, sitting back at the table where she had taken her meal with the monks earlier that evening, her place still set, food half eaten, room cleared and cleaned around her. The only other occupant was the Vedek, who sat in silence, waiting, eyes blindly drifting with his slow thoughts. When she moved, he gave her a sad smile.

“You have your answer, then. Tomorrow, you may pray. Your journey is yet long.”

The next morning, she found herself kneeling in the gallery she had been given for prayer, overwhelmed by what she had learned. Everywhere she looked there were names carved into the iridising stone, and only the explanation of the service which the Vedek had given to her kept them from clawing at her heart like hungry ghosts.

At the edges of the room, swept into the grooves of shallow channels on the inward side of the railings, heaps of rock chips sat waiting for gusts of wind. Each ‘morning’, a number of monks of the temple would walk along the edges of the prayer vaults, carefully sweeping more stone dust into these tracks, speaking blessings and saying prayers as they swung censers filled with holy smoke over them, sprinkling flower petals steeped in holy wine into the tracks; Each day at mid day, they would gather together and pray over the scrolls which their eldest priests had inscribed over the days and weeks before, collecting their lots; Each afternoon they would take their lists into the prayer halls, tools of inscription blessed by prayers to the Prophets in hand, and set to work reverently chipping names of those who had died as children of Bajor into the ancient stone walls; Each night the leavings of these names would sit in the shadows of the walls, their last material remains lingering for a few scant hours on the floor of the temple where their spirit might find their strength for the journey ahead.

The gathered remains would blow away in gusts and clouds over the following months, days, and years, each in their own time, blown out across the Bajoran skies to resettle into mother soil, or to soar high into the sky, perhaps to join the Prophets in their temple. In some of these galleries the dust tracks had not fully cleared in the memory of the temple, while others were purged by seasonal storms which gusted through with such ferocity that the monks would hang tapestries across the gallery entry to keep the scouring wind from damaging names many centuries old.

It was rumored, the Vedek had said, that there were places within the temple, hidden from even the faintest breeze, where certain names were inscribed by dark-spirited monks, with the hope that they would never continue their journey, their Paghs doomed to linger in untidy piles at the edges of the walls, unceremoniously sifting among the most abject of Bajor’s villains and heretics until they were reclaimed by the fire under the mountains at the end of times. She did not know if this was true, but if it were, it was occult against the principles of this place, and would certainly be heresy to any of the monks who truly believed in their work. The longer she thought of it, the more she wondered if its existence were only a rumour, or more prophecy, waiting to play its role.

All Ren knew was that when the stones beneath her brow were finally quenched by her tears, she would rise and go back to the high temple, as she had been asked to do: it had been part of her itinerary to speak there as part of a spiritualist conference anyhow, though the talk she had planned to deliver on Bajoran worship off of their homeworld would be replaced without prior approval. She already knew it would spoil her welcome, but the living would have every chance to chart their own paths after she’d had her say: it was the dead who needed her voice, to plea for those who would listen, and poor was the prophecy that did not come to pass.

[female-malice]

Have we wandered so far from the source that we cannot return? Will climate crisis isolate us even more in our cities as nature becomes more unpredictable? As we try to use our science, our computers, to save us? Or is the doorway to return nearer than we know, just as in that moment when we awake and our dreams are still present, before they are lost with the daylight? What would it mean to return to this numinous land, alive in ways we no longer understand, where the Earth can speak to us in its many voices? Or more vital, can we transition through this present self-created crisis without this inner and outer knowing, without this awareness that was central to so much of our human journey?

It is easy to dismiss the magical world as just a fairy tale belonging to childhood or old tales, to maintain that what we need at this moment more than ever is hard science, that carbon reduction and loss of biodiversity are our most pressing concerns. And yes, there is important work to be done reducing our industrial imprint, restoring wetlands and wild places. But if we do not remove the rational blinkers from our consciousness, how can we respond to the deeper need of the moment and recognize that we are part of a fully animate world? If we are to become partners with the Earth, living our shared journey, we have to once again speak the same language, listen with our senses attuned not just to the physical world but also to its inner dimension. We cannot afford to continue to dismiss so much of our heritage—the thousands of years we were awake to an environment both seen and unseen.

–

This is an interesting essay. As with all things, I think the best conclusion is balance.

Science alone can't save us. We can produce detailed data analysis of our own destruction and still race to meet it.

A spiritual awakening is not enough to save us either. There was a huge spiritual awakening environmental movement in the 70s and 80s. And what did they accomplish? Well, they started some free love cults and left litter in the woods.

Pitting Earth science and spiritual awakening against each other is extremely unproductive.

Instead, we need to recognize that these are not opposites. Empirical rational fact and spiritual emotional connection are not opposites. The physical plane and the spiritual plane are not separate. They are one and the same. We dream in the physical plane. We're awake in the spiritual plane. Our mind and body are one. Spiritualists who dream of metaphysical connection need scientific tools. And scientists who study doom and destruction all day need spiritual support.

#cc

[mysteriouslyluckyblizzard]

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[gabrieljackson]

Terry Hurley and Benard Herring, The truth and the acceptance of early morning spiritualist and libralist conformity for addiction. 12:08 AM

People of all socio-economic levels for ethnicities. 

About addiction and the English Mountain addiction and disease were choices words of choice. Although scientific research has developed decrease in the stigma surrounding addiction and drug. Use people continue to debate and what causes addiction and how it is best treated. Organizations common debated points, many medical and psychiatric organizations such as the American Medical Association for the American Press and psychological associations of the mental health field is a World Health Organization that agrees that addiction is a disease specifically chronic brain disorders, these addictions and studies. As for research, show that when one person abuses becomes addicted to a drug the changes occur in the brain, circuitry the changes cause self-destructive harmful behaviors of long-term side effects. While most people in initial choice to choose to drink, or try to use a drug, they can all too easily become easy become physically, independent 

The drug hijacks, the brain and makes it extremely difficult to stop using without a professional or mental health therapy. There are recovery programs such as Community Rehabilitation Center in addiction therapy tours for admissions committee of most people addicted to illegal drugs to be incarcerated because they have broken the law. Most people feel anyone person to overcome addiction other. Most people feel that the court order addiction treatment is the best way to deal with the problem. 

Does the person have to hit rock bottom before they can get well question? 

Indeed the studies showing that those who receive treatment with more motivated to change behavior and experience fewer social problems. Five commonly debated questions about addiction on the English Mountain, the longer person waits to get the treatment, the sicker he becomes. Hitting rock bottom occurs when one person suffers horrible consequences of addiction. For example, they may lose their jobs, their families or their home or overdose would get arrested or get into an accident. The damage caused to be in repairable. Each of these events May Be Rock Bottom for someone. They can also be life-threatening or traumatic Does do in best treatment to be recognized by the problem, they want to change. 

For substance abuse and disorders mean that they are. Weak question. 

Despite the evidence is contrary that most people still are outdated and addiction is a moral failing, believe that addiction is the only problem for homeless criminals are low income families, or medical problems turning to your neighbor. 

Question. 

Sober, Living homes have been a center for controversy for many years. If a loved one struggles with addiction or drugs, or alcohol, help is available. Some people believe it's over living homes will be bad for the neighborhood. To provide a safe place for people to transition from treatment centers and back into society. 

They do not want those people living near them but Sober Living homes are for people who are such a part of recovery process. 

If you or a loved one struggles with addiction, or drugs and alcohol, help is available the English Mountain Recovery Center located in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee is a medical therapeutic professional to help you and travels and road to recovery or Community Rehabilitation Center in North Side, Jacksonville and patients with addiction treatment and Tennessee. And in Jacksonville, Florida, learn more about programs offer to the Village Mountain recovery. 

The author Terry Hurley is a retired educational professional. In English mountain is commonly debated for questions about addiction, problems and drinking and sober living. 

The addiction. The ten, most common addictions are questions part of the complete guide to understanding the addition is how come common is the drug addiction? 

How do I know if someone is addicted to drugs? What is the difference between drug addiction and drug abuse? 

Is addiction hereditary. 

What is the diction treatment? 

What is the detoxification? Or a detox? What is the withdrawal? How long does it last? Why can't drug addicts? Quit on their own question. 

Cases the use the bills approach to Alcohol Anonymous the Preamble and the 12-step recovery programs to help this four main treatment you get into substance abuse counseling and get answers from questions answers today. 

Lack basic, The topic which is not often discussed for the people lack basic understanding of how it works. A list of most common addiction problems and can overview that the addiction is some way of affecting your world today. The most important question is about the addiction to drug addiction question. 

Drug addiction is a complex brain disease characterized by drug craving seeking and can usually persistent even face, extremely negative consequences drug-seeking, Behavior become compulsive large as a result of effects of problem of drug use on brain functioning and less on Behavior. For many people relapse of possible or even for a long periods of abstinence. 

How common is drug addiction. 

Unfortunately, drug addiction is starting to come in the United States and is an upward Trend in 2017, 38 percent of adults battle, the addiction of legal drugs, according to the National survey of drug use and health nsduh, 

If you know somebody that's been addicted to drugs, can you help them? This is one of the most common questions about addiction. A person is compulsive seeking and using drugs, despite negative consequences, such as loss of job that physical problems brought on by drug abuse. Family problems. Then he issues. Probably addicted. Seek professional help to determine that. This is the case and is so appropriate to seek treatment. 

Are you or your loved ones addicted and suffering from a mental health crisis? Related comment addiction questions. Most common drugs drugs can affect the brain hard and soft drugs women in addiction. It is Miss micro dosing. Question is mixing, drugs and alcohol and stimulants is for breaking the addiction cycle. Drugs paraphernalia eyes on drugs. What is Mike reducing drugs uses during pregnancy to buy drugs, online, seven stages addiction to anger and addiction white-knuckling, and sobriety and Gabapentin addiction. 

The difference between drug addiction and drug abuse is the easiest way of defining drug abuse and obsessing, that one person uses drugs. Something for the medically, prescribed for that prescribed purpose, this is the have of taking a drug to get high or feel better. To take more, prescribed amount to take the drugs. For recreation, some drugs are used for recreation may not be used for prescription meds. 

Over the county. They can be common everyday chemicals for example, people in Hell glue or solvents to get high, who want to have a good mood, or a change to make them feel good, Professional drug counselors for tell you that any use of illegal drugs is drug abuse. Those drugs are illegal because they are potentially very addictive and harmful to a person's house that broadens. Our definition of drug use, he even more therefore, any illegal drug use or any use of prescription or non-prescription medications because beyond that prescribed medical professionals use a chemical high or possibly a drug abuse. Almost any substance can be abused in addiction is possible. Cigarettes and caffeine other common legal substances, our ABS, our people everyday. Sometimes the line between abuse is fuzzy For example, people might go to the bar after work and get a couple drinks with their friends is that abuse, some might argue that it becomes abuse when the incomes regular daily occurrence, 

To me, cigarettes too much coffee. Too many diet sodas the line is determined by the person also reactive in this Behavior. 

The addiction is hereditary. There's plenty of evidence in connection between genetic endowment and addiction to alcohol and drugs by analyzing patterns of inheritance. Researchers have found and learned that the heredity accounts for about half of the risk of that person to develop an addiction. Now, the factors to increase the risk of developing addiction include environmental factors traumatic experiences and mental health issues the drug addiction or treatment for many active, drugs and treatment for specific drug use different from treatment for also varies depending on characteristics from that patient, a variety of scientifically based approaches to drug addiction treatment exists. Treatments include behavioral therapy such as counseling cognitive therapy and Psychotherapy treatments also occur in a variety of settings. The best programs provide combination which are shaped in issues of age Rach, cultural sexual orientation, gender gender pregnancy, priority housing employment, and physical sexual abuse. 

Treatment can occur in a variety of settings. In many different forms for different lengths of time. His drug addiction, is typically a chronic disorder characterized by occasional relapse. A short-term one time treatment often is not sufficient for many treatment as long-term process of Paul's multiple interventions. And attempts at abstinence 

Rid itself from drums, while managing the symptoms is a called a withdrawal. Is often the first step of a drug treatment program, that should be followed and treatment for Behavioral based therapy and for medication. If available detox alone, with no fall up is not treatment. 

The withdrawal question. How long does it last? 

Use of systems that are curved use of some addict, addictive, drugs to reduce for be stopped going through withdrawal and Simpsons very for the type of drug. For example, physical symptoms of heroin withdrawal. May include restlessness muscle, and bone pain insomnia, diarrhea, vomiting cold flashes, physical symptoms, May last for several days with the general depression of dysphoria. Is opposite of euphoria. Now for the companies with heroin withdrawal from the last few or four weeks, 

12:23 AM

And he's in many cases withdraw from the easily treated for medications, and ease the symptoms retreating withdrawal is not the same as treating addiction. 

Drug addicts. Quit on their own question. 

May explain the addiction has such important biological components. May explain the individuals difficulty achieving maintaining absence without treatment. Nearly all addicted individuals, believe beginning that they can stop using drugs on their own. And when you try to stop without treatment, Research has shown a long-term drug use result, significant changes in brain function that persist long, axon, individual stopped using drugs. 

Most of these attempts result in fatigue and Achieve long-term and abstinence 

Psychological stress from work and family problems. Social cues, such as meeting individuals for one drug using the past or environments such as encountering streets objects or even smells associated with the drug use. Can interact and biological factors and entertainment for sustained absence abstinence to make relapse more likely 

Self-help groups and it extended effects of professional treatment. The most prominent self-help groups are those affiliated with alcohol anonymous, Narcotics, Anonymous, and Cocaine Anonymous, which are based in 12-cent model in the smart recovery and others. Not based on the 12 steps. And self-help group Most drug addiction treatment programs, encourage patients to participate and self-help group during, and after formal treatment get your substance abuse questions answered today, where do the 12 step or self-help, programs fit new treatment? We hope that addiction has helped improve your understanding for addiction challenge. But we know that there is also being more questions raised whether you're struggling with substance abuse yourself. You're trying to understand that someone else's battling it to ourselves for the Avenues recovery or happy to answer questions for addiction. Find the answers and commonly a sedition questions. Including how much of an eight ball of cocaine cost or what is fentanyl made of? And what is fitting all look like? When it's on weed. Some people say it's sprayed with raid bug spray 

To help it. Stick to the marijuana. 

Addiction at some point in their life. 

Addiction all to option, lacks basic understanding for Education, our society and common myths, continue to circulate 

Another addictions such as gambling, addiction technology, addiction, food, addiction and other Common forms of addiction, or taking the account or statistic of those suffering from an addiction increases substantially all there. Someone you know, like the experience is some form of addiction to be to there are some discuss and topic among family and friends. Addiction is all to that lacks basic understanding and education of society. Common myths, continue to circulate 

Difficulty stopping a moderating. The complete nature of the diction. Surfaces resulting, of awarding stimulation of the brain. Alcohol, gambling. Yusuf subsequent desire for the brain to Crave. This Dimension is in order to induce 

Pleasure. 

A recovery Addiction also involves obsessive psychological preoccupation with getting using a recovery from an substance abuse or behavior. 

The common Cornerstone of addiction continuing agreement since symptoms. Vary from person to person as well, between various forms of addiction problems. With deterioration of relationships, legal issues, financial troubles with health concerns among many other negative impacts. Addiction also involves withdraw, meaning. The individual is not engaged in their substance use or behavioral addiction experience with psychological and sociology social withdrawal symptoms, increase, 

Addiction also involves for withdrawal of meaning that when an individual is not engaged in substance or use of Behavioral addiction, the experience of psychological and physiological withdrawal symptoms, lead a person for people and various forms of the addiction to be substance abuse and disorder is clean addiction and dependence. 

The term substance use, or disorder was updated in order term such as substance abuse is called social dependence. 

The feel of a substance in Houston dictionary. Many terms are commonly used for example, among addiction therapists and other addiction specialists in term regularly used to classify someone with an addiction to alcohol and drugs. As such as a disorder. The term addiction Professionals for gambling, addiction, gambling disorder, other addictions, such as gaming addiction, cryptocurrency, addiction, social, media addiction, and other addictions are not officially recognized as this disorder. By the American Psychiatric association are currently left out of the diagnostic statistical manual that is used by addiction professionals to render clinical diagnosis. This is not to say that such behaviors are problematic or individuals such addictions are not deserving treatment, but rather serves his continued are research among medical an addiction professionals. Their last. 

Addictions are widespread and far-reaching impact Beyond substance use disorder and gambling disorder. The term. Dependence is notably used to refer physical dependence on physical, Reliance most notably characterized by tolerance and withdrawal. Two terms commonly used to discuss Ferry. There is problematic behaviors and addiction are dependence. Understand and dependence, can be difficult to understand and some may even use the words interchangeably. The turn dependence is notably used to refer a physical dependence and fiscal Reliance most notably characterized by tolerance of withdrawal. The term of addiction usually includes psychological components such as mental Obsession preoccupation with one behavior and individual can be physically dependent on substance such as opiates. For example, the may not have breached the mental component of addiction. Such individuals, are able to detox from their substance and not think about it there after one substance is out of their body. However, most people become addicted. There's one, there's not one reason, why individual becomes addicted and anyone can come and take them to anything. However, two primary factories that make someone vulnerable to become addicted to environmental factors, as genetic factors, 

Environmental variables include home environment, in which there is trauma abuse or addictive behavior occurring. 

These problems are only a to be engaged with problematic behaviors, social acceptance, and problematic culture, that generally accepts addiction 

Environmental variables include home environment, which is trauma, abuse and addictive behavior. Genetic variables include family history of mental health, addiction problems. 

History of physical, and sexual emotional views, or other trauma can be a risk factor for addiction beside the genetic environmental risk factors. There are other variables that may make someone's higher risk of developing an addiction underlying mental health issues such as anxiety, or depression, certainly can make individuals the high risk of developing an addiction the history of physical and sexual emotional abuse and Trauma. To engage in problematic behavior and can earlier bring someone to engage in problematic behavior and most likely to develop addictions that behavior the worst types of addiction to term commonly uses relationship since dependence such as alcohol, addiction to cocaine addiction and adderall addiction. Such other drugs as addictions also need to be regarded, behavioral addiction such as gambling, addiction and Technology. 

Pornography addiction. section action food addiction and other such addictions. Furthermore are subcategories for addictions. So for example, types of gambling, addiction may involve sports betting poker, cryptocurrency or day trading. 

In an addiction, or phone addiction or gambling addiction. No Works addiction instead of asking what type of addiction is the worst one, should be asking how addiction is negatively impacting their life in their live lives of their loved ones. 

Yes, there are more deadly addictions for example, of addiction to alcohol or heroin is more deadly and dangerous than any addiction than video games. However, all addictions can be a form of mental health, physical house, spiritual health, to Financial Health, to relationship Health, that every which way in between in between are asking what type of addiction is the works. Once you be asking how addiction is negatively impact on the lives of loved ones. 

Another common question, the line is question is are prescription drug safe? 

Before answering this question, is important to always discuss medication regiment and describing a doctor, take medication safely as prescribed 

The questions also posed. The question is marijuana, take to the answer is. Yes, although marijuana is natural substance. Does that mean that it is harmless nor does it mean that? it's addictive marijuana can change brain chemistry and take over the pleasure center of the brain. Same way. Other drugs do and especially dangerous and development of adults and young adult and a poor young adult in his brain. Other common questions, a lot of questions is as being said, description, drugs are highly addictive, especially opioids, such as oxycodone or Oxycotin been so diabetes. Opinions such as saying X Klonopins active on and Nymphetamine such as adderall. Be classified as mild moderate and can be classified as mild moderate and severe. 

If alcohol, drugs gambling Tick-Tock gaming, or other behaviors causes problems in your life and loved ones. Life the one should be enough to recognize her as a problem needs to be addressed and individual may not fit into the box of having alcohol use disorder or an addiction to alcohol. They may even be a binge Drinker or a problem Drinker. In other words, they met on occasion be unable. Problems in their alcohol, use with alcohol. Use occasionally causes problems in their life. 

12:36 AM

So yes, alcohol is a drug and you can become addicted. Very rapidly. 

So, if you have found in his 2000, time to stop engaging in your behavior for hours and days through withdrawal symptoms such trouble sleeping shaking his restlessness irritability education, depression sweating, and other unwanted physical logical and sociological symptoms addition can lead to mental health disorder. 

Mental health issues can also be an underlying issues issues and prior to the addiction and therefore, sometimes can be a chicken or the egg. 

And some instances such as alcohol, or drug, or mental health issues can be induced while under the influence of substance or any other cases of mental health issues. Continue to persist long term. 

Concerns, and mental health, concerns and both the dress and treatment. 

The scenario chicken or the egg which one is not certain and mental health and is we contributed to addiction of the addiction of contribute contribution of the mental health issue? 

Both cases, important. It's a mental health. Concerns are both addressed and treatment. 

In other cases, most of our, why the exceptions in addiction recovery Community, an addiction specialist and abstinence based approaches to recovery involving complete abstinence from addictive behavior. There is no cure for addiction, but addictions are treatable in other words, addiction can go into remission. And when an individual has abstained from addictive behavior for some time, there could be reoccurrence. To relapse and unfortunately relapse rates to a history of addiction. Also being vulnerable to relapse and unfortunately, relapse rates to addictive disorders or quite High. Depending on the type of addiction, the severity of the addiction. The history of the individuals relationship with the addiction and other moderation management approaches. Many individuals are able to live thriving lives. Moderating their addictive behavior. 

Detox clinics inpatient, rehabilitation centers outpatient, rehabilitation centers, and some individuals choose to work privately with addictions therapist, addiction psychologist psychiatrist and addiction sociologist addiction recovery, coach sober, coach. 

Come message treatment involves various behavioral therapy, increases such as cognitive behavioral therapy, which is called CBT or dialectical behavioral therapy, which is called DB t or motivational interviewing, which is called Mi or rational emotive behavior therapy. Which is called rept. Among many other forms of therapy medication to is also play an important role in recovery and curving withdrawal, symptoms, curbing, cravings, and dressing underlying mental health concerns. They're also mutual help groups such as Alcohol Anonymous smart recovery Refuge, Refuge covery, Gamblers, Anonymous, and many other 12-step programs that are Pacific to the addiction. The addictions of chronic progressive can be fatal. Such forms of the help of loved ones can be family. Therapist who specializes in diction and family therapy and mutual help group such as Alan on gam-anon or smart recovery, family, and friends. 

And can be fatal. So also and always recommended individuals and courage to love ones to get help from their diction. If they're able to stop them on their own. If your loved one is in denial about the diction, if they're unwilling to get help then, eventually maybe needed. To help encourage the addiction for the individual to seek out some help for their addiction problems during the intervention process level ones may be expected to express their love and concern for the individual to set boundaries that they are going to hold with addiction of individuals should individual chooses not to get help. Lastly, it is also important important for loved ones to see. Seeks out, help or not. Such forms also help for loved ones. Can be with family, therapist and specialized addiction family therapy or Mutual helpers. 

It is not our job to get one person server or get them to stop destroying their life because of their addiction Behavior. It is their job or your job to take care of yourself. If your loved one is ready to willing to receive help in the recovery, you can serve a great source of strength and support Some healthy behaviors can Implement act for listening Express empathy set healthy boundaries reduce environmental triggers. Encourage healthy. Habits role modeling healthy behaviors. Educate yourself about addiction. And you can help someone else. 

The New York City addiction treatment program to find the best addiction counselor in New York City or Jacksonville. Florida is a general therapy mental health Counseling Group such as Community, rehabilitation center with Doctor shot. The family addictions practice is private concierge server in Manhattan in Jacksonville, Florida Recovery coach for Manhattan, sober companion and Jacksonville, Florida, addiction therapy services for Jacksonville, Florida services for therapy and virtual therapy for drug addiction. Alcohol, addiction, gambling, addiction, digital, addiction, and Technology, addiction as well as a Jacksonville hypnosis Center for North Florida. Community. Rehabilitation Center, Jacksonville. 

Is often overlooked in underutilized as components for addiction recovery and has been increasingly recognized playing a crucial role in healing process of alcohol, use and disorders. For loved ones while the Rippling effects of day, trading and diction, and for loved ones while the impacts are day, trading addiction is to be addicted into an individual's. well-documented less known about the intricate ways that day trading addiction camp at closes individuals, Artificial intelligence combat and diction. Artificial intelligence such as AI. Industries are one area for promise addiction recovery for AI to be leveraged to new treatment and support. 

That's why you should get help for cognitive methods for therapy such as CBT cognitive behavioral therapy dialectical behavioral therapy which is DBT motivational interviewing, which is MI and the rational emotive behavior therapy. Which is rebt. 

Progress for maturity, for most religions. Learn that everything, you know, to be a Divine call, The practical application for goals to set for special virtues is the great Virtues Of vigilance. 

And there are Christ frequently speaks in the hour that rejoices that this is his our in the near, the vigilance is the great astrological virtues of the New Testament. A sufficient to know that God's greatest command to allow practical application and presuming that the rule of order contains quietly. The in detailed of regulations, it's possibly 90% of your memory and attention and assuming that unfortunately, the superior scrupulously adheres to the favorite topics is the holy rule in the condemnation of the violations. Then there might remain at least 10% of your your attention to practice more vigilance. Psychologically, the result cannot be other than spiritual mechanisms is the rule and observe to overlook and completely be in the crying need of thy neighbor and the millions of the whole world. It is so happens to be religious machine at that type, the letter of the rules, supersedes, everything else, and Christ first great command is charity. It also happens that sticklers the rule condemned by the slide is calm of caen. Science is the poor fellow religious of lifelong better suffering and heart and soul. This reveals Ball by countless benefits of Graces and blessings. I and how far must I go? The wall brace provides the answer a certain abstract, sophisticated, casuality attempted to prove that the sermon on the Mount, particularly the verse be a perfect as your heavenly father is perfect. Matthew 5:48 is merely a meaning of counsel not command. But that is become a binding for only those who are voluntary decision to the state of perfection. The former can science development should be prominent in a place of schools possible. It's not obvious and Junior. And some the whole system of religious education, 

Is agreement with st. Thomas in this later years is kept repeating over and over again. Great as the command of Love be perfect in the heavenly father is perfect and address to everybody. It is also important to command the impotent imitate the of God in his own Way Is uncompassionate Love. 

Not a council, not a command that has become a binding only for those who are in voluntary decision to enter the state of protection logos five legal minded, man. Says his in Meet selfishness carefully. Determines how far must he go and how far must Everybody else. Go for the law of Grace provides the answer everyone. According to the give you the grace, which is received in the lawgiver of Christ, the Dual command of love in the neighbor cannot be interpreted by in for state of law, but man must be talking pursues gold step by Step, one foot in front of the other. Having received gifts and heard the call, you must know that God wants him to take for that first moment. I God favors having the great Grace's, confronts him to need the appeal of the heart. He knows that God is expecting him to take the big step. Thus everyone Faithfully cooperating, the Divine will you no longer argues with Lord, he's obligated, or is he not question?

#authors #maggie stiefvater #bookworm #rainbow rowell #leigh bardugo #currently reading #rick riordan #cassandra clare #book review #sarah j. maas

[fan-dot]

two steps beyond the veil

The point is, she’s not entirely certain she is confident in any of this at all. She also might be a little too late into it to turn back, but that’s a lesser problem to the fact that she wants to talk to her sister more than she has even a basic essence of common sense. The candles are lit, incense flowing, and so she will drive on, heedless.

DannyMay 2023: Day 14 (Séance)

You see, the issue with a séance is that Star has no fucking idea what she is doing. Oh, sure, the dodgy ‘magick’ manual from the year 1973 with the peeling blue cover and terrible cheap gold foil has step by step instructions, but it also likes to put the letter k at the end of anything and everything, so she isn’t entirely certain she trusts it. Oh, and the shop she got it from is the kind that is permanently swathed in incense smoke so thick that it triggers her latent asthma every time she goes in. And Star likes incense! 

The point is, she’s not entirely certain she is confident in any of this at all . 

She also might be a little too late into it to turn back, but that’s a lesser problem to the fact that she wants to talk to her sister more than she has even a basic essence of common sense. The candles are lit, incense flowing, and so she will drive on, heedless. 

There’s a couple different ways you can conduct a séance, Star found through her questionable research. Most of them are through tools like a Ouija board or talking box, or through people like mediums and trained spiritualists. She found a ritual, though, written on handmade pressed paper and in purple ink. She found it tucked in the back of one of the more questionable of the books she had found, tucked like a bookmark that was forgotten and a bit of ink smeared three quarters of the way down, left side. 

Star went with it. 

She breathes out, slow and low as she burns the branch of juniper, as she lets the smoke rise up and up and up. There’s an apple, cut, an offering (immortality). There are hazel nuts, crushed (wisdom) (water from a stone) (finding what was lost, what is wanted, water of life, water of death, water of endings and beginnings, primordial soup). A branch of alder, shorn, triad cuts driven in, white wood bled red. Yew berries, cooked and split (death prepared). A strand of hair (the focus, the center, the one called from beyond).

She sets it all ablaze in a pot of iron, lets the juniper branch wave, smoke curling about her (about them). The flame flickers in her eyes as she mumbles the words, stumbled and unsure in her pronunciation, even practicing. 

The fire dies down, ash filling the iron pot (it is snow, winter of life, the season of death and renewal). She scoops out the ash and smears it on her forehead, behind her ears, a cross on her chest, and the slightest dab to her tongue. It is bitter and awful and she wants to spit it out but she doesn’t, carefully placing a small amount on her nose, on her eyelids, across the backs of her palms. She paints her fingertips in it and she breathes, smoke and ash and burning things.

Star smears a candle in the ash, tall and flickering and carved as she was told to do, and she sets it aflame. She watches the smoke, watches it dancing and weaving and then go utterly, eerily, entirely still.

She stares.

The flame stays frozen, barely even a flicker. 

“Rainbow?” she asks, voice shaking. “Rain, are you there?”

The flame veers to the left, a yes according to the signs Star set up and she covers her mouth (ash, smoke, death, a chance, a hope). It worked. It worked.

“Rainbow,” she croaks behind her hand. “Rainbow, you’re really here?”

There’s a sharper flicker to the left, almost annoyed, and Star chokes back a sob, and she’s here, she’s here, her sister is here.

“If we shared a room when we were nine, move to maybe,” she says, shaky, and the instructions warned her that there may be others pretending, others taking advantage of the gate, and that she needs to check. 

The flame returns to center and stays still. It’s her. It’s Rainbow. 

“Oh my god,” she says, breathless. “Oh my god.” 

The flame flickers at her in response, smokeless, clean. 

“Are you a ghost, now?” she asks, because she has to, because she needs to know. 

It drifts to yes, then to no, then to maybe. 

“I don’t understand,” she says, trying to figure out how to ask in a way that makes more sense, head spinning. “Are you a ghost now?” 

A pause, and then it drifts to yes. 

“Were- you not a ghost until recently?” she tries, chest tight.

It stays at yes. It stays at yes and Star pulls in a breath, tries to think. Her sister is here, her sister is dead, but she’s here, somehow, and she needs her brain to work, to ask the important questions, to figure out if she can see her again.

“So you became a ghost recently but you’re a ghost now,” she says. 

It flickers more strongly at yes.

“Okay,” she says, soft. “A-after the séance, can you come see me?” 

It slowly shifts to maybe. 

“Okay,” she says again, softer. “Okay. Please come see me. I miss you.” 

The flame flickers to yes and Star begins to cry for real, ash bleeding off her eyelids and forcing them shut. She buries her face in her hands, a desperate, cracking sob dragging out of her ribcage and her sister. Her sister. Her sister .

When she wipes away the ash enough to see, the flame is flickering again merrily, the odd energy in the room gone. 

She stares, wide-eyed, wet-eyed, but looks down at her hands, black and gray with soot and ash. Star swallows hard and bites down the grief because Rainbow is a ghost, Rainbow can and will come back and see her. It’s okay. 

She’ll see her again. 

She will.

#dannymay 2023 #dannymay2023 #dp #star danny phantom #fanfic #my fanfic

[cosmicangel888]

The Shifts of Consciousness - Heal or Not, that is your reality

Creational reality is the collective - why who, what, how you share, the vibration of what you exist around matters - it is either healing and nourishing and loving - or corrupt - what those choose and vibrate within -

When those that do not and have not included, offered, called nor spoken to, nor held any meetings, nor discussions; the corruption of all systems, and all will fall and break -

All will be seen, known for the shady corruption they are - the spirit and not healing the inner lack of self, narcism, abusive toxic cycles and patterns, black mail and enslavement energetic war far, and the manipulation that has taken place in my one case, others like Brittany Spears, the dogmatic arrogance to claiming anyone as crazy, while they are the stirrers of the pot when it comes to interfering with others lives they have absolutely no business, no rights, they do not even know the person - ( I know nothing about any of my ex's mean-people clubs;) spiritualists that call themselves aligned and elite and proper - while behind the doors do the most abhorrent things to innocence;

Shifting timelines - your reality is your vibration - consciousness is everything

All were told years ago to align with doing right and bringing balance to someone that has given unconditionally and so much to creation and this planet - and in time, all will see, know of such; all have to live with their choices, and actions - as we said - no more sitting on the fence and playing both sides; you will either live and heal in oneness or be shifted to the corruption of selfishness to a 3D earth not evolving

They know people who know people and mark my words as the voice of earthly abundance, nourishment and prophetic word, story - all that we have offered has been truth;

every person involved, be it judge, persons being paid to silence, those being paid to hit on someone be in their lane, spell cast, block, stalk, bully, spy on, remote view, voodoo, anyone involved in signing fraudulent paperwork, photoshop, any person at any and every level; will have judgment and karma

There are the worlds best healers, light workers, channels doing the same sacred offering I do - why is my offering crazy - because my role is to break up collective corruption and density and then show others how to heal and rebuild - unfortunately the corruption was in my own ex/family and their posse - underground gang-like living to gain, thieve, take what is not their property or entitlement and they will be charged for the damage, suffering, loss, torment they caused me

All will be shown for who they are - period - God is now driving

the only way out is truth and doing what is right

those claiming crazy are the ones that will benefit period - for their delusional claiming they are entitled when they do not even know me, have never had a conversation with me, nor ever given permission, nor approval, nor signatures, nor any level of this ridiculous bullshit that they have intentionally and corruptively and maliciously dragged into my life, my lane; will cost them dearly in the spiritual realm, and on earth - and it is immediate and now

the more any they to press against and not bring balance to the damage, suffering, pain they have caused on purpose - I am calling them out on their corrupt occult crime, the deaths they have called, manipulated, schemed, plotted on the innocent for money and I am the only one to survive, I am the only that did so 4 times and the 1000$ of dollars they tried to bring me to silence

any policies, any documentation, has never crossed my desk or my approval -

any policy would seem rather strange and unusual when I have been estranged for 7 years, celibate and not even talking with any in my ex groups or family and they do not even know who I am - why the policies - I have not approved anything, nor signed anything and all will be shown; no one would want the karma involved; even the fake clients, whatever role one knowingly took; now they know who I truly am; now they want to jump ship to avoid karma -

Spirit sees and knows all - and what selfish, greed, toxic, unhealed corruption is the cancer in any family, community that needs intervention and the damage loss, destruction done by obvious and blatant selfish people - none have ever had a conversation with me on any level - how would they know any level of my acuity

The systems are corrupt - and I have had many clients that were victims of magic and families members projecting insanity and having their children test and text them hint around they are crazy, and then have paperwork filled out like they are not stable in the mind when behind closed doors they are doing very terrible insane things to dominate and control someone that has said for years and years - 'LEAVE Me ALONE'

But they see God has favour, because we are truth and bring peace, hope and healing to the all - we care, and we are aligned to higher realms - they are not - they are closed, misaligned, wounded and very very empty but the entities that were shared in disregarding sexual acts of taking and claiming energy -

All call in every aspect of their life - so be it - judgement is now in process and good luck with it -

All have been told and shown, and prayed with - they chose to continue to steal, thieve and take -

I am not even on their timelines - but the monies meant for me, they are determined to call theirs for some reason and they have no knowing, or even connection with me - makes no sense -

Corrupt or what?

I am a genius and of sound mind and body and I know my rights; on earth and in the heavens and I hold rank over all involved and why such karma, darkness that each cannot even begin to imagine - will unfold - the damage to our system, the level of shame and disgrace such title holders, and community leaders that were meant to be of good will and trust, and those that do nothing but manipulate, dominate, intimidate, harass, and target - for their own gain;

We can all do forensic account on all involved, and spirit, will regardless of how much paper work they think they have changed, falsified, or destroyed - spirit always has a few pieces of magic in their back pocket for those that play on such horrible horrible corruption to the pure and innocent -

None know me,

And so it is,

Blessings and light

Joanna

[email protected]

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[archivist-dragonfly]

Book 405

The Perfect Medium: Photography and the Occult

Jean-Loup Champion, ed.

Yale University Press 2005

I really just love this book. It perfectly captures the intersection of two of my interests, and I find it a great source of inspiration for my own work. Published to accompany an exhibit of the same name held at NY’s Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2005, this book charts the history and use of photography in the occult and other fringe sciences. Most of the photos in this book date from between 1870 and 1930, a time when photography became less complicated to use but not yet ubiquitous in occult investigations. By examining three main categories of photographs—photos of spirits, fluids (auras, life forces, etc), and mediums (levitation, transfiguration, telekinesis)—this book includes everything from William Mumler’s Civil War-era spirit photographs and Arthur Conan Doyle’s occult explorations to the “thoughtography” of psychic Ted Serios and ectoplasmic emanations of famed spiritualists.

#bookshelf #illustrated book #library #personal library #personal collection #books #book lover #bibliophile #booklr #photography #the perfect medium #Yale university press #occult