#this poem was so delightful to write that it lifted my spirits while i was writing it

[primergon]

Hey there!! It’s the anon that you matched up with Velocity in one of your latest posts! I’m a little late in sending this in due to some issues with tumblr (the app decided that your blog didn’t exist at all for some reason) but I just wanted to send in a big, heartfelt thank you for entertaining the matchup request I sent in!! I was seriously blown away by the details and effort you put in and your timing was impeccable as it really cheered me up after a rough day at work :,) You put so much thought into everything and I can’t help but wish to see how you’d tackle a matchup with a male bot for me too, if you would at all be willing to indulge me?

I was really surprised that I got paired up with Velocity and all the scenarios were so cute and wholesome that I couldn’t help rereading them again and again- I loved the way you characterised her and I’ll definitely treasure your post forever. Not to mention, it was my first time requesting a matchup anywhere so I was kind of shocked when I got the notification for it 💀 Thank you so much for putting in the time despite being busy and for this blog in general. Your writing really does lift my spirits!

My rambling aside, I was wondering about your opinion on fan gifts and if you’d like a piece of transformers related art? It could be an OC, a favourite bot or even just your persona if you’ve got one, anything at all. I’ve seen some blogs that are uncomfortable with surprise gifts and such, so I thought I’d check with you first to make sure. I just wanted to thank you in some way for responding so earnestly, so please do let me know what you think! If you aren’t up to receiving them, though, it’s absolutely okay! I simply wish to convey how grateful I am, so think of this ask as fan mail that you aren’t obligated to reply to/engage with.

- A very thrilled anon (ง’̀-‘́)ง ✨

A/N : Hello Anon !! Thank you for taking the time out of your day to write this for me, it does mean a lot! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡ I'm so glad you enjoyed my work and I do try my best to put in as much detail as I can to make every matchup feel special. I'm sorry you had to go through a terrible day at work, but it warms my heart to know I can help make your day a bit better (｡𓎆 𓎺 𓎆)

Of course! I'd love to indulge you therefore I'll match you up with IDW Rung!

01| Rung is inherently a creative nurturer with this drive to help others. That is why he's the best mech to go to whenever you have trouble expressing your feelings. Rung is patient and encouraging, giving you this safe space that allows you to vent and understand your emotions. He's more than happy to take the first step forward for you. Whenever you isolate yourself, Rung would come looking for you, offering you his help. His concern for you extends professional barriers as he regards you as someone special to him. This sense of comfort and trust was one of the many reasons why your friendship eventually turned romantic.

02| He admires your love for philosophy. Rung is also one for literature and art, so conversation was easy between the two of you. You'll often visit him in his office to spend time together and it warms his heart to know that you approach him for company ( a lot of people only tend to go to him when they want something, so it was a nice change of pace.) You'll be reading to him your latest poem while he assembles his miniature boats. You like how versatile Rung was: beautifully handling topics that most people can't usually stomach. Thanks to you, he has started to open up as well. While sharing stories of his past with you, Rung's eyes were bright and loving.

03 | Although you are subtle with your show of love, it doesn't make Rung cherish you any less. The reason you make such a good pair is that Rung is good at reading people. He knows you're sincere every time. Both of you are more on the bashful side of showing your affection so there's a lot of blushing and stuttering. But once the initial awkwardness wears off, physical touch comes naturally. When in Swerves, the two of you will be holding hands under the table. Rung giving you silent support whenever you start to feel too overwhelmed with the crowd. He also likes stroking your cheeks and holding you close, always delighted whenever you give him handmade gifts. He tries his best to return the gesture: Rung occasionally surprising you with a bundle of novels and books he got from shore leave.

04| Speaking of shore leave, Rung would always take you to the local market to explore the foreign planet's culture. He was more than happy to go on a culinary journey with you even if he can't eat anything, as long as you were enjoying yourself that was more than enough for him. He makes sure to always keep an eye on you because he knows you like to wander around. To avoid being separated, Rung would insist on linking your arms together. Or when he does not have his mass displaced, Rung would carry you away from the commotion. Smiling at you in his arms ( he likes how you make him feel strong, although he's too shy to say it aloud.)

05| Arguments between you and Rung were almost nonexistent. As natural peacemakers, both of you loathe conflict. Yet, when problems arise, Rung isn't the type to shy away from them. Your perfectionism paired with Rung's sensitivity towards criticism may lead to a few disagreements. But it's nothing you both can't handle, especially when no one is better than Rung in finding a win-win solution.

06| Spending time with you is something Rung looks forward to. He loves watching you do art and is supportive of your passions, knowing you'll do great things in the future. Although Rung prefers your taste in historical fiction and comedy, he would sit through horror movies for you every once in a while. Rung has a difficult time accepting the love he deserves. For eons, he's spent his life alone. Now, Rung is more than happy to share it with you.

A/N: I hope you enjoy this anon! Also thank you for the offer on a fan gift (≧∇≦). I am open to fan gifts but you are not obliged to give me anything in return as I am more than happy to give this matchup !! (ˊ•͈ ◡ •͈ˋ) However, if you'd like, I will be more than happy and honoured to receive your present !! I'm very touched, thank you! We can talk about it further in the Tumblr chat or you can drop by my Instagram ( @/primergonn) for a dm. Or you can choose whichever is best for you and I'll follow. Thank you so much for the sweet offer Anon! I'm really thrilled <3 ＊*♡( ⁎ᵕᴗᵕ⁎ ）

#rung #rung idw #idw rung #transformers #transformers idw #idw transformers #idw matchups #matchups #matchups idw #transformers matchups #mtmte #lost light #mtmte matchups #matchups mtmte #tf imagines #tf imagine #idw headcanons #idw imagines #idw imagine #transformers scenarios #reader inserts #reader insert #transformers reader insert

[crystalgirl259]

The Flame and the Dragon Ch4

Chapter 4: The Duke

Kai sighed in relief as he dropped the bags at his feet and plopped down next to the equally exhausted Lloyd on the side of the town square fountain. The large, glistening fountain outside of city hall in the dead center of the entire city. Built only a handful of years ago, this fountain at the old town center was there to represent the importance of all generations, both young and old, and what they have to offer. Its position within the city was meant to represent the strong mind and balanced way of life the city strived for.

It was designed by Nya.

She had wonderfully captured the natural beauty of the region and used a personal style to convey her vision in this piece of art. Every element was crafted and created with deluxe materials from local suppliers, ensuring this monument will remain an important aspect of the community spirit for many more years.

"Think we got enough food?" He teased.

"Well, we got everything on Nya's list." Lloyd smiled. "You remembered the chocolate right?"

"Yes, I remembered the chocolate." Kai rolled his eyes playfully. Lloyd smiled and dug into his big brother's bag before pulling out a folder and opened. He thumbed through the pages until he found a small back of stapled pages and pulled out the top one, smiling before placing the pack in Kai's lap.

"Care to show your favorite little brother what you've been working on?" He flashed a bright smile and his infamous pleading look.

"Maybe later," Kai replied calmly, earning him a look of pure shock from the blond boy. Kai could never resist Lloyd's babyface when he wanted something. Kai just laughed and scooped his collection of papers in his hands before looking at the one Lloyd picked out. The poem was written in his hand above the image of a field of roses. At the heart was an ancient castle that dated back to the early 18th century. The only difference was this castle was pure white, each stone chiseled from stabs of pristine marble.

Lloyd leaned over his brother's shoulder, immediately engrossed in the detailed sketch of his big brother's.

"Jeez Kai, you could give Nya a run for her money."

"It's just a sketch."

"It's still awesome! Now, can I see the poem or not?" Lloyd pleaded with a whine in his voice.

"No!"

"But it's amazing!" He begged and giggled as Kai blushed.

"You think everything I write is amazing." He smiled, rolling his eyes.

"Because they are!" He insisted, kneeling over the side of the fountain to dig through Kai's folder. "Didn't you say that one goes with another poem or passage? Here it is!" He cheered in victory pulling out another passage Kai wrote and placed in his lap. "This one! I remember cuz when you were reading you had this really dreamy look on your face." His smile almost split in half at the dark blush suddenly covering Kai's face. He snatched both things away and stuffed them back in his folder.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, green bean." Kai insisted with a small smirk. It would have convinced anyone else despite the faint scarlet dusting Kai's cheeks, but not to Lloyd and Nya.

"Yes, you do! You wrote that about the Dragon Lord didn't you?" He smirked playfully. The brunette's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull at Lloyd's innocently smirking face.

"How do you know that?!" He spluttered, completely flabbergasted. The youngest Smith almost burst out laughing at his older brother's panic.

"I didn't, but it's written all over your face!" He gasped in between laughs. Growling in defeat, Kai ran his hand through his hair and sighed.

"Yes, they were inspired by the fairy tale, but no it's not about him, I wrote them after I had a dream." He explained as Lloyd blinked in bewilderment. "I know silly, right?"

"No! I wanna hear it!" He insisted widening his eyes. Rolling his eyes again, knowing Lloyd wouldn't let the subject drop, he continued.

"Alright, well, every night, I dream I'm in a field of flowers outside the castle and while I'm there, I hear a song playing and I follow it; then I see a man standing there holding the most beautiful music box I'd ever seen."

"Is he handsome?" Lloyd asked, teasingly, but Kai chose to ignore that question.

"The music was so lovely; it reminded me of the songs Mom and Dad used to sing to us, but in the most amazing voice I've ever heard." He sighed in awe. "The second I woke up, I just wrote the poem down and then I just couldn't get that man out of my head; I kept dreaming about him more and more." He explained unwittingly, letting his hidden passions seep into his voice; something that didn't go unnoticed by Lloyd. His smile only widened until it nearly split his face in half.

"You're in love~" He sang and Kai almost fell off the fountain. "You're in love with your dream prince!" He teased, with a smirk that put even his siblings to shame as he leaned over his older brother. "And don't try and deny it either, that might work on someone else, but not someone who's known you as long as I have!"

"The Dragon Lord is only a fairy tale, he's not real." Kai sighed, saddened, looking heavenward for assistance to his dilemma.

"Don't worry, bro; I'm sure you'll find your true love." Lloyd encouraged, leaning against the brunette's shoulder. Kai chuckled and ran his fingers through Lloyd's blond hair.

"You're a hopeless romantic, green bean."

"Hopeful." He corrected mischievously. Both boys broke into a fit of laughter until they were interrupted by the sound of a carriage and horses pulling to a stop. Just like that, everyone in town stopped to carry out the weekly ritual that was as practiced and routine as everything else in Ignacia. Everyone was more than happy to greet the two people that were exiting the carriage. The first to exit the expensive, flamboyant carriage was a middle-aged woman wearing a simple but expensive pale green dress.

Her long black hair was tied in a high ponytail by a pretty dark green ribbon, while her toxic green eyes glowed against her deathly-pale skin.

She was a noble maiden without a doubt, but she was not the reason everyone had stopped to stare. The man she turned and bowed her head to was. The brothers recognized his walk before he even stepped out of the carriage. He looked nobler than the woman. The man stepped out of the carriage adorned in a black suit that looked like the most expensive embroidery anyone had ever seen and a necklace of the finest craftsmanship. The outfit was only a simple outing suit but it was still the most expensive thing either brother had ever seen.

The pants alone probably cost more than their entre combined wardrobes.

His white gloves were molded the man's perfect hand and the suit hugged his muscles tightly. The newly polished shoes shined as he stepped down from the carriage. Men and women became lovestruck at his appearance and some people were instantly struck with jealousy or admiration. That combined with perfectly smooth, unblemished white skin, a perfect face, long jet black hair with a green streak in it, and ghostly green eyes, Duke Morro Vento was in every inch a fairy tale prince.

After all, Morro's family had founded the town and still owned it to this day.

Kai never realized how rehearsed Morro's walk was. It was coy and arrogant, just like his glances and his audacious smile. Morro must have returned from a successful trip because he seemed more arrogant today. Kai's gaze turned to Lloyd who nodded in understanding. Both boys picked up their books and the groceries, ready to leave. But a second too late, the duke's gaze found them and he smiled, a seductive smirk that Kai hated more than anything else.

Again he strolled over, cutting off their only exit before the two boys could sneak away.

"Hello, Kai." He smiled sweetly, but the teen saw right through it.

"That's Mr. Smith, your grace." He retorted with a hard gaze. At one point he may have been allowed Morro to call him by his first name, but he had lost that right years ago. Morro's predatory gaze immediately hardened when the brunette used his title instead of his name, though he'd told him time and time again he was allowed to. Kai simply refused to. It was so hard to believe that this arrogant and pompous man obsessed with luxury and social position was the same sweet and free-spirited kid the Smiths knew as children.

Morro's grandfather and their father Ray had been close friends for years.

It was solely because of Morro's grandfather the family moved to this town in the first place. Morro's grandfather had been Duke of the city and the peasants for almost sixty years. He had made it perfectly clear he was just as much a citizen of the town as the rest of the valley. He never cared for social status or reform and only for the well-being of the town and the citizens. As a result, the two families had been quite close. Morro was only two or three years older than Kai.

Sometimes their parents joked about the two of them getting married one day.

This was something Morro's parents took to heart for the future, especially as the children entered adulthood. Ray never considered the idea, especially since he knew none of the children seemed to like Morro in that manner. But once Morro's grandfather died and Ray fell ill, everything changed. Once Morro and his family took the role of Duke and Duchess, and delighted in the royal lifestyle, the Smiths saw less and less of Morro. He'd become too comfortable in the position of his family.

"How many times must I ask you to call me Morro, Kai?" The Duke smiled sweetly, hoping for a romantic response. The brunette just rolled his eyes and gathered his papers together before tying his folder closed. He lifted it to put it away but Morro suddenly snatched it.

"What are these, beautiful?" He asked with mock curiosity, flipping through the papers.

"Your grace, please return my property." He said and it took every ounce of Kai's willpower to remain civil. It was for the sake of his family's good name that he didn't snatch it from his hands and scold him like a child.

"Did you write all these, darling? You must have way too much time on your hands if you waste it scribbling away and reading books." He laughed and Kai growled at the mockery in Morro's voice.

"That's not true!" Lloyd exclaimed and was on his feet faster than anyone expected of the young boy. "Kai's an amazing writer, if you even bothered to read them instead of spending all your time in that stupid shack you call a palace, you'd recognize some good writing." He growled at the duke. A few eyes widened and jaws dropped at Lloyd's comment, but Morro paid the boy no mind and snapped the folder closed, holding it as if it were a discarded garment.

"Oh darling, you have so much promise; don't you think it is about time you got your head out of those silly stories and started paying attention to more important things?" He asked and his voice held a seductive purr that made Kai shiver in aggravation. "I mean, the whole town is talking about it! You spend all your time working at that little shop or reading, it is such a shame." He spoke in such a dreary tone as if Kai's life was that of an unfortunate pauper.

Kai closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair.

He let the duke rant, knowing full well he wouldn't care if he was paying attention to him or not. It had been this way since Morro became the Duke. He accepted the position with a smile and had since turned his ambitions to accustoming Kai to the royal life. The trio lost touch with him as a result, especially Kai, who rejected the idea of the rich and nobility; preferring a life of freedom away from petty, materialistic things. After all, he was perfectly happy living with his siblings where the three could carry out their dreams.

Of course, Morro didn't notice or even care.

"Of course, if you were married to a more... privileged person you wouldn't have to work a day in your life." Morro grinned as his emerald eyes fixed in a cruel seductive glint and met Kai's amber orbs.

"Marriage?" Kai repeated as his eyes widened. "I don't think so Morro, I like working and besides, I don't want to marry just anyone; now, please return my folder." He ordered, attempting to mask the hostility in his voice, holding out his hand.

"Oh, but it wouldn't be just anyone." Morro continued, ignoring the brunette, and held the folder out of his reach so Kai's gaze was fixed on him. "You of all people deserve far more than just anyone; you deserve someone beautiful, wealthy, well-respected-"

"Those are all material things, Morro, not what you should be looking for in marriage." Lloyd cut him off, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Give me my folder back, Duke Vento."

"You need someone who's known you since you arrived in this town, who's courted you for years." He smirked as he leaned closer to the brunette, irritation marring the seductive charm.

"I won't ask you again Morro, now stop acting childish and give me my stuff back!" Kai thundered in a harsh tone. Taken aback by the scolding and the looks of the townsmen, he regained his composure and with as much dignity as he could muster returned the folder to Kai.

"Very well, we'll talk later than; come along, Bansha, let us return home." He smiled as he gestured to the raven-haired girl, who followed obediently. Kai's amber eyes were almost red with rage until Lloyd pulled on his arm a bit. Kai's gaze turned to his little brother's curious stare.

"Is he really so naïve that he can't tell you're ignoring his flirting on purpose, or is he just acting?" He asked as he cocked his head cutely, making Morro suddenly freeze in his tracks and Kai burst into laughter, his anger forgotten. Morro turned around with a mortified look on his face. Did Kai's brother just insult him? Without even trying?

"How dare you!" He snapped, pointing accusingly, his composure shattered.

"Now, now, my lord." Kai chuckled. "He's only joking, come on Lloyd, let's get home before Nya wonders where we've been." He smirked and Lloyd smiled as the two scooped up the groceries and books and strolled past the duke and the noblewoman and down the street towards home. Once they were out of earshot of town and Morro, Kai turned to his smiling little brother.

"Thank you for that, green bean; I swear I would have beat the crap outta him if he called me 'darling' one more time."

"I don't know why you put up with him!" Lloyd asked with a snort. "You'd think it would finally penetrate that thick skull of his that you're not interested!"

"I doubt that." Kai sighed, annoyed. "Morro never was one to give up." He added and he knew that was true from experience. Morro had waited and tried for years to coax him to his side. "Hopefully when Nya wins this year, we'll finally have enough money to leave this miserable place." He smiled, confidently.

"I hope so!" Lloyd cheered. "Even I'm getting sick of this town, but I'd miss Dr. Saunders and Brad." He admitted. Kai hummed in understanding as he looked at the large clock tower and his eyes widened.

"Oh shit! Look what time it is!"

"We didn't even make dinner yet and you know what happened last time we got home late?" The youngest Smith groaned as he turned to his middle sibling with concern.

"Don't worry, Nya's a smart girl; she's not dumb enough to repeat her mistakes," Kai assured him. No sooner had Kai said those words, however, an explosion erupted from the Smith home, and thick black smoke pooled from the chimney and kitchen windows...

#The Flame and the Dragon #ninjago #ninjago zane #ninjago cole #ninjago kai #ninjago lloyd #ninjago jay #ninjago nya #ninjago morro #lavashipping

[bitterfrosts]

👀

Here’s a little bit from the hanahaki Song Lan fic I was gonna write once upon  time before I wrote myself into a corner and now can’t bring myself to attempt to fix~

The breeze whipping through Song Lan’s hair dissipates as the vine spirit he was battling finally falls and gives up it’s last shred of life. He watches it fall, limp and lifeless, to the ground before lifting a hand up to brush the errant leaves off of his robes. He sheaths Fuxue, the metal ringing out and offering a sort of finality to the whole thing. His sword has done its duty, and the job is well done.

“I can’t thank you enough,” the farmer who’d asked for his assistance says, standing behind a small boulder where Song Lan had placed him for his safety. “That damned thing has been uprooting my crops and strangling my goats. Just tell me what you’d like in return for the work. Anything at all, I’ll find a way to repay you.”

Song Lan shakes his head, taking Fuxue back out of the sheath and scrawling no need on the ground between them.

“Nonsense,” the farmer scoffs. “You’re the only one who bothered to even take a look at it, let alone slay it. Name your price. Do you want coins? Silver? Silk? I’ll get it for you, mark my words.”

Your farm and family are safe now and unharmed, Song Lan writes. That is truly all I need.

The farmer squints at the characters written in the dirt and then lifts his head back up to stare at Song Lan, His conical hat and veil shielding his eyes from the bright midday sun.

“At least come back with me, to see what you have saved,” the farmer replies quietly.

Song Lan hesitates a moment, then nods and re-sheaths Fuxue. To let the farmer show him his fields harms no one. In any case, it had been so long since he last had interaction with another human being. Walking side by side with this farmer would do him some good, perhaps even give him a feel for what life is like in this province.

The farmer says nothing as he walks the path back to his homestead, occasionally swatting away flies and mosquitoes from his sun-exposed skin. The scenery is fairly pretty, with its light rolling hillsides and dotting wildflowers in the meadows in between. There’s a small creek just up ahead, and Song Lan can see small feeder fish dart out in between the rocks on the bottom as they cross over the small wooden bridge. The sky is clear and the lightest, purest shade of blue. Song Lan has never seen a better scene for the beginning of spring.

The meadows open up and suddenly Song Lan is surrounded by a field’s worth of shockingly bright yellow flowers, the blooms trumpeting out past the stems. They’re curious little things; Song Lan has never seen flowers like these before. If it had been in times before, Xingchen would have stopped right in the middle of this field to run his hands lightly over the blossoms, and perhaps recite a short poem on them. It was a passtime they’d once engaged in while on their various travels. They had delighted to find some scenery or bit of nature to make poems on, trying to one-up each other. Song Lan almost turns his head to the side out of habit, as if Xingchen were standing to his right once more with his face turned toward him, smiling gently and words on his lips.

He isn’t.

And he hasn’t been there for quite some time. Song Lan learned a while ago that marking the passage of time only made Xingchen’s loss hurt worse. And the thing that hurts the most, that bites at his very being to this day, is that all of it was his fault. He was the one who hurt him. He was the one who abandoned him. He was the one who had yelled at him so harshly about a loss that he wasn’t responsible for and drove him away. He remembers the way his mouth shapes those words; eyes unseeing and bleeding and stinging, mixing with tears as his breaths come haggard. That voice is low and quiet, but the words it says are filled with venom and vitriol.

There is no need for us to ever see each other again.

It did not matter whether Xingchen knew the words were false or not, said in hurt and sorrow. He left for Song Lan’s sake, he’d said. And Song Lan had let him go. Song Lan knew Xiao Xingchen almost better than he knows himself. Xingchen was not naïve enough to take his words at face value. He left because he felt guilty on his own when he should not have, and the thought of that haunts Song Lan and digs into his soul, hurting like the twist of a gilt silver blade deep in his heart.

The petals of the flowers dance against his fingers when the breeze picks back up, snapping Song Lan out of his thoughts. Yes, Xingchen would have adored these flowers. His head tilts to his robe lapel where the pouch holding what little remains of Xingchen’s soul rests against him. I would pick one and rest it behind your ear, Song Lan thinks. The image his mind conjures of it is a strikingly pretty one. Song Lan’s lips lift in a smile.

“You like them too?” the farmer grins. “I managed to buy the seeds from a trader who got them off of a merchant from Luolan on the Silk Road. They’re foreign. No one else has flowers like these.” He smiles proudly.

That you grew them so well with no instruction is a credit to you, Song Lan scratches in the ground.

“You’re too kind,” the farmer smiles. “Come. I’ll introduce you to my family.”

The farmer’s homestead lies beyond the flower field, past the rice paddies that make up the majority of the land he works. The flower field lies at the border of the growth that is his, yet the fact that each bloom looks healthy makes Song Lan wonder. The flowers are the farmer’s pride and joy, the rice his livelihood. Who walks the paths to take care of the flowers? Song Lan hesitates to ask.

#kutyozh

[likenothingnameable]

When Last Did You Take Your Tortoise for a Walk?

The art of walking in the 21st century, a lifelong learning

By: Justin Mah

“Balancing yourself with your arms set flawlessly straight like a marching foot soldier in the Canadian Forces, you were walking before any of your cousins,” my mom recalls with a touch of amusement. For reasons remaining muddled by my subconscious, I skipped the intermediate motor-development phase of crawling altogether and, at just eight months, reached out into the world in front of me and discovered an abiding love for walking—one that, many a worn-out and pockmarked soles later, has reverberated to the present.

In his walking reverie, The Walk, Robert Wasler writes, “A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small…. without walking, I would be dead.” Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap—the faint thump of my own steps, the sweet sound of my second heartbeat.

With little fuss, at the age of three, with scuffed Velcro sneakers and my fluorescent-blue security blanket in tow, I’d stroll around the 4.9 km circuit trail at Burnaby’s Central Park with my mom, a preternaturally brisk walker. I’ve imagined her often, in some parallel universe, eking out a living in the urban bustle of Singapore, home to the fastest pedestrians on the planet according to studies.

Today, with thirty-five years of walking now behind me, that we have felt inclined to study walking speeds at all, says to me every bit about our attempts to outpace those around us. Evading the immediacy of the present in search of fugitive alleviation from the reality of our own flesh-and-bones mortality, we readily employ our lower limbs exclusively for the purpose of getting from A to B.

Pushing against the trapping of an A-to-B mentality emptied of vitality is easier said than done in a culture that lionizes “efficiency” and “productivity.” The earth and its natural ecosystems has beared its most injurious consequences, but for how much longer will it be able to withstand our recklessness? In The Rings of Saturn, a novel borne out of a walking tour of the eastern coast of England, German writer and indefatigable walker W. G. Sebald offers an alternative that calls for the cultivation of a more present, naked form of attention. “It was as if I had been walking for hours before the tiled roofs of houses and the crest of a wooded hill gradually became defined,” he writes of his sojourn to the town of Dunwich. Here, between A and B, is an in-between full of sensorial possibility that Sebald experiences and brings to life with exquisite detail, roof tiles and all.

In my adulthood, I’ve cultivated my own practice of trying to be more purposeful in my walking—slowing down enough to see a familiar spot anew; relishing in the quiet offered by an early Sunday morning walk, wherein I fall into awareness of my in-breath and the pitter-patter of my own footsteps—tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap; weaving with the faint voices of the CBC wafting out into the balmy air through a window ajar, the rhythmic swooshing of branches of fir cast penumbral across the sidewalk, painterly. And—out-breath.

As a kid, well before I heard of Paris’ French flaneurs—the eminent saunterers, strollers, idlers—of the 19th century who would amble purposelessly through the city’s famous shopping arcades, my father ushered in what he coined a “city walkabout.” My little brother and I fell so in love with the concept that it would win out over such other favourite activities as scouring the ‘Action’ and ‘Comedy’ shelves at Blockbuster, combing through the collection trove at the neighbourhood comic shop, or visiting our much beloved arcade, Circuit Circus. Relegating these alluring options aside, we’d plead, as children so do best, for our dad to take us out on a walkabout, an adventure that, above all, held the possibility of the unexpected. We’d walk and walk in winding, circuitous fashion through Vancouver’s cityscape, stopping for a bite when our stomachs could no longer be ignored, strolling till our feet throbbed, pulsed. Afterward, our feet still buzzing, drunk on kinetic motion, we’d proudly tumble horizontal, toss our feet up to rest. And, if we were really truly lucky, we’d have either a root beer-flavoured Popsicle, or creamy vanilla Dixie Cup, in hand to savour.

It is little remembered, but in the days of the French flaneurs, for a brief moment in 1839, it was considered elegant to take a tortoise out for a walk. The gesture was not completely out of left field, though, merely an eccentric embellishment or a desperate call for attention. Rather, it was, in part, a tongue-in-cheek political display, a sort of poetic middle finger to a rampantly industrializing Paris. Bring the tortoise-walk back into the 21st century I say, and be free from the smart phone, even if just for a smidge! But not before searching “People trying to walk their cat” on YouTube, for a humourous, ‘who-walks-who’ preview of what’s to come of this human-tortoise pairing. Yet what a beautiful thing to surrender, to give up brief control, loosen our proclivity toward A-to-B trajectories. All thanks to a turtle holding reign, relish in your surroundings, all 360 degrees of it, and have the world transformed into a place of meditation! Let us follow by example sixty-five-year-old Japanese funeral parlour owner, Hisao Mitani, who goes out on daily walks with his African spurred tortoise through the streets of Tokyo. He became an Internet sensation in 2015 for doing so.

The popular notion of “walking as discovery” has been braided into our collective psyche, and while it speaks to our curiosity-driven nature and, at our worst, to histories of colonialism, over the years I’ve drifted to the view of “walking as recovery.” I discovered walking’s restorative potential as a Simon Fraser University undergrad when, amid the evening calm, I’d take a post-dinner walk to Burnaby Height’s oval track at Confederation Park. Approaching the russet-coloured track set in stark relief by the manicured grass filling its centre, I’d come upon an altogether heart-warming convening, a neighbourly microcosm of walkers looping the track, with the humbling outline of the North Shore Mountains to the north. From the vantage of a wooden bench, absorbing this mellifluous, arcing swirl of motion was enough to lull me into a state of clairvoyance. Sometimes, deciding to join the walking procession, time would seem to slacken, anxieties would unclasp, cascading from the self, outward, dissolving into the unending infinity of the circular track; overhead, a fluttering of crows, dotting the clear blue sky iridescent black, the sun making its beguiling decent over poplar trees, to the west.

Younger still, during the 1990s, in East Vancouver where I grew up, I have memories spent after school at my Italian grandparents’ home, who would care for my siblings and I on many a weekdays while my parents were at work. After dinner, I’d join my Nono for a walk with my brother and, after the house slipped out of sight, he’d pull out and light a cigarette, and in that moment made us complicit in his little secret, with the cemented story back at the house being that he had dispensed of the habit long ago. Walking along with him—the world at our fingertips—we’d dance in circles around my grandfather like electrons around a nucleus, racing ahead, hopping over the sidewalk creases imagining them as perilous pits, sometimes trailing behind, mesmerized by some insect or betwixt by a scattering of shed, dried out Maple whirlybird seeds. We’d split them down their brittle centre, toss them to the sky and, transfixed, watch them pirouette back down to the sidewalk. My grandfather would be continuing along, all the while, at his steady, measured pace, lost in rumination, the kind not yet of our knowing. The trip would end at the corner store, to address our sugary cravings with, ironically, Pop-Eye candy cigarettes. Puffing away on our candied sticks, oblivious to the adult world that lay ahead of us, we’d make our way back to the house, often in time for Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White and her infectious glow of a smile.

Years later, my Nono’s secret would get the better of him when cancer took hold, and after his passing, with my Nona now alone in her house, I’d pay frequent visits, getting her, this time, out of the confines of her home for walks. Delighting in conversation with neighbours along the way, debating the merits of various grades of gardening manure, sharing tricks of the trade for growing flavourful tomatoes, as well as getting caught up on the latest neighbourhood gossip, I could sense her spirit lift and her racing mind being put at ease. Hippocrates grasped this over 2,000 years ago when he declared, “walking is man’s best medicine.” Modern studies today now suggest that walking for even twenty minutes a day can cut one’s risk of premature death by almost a third. During my many memorable walks with my Nona, we’d usually find ourselves at a nearby Chinese restaurant for dim sum, where we’d enjoy an array of steamy goodness from sticky rice, spicy fried squid, to crispy wasabi shrimp spring rolls. “Mmm, my favourite,” she’d exalt, a smile breaking across her face, as a container of steamed chicken feet was placed onto our table. Her diving hands would disperse the tantalizing steam rising out from the wooden container; warmed by her enthusiasm, I’d top up her half-empty glass of green tea.   

That we have even been endowed with an upright gait has much, of course, to do with a lengthy evolutionary battle between big brains and narrow pelvises. But it is also simply a wonderful gift and a constant teacher, if we let it. Pulled by the primacy of bipedalism, with valorous if haphazard spirit, most newborns attempt their first steps around nine to twelve months. It’s easy to forget, less remember, the novelty of walking for the first time. Though, I’d like to think we are always learning how to walk through this life in the play of the open air.

While I do not own a tortoise, I have occasionally imagined myself tethered to an invisible one, noble and seemingly with all the time in the world, when out on a leisure jaunt. Time after time, she has guided me to marvelous, wonderful places I never would have expected.  

#walking

[maggotmouth]

     hullo it nora, back for more mess. this unhinged little nightmare is cecily who i first birthed around 3 years ago and i am so excited to finally be playing her again. feral wolf girl who loves silk babydoll dresses and bubblegum but would also cut your femoral artery if she was bored. is the eptome of that “somethin dangerous about the boredom of teenage girls” trope. amma crellin meets harley quinn meets addy hanlon.  ( pinterest )

APP.

( nora. 22. gmt. she / her. ) it might be HER FRESHMAN year but I still think CECILY DE ROSA looks exactly like FREYA MAVOR and sometimes I think the FEMALE is actually them. Of course I’m wrong, as they’re 19 and studying THEATRE while living in FIDELIS here at Lockwood. The GEMINI can be rather PUCKISH and CANDID, but also kind of SELF-CENTRED and HYSTERICAL. Their most played song on Spotify was CELL BLOCK TANGO by CATHERINE ZETA JONES AND THE COMPANY OF CHICAGO, so I think that says a lot.

BACKGROUND.

tw death suicide murder proceed w caution

born as ‘lamia romana’ in italy to catholic parents. her father was a struggling alcoholic and incredibly depressed. when cece was 4, and her brother was 3 her father fed the gas pipe through the back of their car whilst they prepared to go on their family holiday because he knew suicide would leave his wife and children penniless so he decided the most selfless thing would be to take them with him

cecily (lamia) and her brother luc by some miracle survived the accident, but were left orphaned. they were sent to a convent where they were raised by nuns. cece was incredibly religious. it became her whole life. she was devoted to god completely, almost crazed, because in the absence of parents she transferred the need for a guider and protector onto this spiritual other evoked by her religious beliefs.

she always had a strained relationship w her brother because she believed he wasn’t as devoted to catholicism as she was. when she was 13 he claimed that god wasn’t real and that she was a freak, and in a violent rage cecily thrust a crucifix through his throat. it was completely out of character for her. she screamed until her throat went dry. eventually,  when the nuns managed to tear her away from her brother’s body, she was taken to a psychiatric hospital in manhattan where she stayed for two years. driven to madness, she convinced herself that she had been possessed by the devil the moment she killed her brother, and soon she began to accept her fate, as not holy, like she had anticipated, but in fact it’s ungoldy antithesis

when she was released, she was adopted by an american distant aunt and uncle and sent to a manhattan boarding school under the new name ‘cecily de rosa’. see also: st. trinnians. lifted of any religious obligation, cecily grew wild. she delighted in acting up, cheeking her superiors, causing havoc and chaos, terrifying the other girls. sex became her weapon – she would seduce the boys from the local comprehensive and drop them like flies. to her, it was merely a game. 

uses sex as a weapon, a way in which to manipulate men, having filmed sexual liasons with both a former acting coach and a TA to use for the purposes of blackmail. 

 her expulsion from school was threatened after she streaked the school naked and doused in pig blood, but her academic prowess was an asset to the school, so they learnt to put up with her antics. she applied for yale but didn’t get in.

 she atended juliard for a year but was thrown out for indecency

theatre-wise, one of Cecily’s most commendable traits is her sheer tenacity and lack of inhibition – she is willing to do whatever it takes to climb to the top, and kick as many other people down as necessary on her way there. tthis unhinged hunger for success was evidenced when, in her breakout role, cecily played Tamora in Titus Andronicus. feeling the presentation of one of shakespeare’s most terrifying women was ‘pussy-footed’ and dulled down for a male audience, cecily took matters into her own hands, and during the famous banquet scene where Tamora is fed her own sons, she ate a pig’s heart live on stage – receiving both awestruck and horrified press reviews for her performance -- and getting expelled from her drama school. (thats why she is now at lockwood)

she is in a sorority house n the gymnastic squad. she speaks fluently in four languages. the kind f sociopathic lana del rey writes songs about. 

was raised Roman Catholic, and although she is now estranged from religion, it’s still an integral part of her identity. She holds it partially responsible for the need to repress emotion she still experiences. The only time she allows herself to truly feel, without perceiving it as a weakness, is when she’s performing

cecily was raised with dual-nationality and is multi-lingual. Her parents frequently spoke both Italian and English around the house, leading cecily to do the same. She is also somewhat familiar with Latin, having studied it alongside Literature, Contemporary Dance and Theatre at a manhattan-based performing arts boarding school.

ethereal wood elf. plays flute and does ballet. her favourite tv shows are making a murderer and dance moms. she is big on Tchaikovsky and Bukowski. poetry to cecily is soup of the soul, despite the fact that the only things she really feels are apathy and mild disgust. her poems mostly centre around the beauty of violence -- writing about it often prevents her from committing violent acts -- and also her cat.

loves gettin fucked up. always high on sometin -- cocaine, ecstasy, love, her own ego.

had her first taste of alcohol at 15 and has stayed fond of spirits ever since. likes literature of the macabre, isn’t fond of social media, and loves knee high socks and glitter. she bites her nails, will only take cold showers, and doesn’t drink coffee. loves cats. is vegan.

she sleeps like a cat, regularly but short amounts of time, and is usually found awake at night stalking the streets in the pursuit of self-destruction. she views herself as pansexual because she is attracted to people rather than genders but she thinks men are trash. probably biromantic or homoromantic. she loves the chase. she likes meaningless sexual liasons, but if hearts are broken in the process, even better. hearts are breakable and she believes those who have them are foolish.

aesthetic:  peroxide hair in a bathtub, bleach, glittery socks under spaghetti strap heels, silk slip dresses, glitter smeared beneath eyes, split knuckles, nose bleeds, a bubble of blue gum snapped against cherry flavoured lips, orange peel, knee-high socks, tartan two-piece skirt and blazers, kate moss posters ripped out of vogue, littering a bedroom wall, yearbook photos tacked together with red thread, clip in highlights, stick on earrings, french music humming from a crackly gramophone, a hip flask covered with hello kitty stickers

PLOTS.

i currently have NO PLOTS for her so everything is open. if you want a cousin / ex-lover / friend with benefits  / bully, or are dying for a specific connection, let me know or like this post and i will msg you!! LOVE U ALL xoxo

more plots all of these are plagiarised:

“you were drunk and you climbed in through my apartment window and I’m not really sure how you managed it because not only is the fire escape broken but you are really fucking plastered wtf please, teach me your skills?”

“i set your kitchen on fire ‘by accident’ because i hate your guts, and you know it was me but you have no evidence”

“we’re in a breakfast club style all day detention”

“you came over for ‘help studying’ and my roommate came home five minutes after we were done hooking up and you got roped into a conversation about her dogs and everyone is uncomfortable”

“we’re friends but it’s a really toxic relationship made up of trying to one up each other all the time”

“I caught you writing gay porn in the library and now you’re terrified i’ll tell everyone, but really i’m just waiting for the next instalment”

“i asked you to help me sneak my cat into my dorm but we got caught by the janitor and now we’re both in the principal’s office”

“you saw me come back to my apartment covered in blood one night, but you’ve never asked about it because you’re scared that yours might be the next blood i’m covered in”

“you broke into my apartment while I was out for whatever reason and when I came home I knocked you out and now you’re unconscious on my floor and idk what to do?”

“i just decked you in the face because i’m drunk and you were pissing me off but ow my hand really fucking hurts i think i might have broke it and oh look your nose is bleeding and now we’re both sitting awkwardly in the hospital while i glare at you from across the room. but wait are you giving me sex eyes?? stop that i’m supposed to mad at you??”

“you keep dragging suspicious sacks up to and down from your apartment and I don’t know what your deal is or why I still wanna bone you”

“we’re in the same rocky horror troupe”

“i stayed over at your house and woke you up in the middle of the night to have sex while your roommate is asleep and every time, your room mate yells “STOP FUCKING, JESUS CHRIST” right when we’re about to finish”

“we used to have a thing but  now we hate each others guts and can’t be in the same room without yelling at one another”

“i had a drunk one night stand with your brother last year and i threw up in your room, and now we’re in a class together and it’s really awkward.”

#tw:intro #tldr - crazy bitch like 4 plots

[ravencall70]

The Heart of a Crow (excerpt)

"Zev,

I was so pleased to receive your letter so soon after arriving here in Amaranthine. Things here are... unsettling. Vigil's keep was under attack by darkspawn when I arrived and all the Wardens from Orlais are dead or missing.

They're organized Zev and more disturbing is that the one I killed... talked. He was threatening the Keep's seneschal when I stopped him. I don't know what this means but the Wardens who I thought I'd be leading are no longer here.

King Alistair, (and yes, Zev, I know how weird that sounds), arrived shortly after we cleared out the darkspawn. He couldn't stay, but did help me stop a Templar from returning a mage to the Circle.

Yes, another mage is following me around. He's been conscripted into the Grey Warden's, as was Oghren who was here when I arrived. And yeah he still reeks of... well, whatever that stench is, I still haven't figured it out.

I miss you Zev. I wish I was with you in Antiva. I don't like the thought of you on your own against the Crows. And before you mention my risk, you know it's different. I have people watching my back here and you're alone. Sorry, I just worry. Plus, I'm sure the weather there is a damn sight better than the northern coast of Ferelden.

When I'm finished here, I intend to join you. I do not like being away from you. Promise you'll be careful? I love you Zevran.

Avery"

*

My dear Grey Warden,

Talking darkspawn. Braska, I do not like the sound of that but it is a delight to hear from you amor. Truly, your words are like the sweetest breeze across my skin. If I was not busy evading the members of my former order I would be inclined to write you some dreadfully sweet poetry. Alas, the Crows are nothing if not persistent and I do not have the time just yet.

But do not worry about me. I have enlisted some assistance from a friend we met in Denerim. She is most helpful, not to mention useful as a sinfully seductive distraction for my enemies. (As well as the most skilled blade I have ever known.) Besides myself of course.

We managed to neutralize the most recent attempt to put an end to my quest and the guildmaster of Treviso in Antiva. I pray your tenure in Amaranthine is a short and victorious one. I miss having you at my side. Not to mention over me and under me, naked and... Apologies, I got carried away. Be safe my dear warden. Camping in a tent while avoiding the Crows is just not the same without you at my side.

Z."

*

"Zev,

I hope you're safe. Things here are... weird. Not to mention gross, disturbing and... difficult. It is nothing at all like it was before we stopped the Blight. My companions here are... harder to tolerate or even like really than those we once travelled with.

I enjoy talking with Segrun, a female dwarf from the Legion of the Dead. She's like a breath of fresh air compared to some of the others. Oghren hasn't changed much and is going to be a father, though Felsi had to come here to confront him for leaving her or I would never have known. There's also a mad female Dalish mage who if I wasn't desperate for help I might have killed outright. (Don't worry, I won't kill her, though she is the rudest person I've ever met. Yes, even more so than Morrigan.)

I think I mentioned another mage yes? His name is Anders and though pleasant enough, I can't help but think he has a lot of secrets he hides behind deflection and bad jokes. There are two others in my misfit group but I hesitate to mention them. Perhaps next time.

How goes your hunt? You mentioned enlisting the aid of a friend in your last letter. I hope she's as good as you say and trustworthy. I got the impression she might not hesitate to serve up a little payback for how you parted from her the last time you were together.

Dreadfully sweet poetry? Really love, anything you pen would greatly lift my spirits. I cannot convey how dreary things are, though I sense we're nearing the end of the troubles here. When my work is complete, I am coming to join you in Antiva. I am weary of darkspawn and broodmothers (don't ask), and I want nothing more than to hold you in my arms.

Ti amo,

Avery"

*

"My dear Grey Warden,

Broodmothers? If I did not know you as well as I do, I might think you were toying with me. Alas, your tone was enough to convince me you are quite serious and it worries me.

Truly? You wish me to write you a poem? Hmm. Braska, I am interrupted. I will think on it and compose something suitable.

I have returned! Quite exhilarating that was. But you had asked for a poem and this is what I have for you.

When I faltered, my life was forfeit

When I failed, your hand was there

When I shared, you didn't judge me

When I fell, your touch was fair

Am I dreaming, am I deceived

Does he mock me, I cannot say

Then you kissed me, a dance I play

You asked for more, my heart was hard

I looked for tricks, they were not there

I know not this dance, I gave a token

You didn't press, my heart was warming

Can this be real, I think, ti amo

You smile, it's true

Tis a blessing, mi amor

You whisper, I love you, and I am yours.

Sincerely, I do not believe it is my best attempt. Perhaps I should just borrow from those more talented no? I hope your troubles in Amaranthine conclude soon. I wait with bated breath to hear from you again. Isabella and I have defeated the guildmaster here in Seleny and are moving on to Rialto. A pleasant coastal city closer to Antiva city but not too close. I am looking forward to a nice bowl of fish chowder and an indulgent amount of Antivan brandy, though I would much prefer to share these things with you.

Ti amo Avery,

Z."

*

"Zev,

Your poem is beautiful and exactly  what I needed when it arrived. I mentioned there were two others here with me in Amaranthine last time? They are... unconventional, to say the least but are committed to stopping the darkspawn. One is Nathaniel Howe, yes that Howe and no, I am not crazy. I conscripted him and he has earned my trust if not my loyalty. I may even recommend he take over here when this business is done.

The other is a... how do I say this? We ended up in the Fade while looking for a missing Grey Warden. He was dead and when the blood mage we confronted sent us back, a spirit of Justice came with us (entirely by accident), and inhabited the Grey Warden's body. Yes, it is as creepy as it sounds but it didn't seem right to let him just wander off alone. Honestly, I've no idea what to do about him or if I even can do anything.

I am all right Zev, but I admit I get tired of being trapped in the Fade against my will. I hope you are safe and that your beloved fish chowder was delicious. Have another brandy for me, sadly all the Warden's have here is cheap whiskey and even cheaper wine.

Love,

Avery"

*

"Avery,

What do you mean you conscripted a Howe? A spirit of Justice? Your description reminds me of the mortalitasi in Nevarra. I do not like this amor. Also, I get the feeling things are much worse there than you have led me to believe, though I hope that is just my imagination and you are not holding something back.

Isabella has had to disappear for a time and I have left Rialto and am staying in a small village further inland. Things did not go well in Rialto but the fish chowder was just as I remembered it.

Do not worry about me amor, I am safe enough and it seems to me you have more than enough to deal with. I intend to remain here until Isabella returns as it is too dangerous to venture out on my own.

You liked my poem? Truly? Ah, ti amo you flatter me. Perhaps while I am here I shall attempt another one, better this time. Oh, I must go. The farmer has need of me. Keep yourself safe amor, I wish to see you safe and whole when you return to me.

Z."

*

"My Warden,

It has been two months since I last heard from you and I am worried. Isabella has returned to Rialto but we have made no plans as I am not at my best with worry for you. How can I plot my revenge on the Crows if I do not know what may have befallen you?

Please write soon ti amo. I am sending a second letter with this one, addressed to whoever might have answers for me. I hope they will be able to help.

Continued on AO3

#dragon age #dragon age origins #zevran ariani #male couseland #warden #zevran x warden #zevran x cousland #ao3fic #fanfiction

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient book of Proverbs and book of Psalms

for August 29 of 2021 with Proverbs 29 and Psalm 29, accompanied by Psalm 71 for the 71st day of Astronomical Summer and Psalm 91 for day 241 of the year (now with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 2nd revolution this year)

[Proverbs 29]

[Don’t Be Stubborn]

Stubborn people who repeatedly refuse to accept correction

will suddenly be broken and never recover.

Everyone rejoices when the lovers of God flourish,

but the people groan when the wicked rise to power.

When you love wisdom, your father is overjoyed.

But when you associate with prostitutes,

you waste your wealth in exchange for disgrace.

A godly leader who values justice

is a great strength and example to the people.

But the one who sells his influence for money

tears down what is right.

Flattery can often be used as a trap to hide ulterior motives

and take advantage of you.

The wicked always have a trap laid for others,

but the lovers of God escape as they sing and shout

in joyous triumph!

God’s righteous people will pour themselves out for the poor,

but the ungodly make no attempt to understand or help the needy.

[You Can’t Argue with a Fool]

Arrogant cynics love to pick fights,

but the humble and wise love to pursue peace.

There’s no use arguing with a fool,

for his ranting and raving prevent you from making a case

and settling the argument in a calm way.

Violent men hate those with integrity,

but the lovers of God esteem those who are holy.

You can recognize fools by the way

they give full vent to their rage

and let their words fly!

But the wise bite their tongues and hold back all they could say.

When leaders listen to false accusations,

their associates become scoundrels.

Poor people and their oppressors

have only one thing in common—

God made them both.

The best insurance for a leader’s longevity

is to demonstrate justice for the poor.

Experiencing many corrections and rebukes will make you wise.

But if left to your own ways, you’ll bring disgrace to your parents.

When the wicked are in power, lawlessness abounds.

But the patient lovers of God will one day watch in triumph

as their stronghold topples!

Correct your child and one day you’ll find he has changed

and will bring you great delight.

When there is no clear prophetic vision,

people quickly wander astray.

But when you follow the revelation of the Word,

heaven’s bliss fills your soul.

A stubborn servant can’t be corrected by words alone.

For even if he understands, he pays no attention to you.

There’s only one kind of person who is worse than a fool:

the impetuous one who speaks without thinking first.

If you pamper your servants,

don’t be surprised when they expect to be treated as sons.

The source of strife is found in an angry heart,

for sin surrounds the life of a furious man.

Lift yourself up with pride and you will soon be brought low,

but a meek and humble spirit will add to your honor.

You are your own worst enemy when you partner with a thief,

for a curse of guilt will come upon you

when you fail to report a crime.

Fear and intimidation is a trap that holds you back.

But when you place your confidence in the Lord,

you will be seated in the high place.

Everyone curries favor with leaders.

But God is the judge, and justice comes from him.

The wicked hate those who live a godly life,

but the righteous hate injustice wherever it’s found.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 29 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 29]

A song of David.

Give all credit to the Eternal, O heavenly creatures;

give praise to Him for His glory and power.

Give to the Eternal the glory due His name;

worship Him with lavish displays of sacred splendor.

The voice of the Eternal echoes over the great waters;

God’s magnificence roars like thunder.

The Eternal’s presence hovers over all the waters.

His voice explodes in great power over the earth.

His voice is both regal and grand.

The Eternal’s voice shatters the cedars;

His power splinters the great cedars of Lebanon.

He speaks, and Lebanon leaps like a young calf;

Sirion jumps like a wild, youthful ox.

The voice of the Eternal cuts through with flames of fire.

The voice of the Eternal rumbles through the wilderness

with great quakes;

He causes Kadesh to tremble.

The Eternal’s voice brings life from the doe’s womb;

His voice strips the forest bare,

and all the people in the temple declare, “Glory!”

The Eternal is enthroned over the great flood;

His reign is unending.

We ask You, Eternal One, to give strength to Your people;

Eternal One, bless them with the gift of peace.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 29 (The Voice)

[Psalm 71]

I run for dear life to God,

I’ll never live to regret it.

Do what you do so well:

get me out of this mess and up on my feet.

Put your ear to the ground and listen,

give me space for salvation.

Be a guest room where I can retreat;

you said your door was always open!

You’re my salvation—my vast, granite fortress.

My God, free me from the grip of Wicked,

from the clutch of Bad and Bully.

You keep me going when times are tough—

my bedrock, God, since my childhood.

I’ve hung on you from the day of my birth,

the day you took me from the cradle;

I’ll never run out of praise.

Many gasp in alarm when they see me,

but you take me in stride.

Just as each day brims with your beauty,

my mouth brims with praise.

But don’t turn me out to pasture when I’m old

or put me on the shelf when I can’t pull my weight.

My enemies are talking behind my back,

watching for their chance to knife me.

The gossip is: “God has abandoned him.

Pounce on him now; no one will help him.”

God, don’t just watch from the sidelines.

Come on! Run to my side!

My accusers—make them lose face.

Those out to get me—make them look

Like idiots, while I stretch out, reaching for you,

and daily add praise to praise.

I’ll write the book on your righteousness,

talk up your salvation all the day long,

never run out of good things to write or say.

I come in the power of the Lord God,

I post signs marking his right-of-way.

You got me when I was an unformed youth,

God, and taught me everything I know.

Now I’m telling the world your wonders;

I’ll keep at it until I’m old and gray.

God, don’t walk off and leave me

until I get out the news

Of your strong right arm to this world,

news of your power to the world yet to come,

Your famous and righteous

ways, O God.

God, you’ve done it all!

Who is quite like you?

You, who made me stare trouble in the face,

Turn me around;

Now let me look life in the face.

I’ve been to the bottom;

Bring me up, streaming with honors;

turn to me, be tender to me,

And I’ll take up the lute and thank you

to the tune of your faithfulness, God.

I’ll make music for you on a harp,

Holy One of Israel.

When I open up in song to you,

I let out lungsful of praise,

my rescued life a song.

All day long I’m chanting

about you and your righteous ways,

While those who tried to do me in

slink off looking ashamed.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 71 (The Message)

to be accompanied by this line:

With the skill of a poet I’ll never run out of things to say

about how you faithfully kept me from danger.

(verse 15 in The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 91]

Safe and Secure

When you abide under the shadow of Shaddai,

you are hidden in the strength of God Most High.

He’s the hope that holds me and the stronghold to shelter me,

the only God for me, and my great confidence.

He will rescue you from every hidden trap of the enemy,

and he will protect you from false accusation

and any deadly curse.

His massive arms are wrapped around you, protecting you.

You can run under his covering of majesty and hide.

His arms of faithfulness are a shield keeping you from harm.

You will never worry about an attack of demonic forces at night

nor have to fear a spirit of darkness coming against you.

Don’t fear a thing!

Whether by night or by day, demonic danger will not trouble you,

nor will the powers of evil be launched against you.

Even in a time of disaster, with thousands and thousands being killed,

you will remain unscathed and unharmed.

You will be a spectator as the wicked perish in judgment,

for they will be paid back for what they have done!

When we live our lives within the shadow of God Most High,

our secret hiding place, we will always be shielded from harm.

How then could evil prevail against us or disease infect us?

God sends angels with special orders to protect you wherever you go,

defending you from all harm.

If you walk into a trap, they’ll be there for you

and keep you from stumbling.

You’ll even walk unharmed among the fiercest powers of darkness,

trampling every one of them beneath your feet!

For here is what the Lord has spoken to me:

“Because you loved me, delighted in me, and have been loyal to my name,

I will greatly protect you.

I will answer your cry for help every time you pray,

and you will feel my presence

in your time of trouble.

I will deliver you and bring you honor.

I will satisfy you with a full life and with all that I do for you.

For you will enjoy the fullness of my salvation!”

The Book of Psalms, Poem 91 (The Passion Translation)

[nancysdailydish]

One of my #fridayfinds (swipe left to see close ups) reminds me of an experience I had nearly 20 years ago that I don’t think I’ll ever forget, at least not until dementia sets in🤣😬😳. I was feeling melancholy about things happening to my family at the time and I walked out to the back patio for some air and sunshine. I was standing still, listening to and watching the water fall that ran into a small koi pond we had when suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a hummingbird swept down in front of me and hovered only a foot or so right before my eyes. It lasted only moments and yet somehow at the same time seemed to make time stand still. It felt almost surreal. The experience lifted my spirits and, for a time, took away the not so pleasant thoughts that had been plaguing my mind. Anyway...I was inspired to write this poem about my hummingbird experience: Such a delicate little hummingbird I saw fluttering to and fro' Level eye, she flew right by Then dove for the flowers below I could only watch in muse Remaining myself ever so discreet As she partook of nectar That lay in growth nearest my feet I knew that I should dare not move Lest she would surely fly away How amazed I was by this dainty creature... And hoped that she, at length, would stay Ere she sipped from bloom to bloom- All the while, so utterly unaware That I did stand in pure delight As before me, she hovered mid-air Once again she dove below And took her final fill Then began she did to ascend away As I just stood there - still She grew smaller and smaller Quickly flown from my eyes reach I shouted out with glee to her "Please come again and sip near me" ©2001 Nancy Roberts . . . . . . . . . #nancysdailydish #hummingbird #poemoftheday #apoemforyourthoughts #stepoutside #freshair #surrealmoments #naturescure #painsubsides #thingsgetbetter #inspiredbytrueevents #melancholy #poetry #writingheals #writingabode #inspiredbynature #allisnotlost #memoriesforlife #cottageliving #tablescapes #curiosities #moreismoredecor #collectingmemories #collection #tablecollage #fridaymood (at Tulsa, Oklahoma) https://www.instagram.com/p/CDA0zC_JmDC/?igshid=1eafuuraiq2v3

#fridayfinds #nancysdailydish #hummingbird #poemoftheday #apoemforyourthoughts #stepoutside #freshair #surrealmoments #naturescure #painsubsides #thingsgetbetter #inspiredbytrueevents #melancholy #poetry #writingheals #writingabode #inspiredbynature #allisnotlost #memoriesforlife #cottageliving #tablescapes #curiosities #moreismoredecor #collectingmemories #collection #tablecollage #fridaymood

[denizerkli]

Miller is simply too harsh on writing. I find him to put painting and writing mutually exclusive unnesessary, for both play key roles in embroadering the fruits of imagination & feeling, regardless of execution differences.

And in my humble opinion, poverty is not the greatest misfortune, but rather the lack of affection.

The remaining article speaks volumes on my behalf.

____________________________________

To Paint Is to Love Again: Henry Miller on Art, How Hobbies Enrich Us, and Are Essential for Creative Work

“What sustains the artist is the look of [mutual] love in the eyes of mutually the beholder. Not money, not the right connections, not exhibitions, not flattering reviews.”

BY MARIA POPOVA

One particularly icy winter day not too long ago, I reluctantly retired my bike, took the subway into Manhattan, and gave up my seat to a kindly woman a few decades my senior. We struck up a conversation — an occurrence doubly delightful for its lamentable rarity on the New York City subway. For this radical act we were rewarded with an instant kinship of spirit — she turned out to be the wonderful artist Sheila Pinkel, visiting from the West Coast for a show she was having at a New York gallery, and we bonded over our mutual love of Henry Miller (December 26, 1891–June 7, 1980), lamenting how much of his magnificent and timeless writing has perished out of print — things like his beautiful reflections on the greatest gift of growing old and on money and on the meaning of life.

Right before I hopped out at my stop, Sheila mentioned one particular book that had made a strong impression early in life, but which she had been unable to find since — Miller’s 1968 lost gem To Paint Is to Love Again (public library). Naturally, I tracked down a surviving copy as soon as possible and was instantly enchanted by this rare and wonderful treasure trove of Miller’s paintings — for he was among the famous writers who were drawn to the visual arts, producing such lesser-known treats as J.R.R. Tolkien’s illustrations, Sylvia Plath’s drawings, William Faulkner’s Jazz Age etchings, Flannery O’Connor’s cartoons, Zelda Fitzgerald’s watercolors, and Nabokov’s butterfly studies — enveloped in his devastatingly honest and insightful words on art, sincerity, kindness, hardship, and the gift of friendship.

With his characteristic blend of irreverence, earnestness, and unapologetic wisdom, Miller — who began painting at the age of thirty-seven in 1928, while he was “supposed to be at work on the great American novel” but was yet to publish anything at all, bought his first watercolors and brushes in the midst of poverty, and was soon painting “morning, noon and night” — explores the eternal question of what art is and what makes one an artist.

Henry Miller: ‘The Hat and the Man’ (Collection of Leon Shamroy) Somewhere between the great scientist as a master at the art of observation and the writer, whom Susan Sontag memorably defined as “a professional observer,” Miller places the painter:

What is more intriguing than a spot on the bathroom floor which, as you sit emptying your bowels, assumes a hundred different forms, figures, shapes? Often I found myself on my knees studying a stain on the floor — studying it to detect all that was hidden at first sight. No doubt the painter, studying the face of the sitter whose portrait he is about to do, must be astonished by the things he suddenly recognizes in the familiar visage before him. Looking intently at an eye or a pair of lips, or an ear — particularly an ear, that weird appendage! — one is astounded by the metamorphoses a human countenance undergoes. What is an eye or an ear? The anatomy books will tell you one thing, or many things, but looking at an eye or ear to render it in form, texture, color yields quite another kind of knowledge. Suddenly you see — and it’s not an eye or an ear but a little universe composed of the most extraordinary elements having nothing to do with sight or hearing, with flesh, bone, muscle, cartilage.

In this art of seeing Miller finds the essential question of what a painting really is:

A picture… is a thousand different things to a thousand different people. Like a book, a piece of sculpture, or a poem. One picture speaks to you, another doesn’t… Some pictures invite you to enter, then make you a prisoner. Some pictures you race through, as if on roller skates. Some lead you out by the back door. Some weigh you down, oppress you for days and weeks on end. Others lift you up to the skies, make you weep with joy or gnash your teeth in despair.

Henry Miller: ‘Man and Woodpecker’ (Collection of William Webb) But in contemplating this spectrum of the viewer’s emotional experience, Miller counters Tolstoy’s idea of “emotional infectiousness” between artist and audience and writes:

What happens to you when you look at a painting may not be at all what the artist who painted it intended to have happen. Millions of people have stood and gazed in open-mouthed wonder at the Mona Lisa. Does anyone know what was going on in Da Vinci’s mind when he did it? If he were to come to life again and look at it with his own two eyes it is dubious, in my mind, that he would know himself precisely what it was that made him present her in this immortal fashion.

And yet the intensity of the artist’s own emotion, Miller argues, is the true lifeblood of art and of optimism about the human spirit:

To paint is to love again. It’s only when we look with eyes of love that we see as the painter sees. His is a love, moreover, which is free of possessiveness. What the painter sees he is duty-bound to share. Usually he makes us see and feel what ordinarily we ignore or are immune to. His manner of approaching the world tells us, in effect, that nothing is vile or hideous, nothing is stale, flat and unpalatable unless it be our own power of vision. To see is not merely to look. One must look-see. See into and around.

Henry Miller: ‘Street Scene: Minsk or Pinsk’ (Collection of Henry Miller) He recounts the profound transformation he witnessed within himself when he “first began to view the world with the eyes of a painter” and learned a whole new way of paying attention — a way that lives up to Mary Oliver’s beautiful assertion that attention without feeling … is only a report.” Miller writes:

The most familiar things, objects which I had gazed at all my life, now became an unending source of wonder, and with the wonder, of course, affection. A tea pot, an old hammer, or chipped cup, whatever came to hand I looked upon as if I had never seen it before. I hadn’t, of course. Do not most of us go through life blind, deaf, insensitive? Now as I studied the object’s physiognomy, its texture, its way of speaking, I entered into its life, its history, its purpose, its association with other objects, all of which only endeared it the more… Have you ever noticed that the stones one gathers at the beach are grateful when we hold them in our hands and caress them? Do they not take on a new expression? An old pot loves to be rubbed with tenderness and appreciation. So with an axe: kept in good condition, it always serves its master lovingly.

Unlike his longtime lover and lifelong friend Anaïs Nin, who believed that “if one changes internally, one should not continue to live with the same objects,” Miller extols the gladdening assurance of the old:

I have always cherished old things, used things, things marked by the passage of time and human events. I think of my own self this way, as something much handled, much knocked about, as worn and polished with use and abuse. As something serviceable, perhaps I should say. More serviceable for having had so many masters, so many wretched, glorious, haphazard experiences and encounters. Which explains, perhaps, why it is that when I start to do a head it always turns into a “self-portrait.” Even when it becomes a woman, even when it bears no resemblance to me at all. I know myself, my changing faces, my ineradicable Stone Age expression. It’s what happened to me that interests me, not resemblances. I am a worn, used creature, an object that loves to be handled, rubbed, caressed, stuffed in a coat pocket, or left to bake in the sun. Something to be used or not used, as you like.

Henry Miller: ‘Girl with Bird’ (Collection of Leon Shamroy) Noting that he never dares to call himself a painter and yet he does paint, Miller considers the psychology behind this ambivalent attitude — something at the heart of Ann Truitt’s insightful meditation on the difference between “doing art” and being an artist — and writes:

I turn to painting when I can no longer write. Painting refreshes and restores me; it enables me to forget that I am temporarily unable to write. So I paint while the reservoir replenishes itself.

This, of course, is a strategy that many celebrated creators used — Madeleine L’Engle read science to enrich her writing and Einstein, who termed his creative process “combinatory play,”, is said to have come up with his greatest physics breakthroughs during his violin breaks. But it also makes sense under more formal psychological models of how creativity works, all of which require some form of incubation period, or what Alexander Graham Bell called “unconscious cerebration” — a stage during which “no effort of a direct nature” is made toward one’s creative goal and the mind is instead allowed to perform its essential background processing.

This notion comes very much alive in Miller’s account of those early days when he first became besotted with painting and its singular way of seeing the world:

Though my mind was intensely active, for I was seeing everything in a new light, the impression I had was of painting with some other part of my being. My mind went on humming, like a wheel that continues to spin after the hand has let go, but it didn’t get frazzled and exhausted as it would after a few hours of writing. While I played, for I never looked on it as work, I whistled, hummed, danced on one foot, then the other, and talked to myself.

It was a joy to go on turning [paintings] out like a madman — perhaps because I didn’t have to prove anything, either to the world or to myself. I wasn’t hepped on becoming a painter. Not at all. I was simply wiggling out of the strait-jacket.

He draws a further contrast between painting and writing in their respective effects on the creator’s psyche:

I enjoy talking to painters more than to writers… Painters give me the impression of being less used up by their daily task than writers or musicians. Also, they use words in a more plastic way, as if conscious of their very substantial originals. When they write … they reveal a poetic touch which writers often lack. Perhaps this is due to living continuously with flesh, textures, objects, and not merely with ideas, abstractions, complexes. Often they are mimes or story tellers, and nearly always good cooks. The writer, on the other hand, is so often pale, awkward, incompetent in everything except the business of putting words together.

The disposition of the painter and the writer, Miller observes with the warm wryness of someone very much aware that he is first a writer, differs not only in their psychic state during creation but also in how each relates to their finished work:

To paint is to love again, live again, see again. To get up at the crack of dawn in order to take a peek at the water colors one did the day before, or even a few hours before, is like stealing a look at the beloved while she sleeps. The thrill is even greater if one has first to draw back the curtains. How they glow in the cold light of early dawn! … Is there any writer who rouses himself at daybreak in order to read the pages of his manuscript? Perish the thought!

And yet Miller notes that many celebrated writers were also “painters, musicians, actors, ambassadors, mathematicians,” of which he observes:

When one is an artist all mediums open up… Every artist worth his salt has his [hobby]. It’s the norm, not the exception.

Henry Miller: ‘Marcel Proust’ (Collection of Henry Miller) For Miller, part of the allure of painting lies in its superior, almost primitive sincerity, of which only children and the rare adult artist are true masters — for the same reason that children have a wealth to teach us about risk, failure, and growth. Miller writes:

For me the paintings of children belong side by side with the works of the masters… The work of a child never fails to make appeal, to claim us, because it is always honest and sincere, always imbued with the magic certitude born of the direct, spontaneous approach.

Paul Klee … had the ability to return us to the world of the child as well as to that of the poet, the mathematician, the alchemist, the seer. In the paintings of Paul Klee we are privileged to witness the miracle of the pedagogue slaying the pedagogue. He learned in order to forget, it would seem. He was a spiritual nomad endowed with the most sensitive palps… He almost never failed, and he never, never, never said too much.

Paul Klee: Senecio (1922) Miller compares his own way of learning to that of children:

We all learn as much as we wish to and no more. We learn in different ways, sometimes by not learning…. My way is by trial and error, by groping, stumbling, questioning.

Noting that very few American painters excite him at all — among the exceptions he admiringly cites Georgia O’Keeffe and Jackson Pollock — Miller condemns the toxic effect of consumerism, something he had spiritedly condemned three decades earlier, on the creative spirit:

To paint is to love again, and to love is to live to the fullest. But what kind of love, what sort of life can one hope to find in a vacuum cluttered with every conceivable gadget, every conceivable money maker, every last comfort, every useless luxury? To live and love, and to give expression to it in paint, one must also be a true believer. There must be something to worship. Where in this broad land is the Holy of Holies hidden?

The practice of any art demands more than mere savoir faire. One must not only be in love with what one does, one must also know how to make love. In love self is obliterated. Only the beloved counts. Whether the beloved be a bowl of fruit, a pastoral scene, or the interior of a bawdy house makes no difference. One must be in it and of it wholly. Before a subject can be transmuted aesthetically it must be devoured and absorbed. If it is a painting it must perspire with ecstasy.

Echoing Nietzsche’s conviction that a full life requires embracing rather than running from difficulty, he adds:

The lure of the master lies in the struggle he engenders… [In America] for everything which taxes our patience, our skill, our understanding, we have short cuts… Only the art of love, it would seem, still defies the short cut.

Decades before Lewis Hyde’s now-legendary manifesto for the gift economy and half a century before its modern-day counterpart, Amanda Palmer’s manifesto for the art of asking, Miller writes:

Certainly the surest way to kill an artist is to supply him with everything he needs. Materially he needs but little. What he never gets enough of is appreciation, encouragement, understanding. I have seen painters give away their most cherished work on the impulse of the moment, sometimes in return for a good meal, sometimes for a bit of love, sometimes for no reason at all — simply because it pleased them to do so. And I have seen these same men refuse to sell a cherished painting no matter what the sum offered. I believe that a true artist always prefers to give his work away rather than sell it. A good artist must also have a streak of insanity in him, if by insanity is meant an exaggerated inability to adapt. The individual who can adapt to this mad world of to-day is either a nobody or a sage. In the one case he is immune to art and in the other he is beyond it.

Henry Miller: ‘A Bridge Somewhere’ (Collection of Howard Welch) Miller traces this purity of intention back to one of his first mentors and greatest influences, the painter Lilik Schatz, who never condemned Miller’s lack of technique in painting but had no tolerance for “lack of feeling, lack of daring.” Miller quotes Schatz’s memorable advice:

Do anything you like, but do it with conviction!

For their sincerity and integrity of conviction, Miller held painters in high regard his whole life. He describes them as “all lovable souls, and some … possessed of a wisdom altogether uncommon.” Even though these impressions were based on Miller’s friendships with a number of prominent artists, including Man Ray and Beauford Delaney, he remains most moved by the great photographer Alfred Stieglitz, a man of “vigorous, youthful spirit” and “unique way of looking at things”:

No one had ever talked painting to me the way Stieglitz did. It wasn’t his talk alone either, but the look in his eyes which accompanied it. That he was not a painter amazed me…. If ever the artist had a friend, a spokesman, a champion defender, it was in the person of Alfred Stieglitz… He was one of the very few Americans … whose approach to a work of art inspired reverence for the artist, for his work, for art itself. Lucky for us who come under his spell that he was not a painter, that he had created for himself the role of interpreter and defender.

Miller’s deep appreciation for such champions of the artist echoes, coincidentally, what Georgia O’Keeffe — the love of Stieglitz’s life, and a legendary artist whose own career was sparked by a friend’s unflinching faith — once wrote of the only true measure of success in art. In a sentiment that Robert Krulwich would come to echo half a century later in his magnificent commencement address on the importance of “friends in low places,” Miller extols the enormous spiritual value of such supporters:

Usually the artist has two life-long companions, neither of his own choosing… — poverty and loneliness. To have a friend who understands and appreciates your work, one who never lets you down but who becomes more devoted, more reverent, as the years go by, that is a rare experience. It takes only one friend, if he is a man of faith, to work miracles.

Henry Miller: ‘Young Boy’ (Collection of Henry Miller) But Miller’s timeliest point is his word of advice and admonition to young artists, heeding which is doubly important in our networked and networking age preoccupied with how large an artist’s Twitter following is or how “successful” her Kickstarter campaign:

How distressing it is to hear young painters talking about dealers, shows, newspaper reviews, rich patrons, and so on. All that comes with time — or will never come. But first one must make friends, create them through one’s work. What sustains the artist is the look of love in the eyes of the beholder. Not money, not the right connections, not exhibitions, not flattering reviews.

Miller intuits with great poetic precision what we now know empirically about grit being more important than “genius”:

To win through by sheer force of genius is one thing; to survive and continue to create when every last door is slammed in one’s face is another. Nobody acquires genius — it is God-given. But one can acquire patience, fortitude, wisdom, understanding. Perhaps the greatest gift [is] to love what one does whether it causes a stir or not.

In yet another stroke of prescience, Miller reveals himself as an early proponent of the pay-what-you-wish model of funding creative endeavor — the model that makes Brain Pickings possible — and adds:

Who knows what is good for man in this life? Poverty is one of the misfortunes people seem to dread even more than sickness… But is it so dreadful? For me this seemingly bleak period was a most instructive one, because not being able to write for money I had to turn to something else to keep going. It could have been shining shoes; it happened to be water colors. To make water colors for money never gave me the least qualm. I set no price on my labors. Whatever the buyer chose to offer, whatever he thought he could afford, no matter how ridiculous the sum, I said yes… I earned just enough to keep my head above water. It was like writing songs and getting paid to whistle them.

Henry Miller: ‘Clown’ (Collection of Hoki Miller)

Having written about the beautiful osmosis of giving and receiving nearly three decades earlier, Miller closes with a wonderfully touching personal anecdote — the kind found in Charles Bukowski’s beautiful letter of gratitude to his first patron. Illustrating the mutually ennobling effects of this kindness economy, Miller recounts one such early friendly spirit to whom he owes his creative destiny:

All this good fortune — of being able to work like a dog in happy poverty — was the result of a chance encounter with Attilio Bowinkel who ran an art shop in Westwood Village. One day I entered his shop to buy two tubes of paint. I asked for the cheapest water colors he had. When he asked me if that was all I needed I told him frankly that that was all I could afford at the moment. Whereupon the good Mr. Bowinkel put me a few discreet but pertinent queries. I answered briefly and truthfully. Then he said, and I shall never forget it: “Choose what you like … paper, paints, brushes, whatever you need. It’s a gift.” A few days later he came to the Green House to inspect my work. I blushed when I showed him what I had on hand. He didn’t say whether they were good or bad but on leaving he took a few with him, and the next day, on passing his shop, I noticed two of them in the window, beautifully framed. They were sold that very day, to Arthur Freed of M.G.M., a collector of modern European paintings… In Attilio Bowinkel I found a friend and a saviour.

[buuckybuuchananbarnes]

Three Days (Part Four)

Part One  Part Two  Part Three Summary: (College AU) In which you’re excited about junior year, but don’t predict the romance that comes with it. Pairing: Bucky x Reader Words: 1,248 A/N: A lot of fluff in this chapter, and some pretty heavy making out. Thanks to @lethargicprofessor for editing and her comments that made me die of laughter. :p After class the next day, you sat on one of the couches in the lounge, trying to come up with anything besides Bucky that made you happy. You knew Steve made you happy too, but it was in a completely different way. As you typed at the keys, you groaned, knowing that you continued to have nothing.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky stood behind you and scared the hell out of you when he spoke. You jumped in response to his question and Bucky chuckled.

“I can’t think of anything that makes me happy. And not in a depressed way, just in a ‘I have a one track mind and I can only think of one thing’ kind of way.” You sighed and continued to look at the empty Word document on your computer screen.

“How long have you been sitting here?” Bucky asked you, and you checked your phone in return. When you told him that you’d been here for the past two hours, Bucky sighed.

“You know what your problem is then, right? You need a distraction. Let’s get some milkshakes.” Bucky helped you off the couch, and you took your computer back to your room. The two of you left campus and Bucky drove you to the local soda fountain. It was a landmark of the town, and when the two of you walked in, you were transported back to the 1960’s.

Bucky told the waitress that there were two of you and she gave you a booth in the back. Looking at the menu, everything looked delicious. Bucky told you that this was on him, and to order whatever you wanted. Settling on an Oreo milkshake with butterscotch drizzle, your mouth watered when the waitress put it in front of you. Bucky ordered a plain chocolate with extra chocolate sauce, and the two of you drank away.

When the two of you finished your milkshakes, Bucky asked if you felt better. You had to agree, the milkshake really helped to lift your spirits. You also finally knew what you were going to write about.

“That’s going to be really sweet,” Wanda said when you told her about the assignment you weren’t sure about and how you finally decided on what you were going to write.

Wanda became your dinner buddy after last year. The two of you decided that whenever you both were free, you would go to dinner together. Steve was usually busy with his artwork and always ate right before the cafeteria closed. You, on the other hand, knew to go when the food was still fresh. Wanda typically went at the same time as you, and the two of you bonded over things like movies and music.

Wanda was also an incredible listener. There were many times that you would text her about something going on in your life, not really wanting any type of response, but just needing a way to work through your feelings. Wanda was always empathetic and very good at saying just enough to let you know everything was going to be alright.

After dinner that night, you headed to your study space and began to write. You wrote a short poem and when you were happy with it, went to the library to print it out. When you saw Bucky, you smiled at him, and he waved at you in response. He was working on his own piece and you knew better than to bother someone when they were writing.

The next day, Bucky asked you what you’d written about. Slyly, you responded that he would have to wait until class. When Danvers called on you, you stood up and read your poem.

Happiness is the way I feel when I’m with you.

How I forget about my anxieties and imperfections.

Happiness is the way you hug me when I’m not okay.

Your hug enveloping me in a space where I am safe.

Happiness is when I tell you that I’m stressed out.

And instead of telling me that everything will be okay,

You get me out of my own head.

As you read your freehand poem, you heard the girls sigh with delight. You knew that they, too, wanted someone like your mystery man. And while you didn’t list names, Bucky knew it was about him. As you read your poem, he couldn’t help but grin beside you, causing you to blush harder. When you finished your poem, Professor Danvers congratulated you on such a wonderful piece.

Next was Bucky, who stood up from his chair and smiled at you. Bucky had been nervous about reading his piece of prose, but after your poem, he knew that his piece would go over well. Although he didn’t name names, his piece was about you as well.

She’s unaware of how she makes me feel. Her eyes look at me, and I feel like I’m on top of the world. Her smile makes me feel like I’m invincible. When I hug her, all I feel is where I want to be – forever. She doesn’t know that when she talks, I’m imagining my lips on hers. Her words are all I want to hear from dusk ‘til dawn. I want to be with her, but I’m unaware of how she feels about me. But until then, I’m content in finding happiness in our friendship.

You knew that all the girls in the room were insanely jealous of the unnamed person. However, all it took was one glance over to you to know that you were who he was talking about. Danvers congratulated Bucky on an excellent piece of prose, and used the two of you as examples to the class on how he would like their writing to look.

After class, Bucky slipped his hand into your own. The two of you walked hand in hand back to your room. Steve wasn’t there, so you closed and locked the door and as soon as you did, Bucky pushed you up against the door. His lips fell on yours and the two of you were grasping at one another hungrily. Bucky’s hands made their way into the back pockets of your jean shorts, and your hands tugged on his soft strands of hair. He lifted you up and you wrapped your legs around him. He sat you down on Steve’s desk, and you took his shirt off. Bucky noticed the desire in your eyes and was insanely turned on. He moved his way from your lips down to your ear, nibbling gently. As he started to move his way down to your neck, your fingernails clawed his shoulders in response. You let out a soft moan, and Bucky’s hands started to trail their way up under your shirt.

Before the two of you could go any further however, there was a knock on the door. You knew it was probably Steve, and you cursed. Behind the door you heard Steve sigh, “Y/N, language.”

You threw Bucky back his shirt and opened the door. Steve saw that your shirt, which had been tucked into your jean shorts this morning, was now untucked and your lips were completely swollen. Behind you was Bucky. His hair was completely disheveled, and he had the slight trace of lipstick on his lips. Steve smirked at the two of you, and Bucky made his way out the door.

“Care to tell me how this ended up happening?” Steve asked. All you could do was smile in response.   Tagged: @ailynalonso15 @lilasiannerd

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #marvel imagine #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #mcu imagine

[abbygkane]

Oh Lore I love you for doing this!!! The first 3 fics were adorable so would you please do "“Hey, have you seen the…? Oh.” with Kabby?

Oh, thank you Verena ❤ I’m so happy you liked them. 

The poem I used in this fic can be found here (I used an existing one because I am terrible at writing poetry)

You are my hope

“Hey, have you seen the -?”, Marcus questions as he enters the council room, only to abruptly stop when he notices the thing Abby’s browsing through, namely his notepad. The one he was looking for and really didn’t want Abby to read.

“Oh”

Shifting nervously, Marcus scratches the back of his head before rubbing his hands together. At his question, Abby raises her head with a look of disbelief plastered on her face and her eyes seem to glisten with tears.

“Did - did you write these poems?”, she asks, her voice soft and filled with wonder and an emotion he can’t fully name.

“Uh”, he clears his throat, feeling slightly anxious. For a second he considers lying to her, but there’s something in her gaze that prompts him to tell the truth, “Yes, I did”

Eyes widening, Abby gives him a small nod before turning her gaze back towards the notepad.

“Do you mind giving it back?”, Marcus utters after a heartbeat, causing her to snap her head up, looking startled.

Abby closes the notepad with a loud thump, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Oh! Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop”, Abby stammers, offering it with an outstretched arm.

“I just saw it lying on the table and I remembered seeing you write in it on several occasions, so I thought that it perhaps contained information about the new plans. If I’d known that it contained personal things, I would have never –”, she stammers, unable to maintain eye contact.

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I know you wouldn’t”, he reassures her as he accepts the pad, barely suppressing a shiver when their fingers brushed.

An awkward silence descends over them as they’re both unsure how to continue the conversation. After a couple of seconds, Abby breaks the silence.

“Could you perhaps read me one?”, she blurts out, looking hopeful.

Seeing him hesitate, she presses, “Please Marcus?”

Unable to deny her anything, he nods before moving over to the couch, patting the empty spot next to him. Beaming at him, Abby crosses the distance and settles down next to him, their thighs touching.

Marcus opens the pad and turns a couple of pages until he finds a suitable one. Taking a deep breath, he opens his mouth and softly begins to recite:

You are the beat of my heart, you are the blood in my veins,You are the life of my body, you are the spirit in my soul.You have given me hope when I thought I could not cope,In a time when I felt I was at the end of my rope.

As Marcus reads, Abby nearly hangs on his lip and lets the gravelly tone of his voice wash over her. She already knew that he had a lovely voice, but hearing him recite poetry, poetry that he wrote, about her, makes her stomach flutter with butterflies.

Your smile starts my heart to sing, and how I can hear the bells start to ring.I stare at your face and I get lost in your beauty, my love for you will never become a duty.To have you at my side, through our lives ride, fills my heart with passion and pride.Don’t ever forget my love for you, for without your love I’d have no clue.

His voice softly trails off after the last word, and the only thing audible is both of their breathing.

Marcus shyly lifts his head, nervously awaiting her response. When their eyes lock and he takes in her watery smile, he starts to panic.

“I’m sorry. Was it too much? I didn’t mean to-”, he rambles, cutting himself off when Abby shakes her head with a small laugh.

“No, no Marcus. It was beautiful”, she reassures him, laying a hand on his thigh, her touch grounding him.

“Oh”, he breathes, his posture immediately relaxing as he scratches his beard in a bashful manner.

“Did you mean it?”, Abby whispers.

When he throws her a confused look, she rushes to clarify, “About loving me”

She looks oddly vulnerable as she poses the question which rattles him because Marcus can count the number of times he’s seen Abby Griffin vulnerable in all the years he has known her on his two hands.

Capturing her hand between his own, he leans forward, “Absolutely. I love you Abby”, he pledges.

Abby lets out a shaky laugh, her eyes filled with tears before throwing her arms around his neck and embracing him. It takes a couple of seconds before Marcus reciprocates the hug because he’s so taken aback by the action, but then he’s wrapping his arms around her as well, pulling her closer while nuzzling her neck.

“I love you too”, Abby mumbles against his hair and now it’s his time to let out delighted laughter.

She pulls back slightly so she can cradle his head, “I love you”, she whispers before closing the space between them and kissing him.

#kabby ff #kabby #marcus kane #abby griffin #the 100 #otp let's call it hope #kabbysource #kabbyfam #kabbytrash #kabbykru #skyparents #lore writes

[geraldfierst]

HERE’s TO YOU

December 2016 Dear Friends,

I am sitting in an apartment overlooking the Acropolis.  My friend Judy Trotter and I hopped over to Athens on our way to Birmingham and the Limmud conference.  As my friend Wallace Norman often exclaims, “Not shabby!”  

This past summer, Wallace, who founded and directs the Woodstock Fringe Festival, directed Happy Days by Samuel Beckett.  The production was one of the most extraordinary pieces of theatre I have ever experienced, proving that great directing and acting can fill a simple space with transformative emotion and poetry.  Not shabby.  

As I sit here, I am thinking of all the connections that take us on our life’s journey, and how so many of them have affected me this past year and will continue into 2017-  new paths opening thanks to old ties.  

Judy and I first met about twenty years ago in Oxford when Andrew Gilbert, (whom I had previously met at CAJE, a conference I would regularly attend with my great friend and mentor Peninnah Schram)  invited me to Limmud which at that time was less than 500 people meeting in Oxford. This year Limmud will be at the National Exhibition Center with about three thousand attendees.  I describe Limmud as the TED conference for Jews.  Since that first time attending, I have been blessed to have been invited to present at Limmud every few years, and I have watched the conferences grow and have experienced the extraordinary people who come from all over the world to share their expertise on everything from politics to religion to art to cooking.  

Last summer, my childhood friends Shelley and Ken Gliedman introduced me to the Pine Tree Foundation whose funding made possible a wonderful project this school year at Today’s Learning Center, a school with parallel programs for general and special needs children from pre-K through high school.  Last spring, my friend Terry Burnett with whom I exercise at our local Y,  had introduced me to Pushcart Theatre, a local children’s theater company, and I had begun talking about developing educational programming for them;  meanwhle, my wonderful dog Bianca had introduced me to two dog walking neighbors, Jessica Lederman and Tara McAlister (humans to Harley and Atticus) who teach at TLC and had talked to me about their work.  So, I put all the pieces together to create a year long pilot project that we hope will be adopted in other school settings, using Terry’s puppetry, my storytelling, and Pushcart’s performances, to offer new ways to create educational communities and enhance literacy in ESL, special needs, and general populations.  I have often been frustrated by the dismissal of a teaching artist residency as no more than enrichment  programming, instead of the recognition of how essential the arts are to developing higher level thinking especially in elementary and middle school classrooms. Working at TLC, especially with special needs children, I again and again see how great teaching comes from teachers who use body, mind, and imagination, to reveal and amplify  their curriculum-  finding multiple ways to excite students, no matter their learning styles.  

I often think of how years back, when Remi Barclay Bosseau Messenger and I worked at the Whole Theatre Company, Bob Alexander of the Living Stage taught us “We are all geniuses.  The teacher’s job is to bring out the genius in all of us.”    Genius, like a genie (or djin) is the energy of the imagination that enables great thinkers to understand what is there that everyone else overlooks.  And teachers who inspire bring out that spirit in all of us.  My friend Margaret Read MacDonald as an author, storyteller and children’s librarian has been such a teacher.  Margaret has invited me over many years to accompany her to many wonderful places in the world.  I have always been delighted to be her entourage.  Eight years ago, while driving up a mountainous road in Malaysia, I suggested that we distract ourselves from the frightening twists and turns and make up a story about Big and Little to tell.  Many years passed, and this year, Margaret, who never gives up, offered that story to Liz Smith Russel, our old friend from August House.  Liz is starting publishing again with the founding of Plum Street Press and was delighted with our story which will be published next fall as Bye, Bye, Big! with illustrations by Kitty Harvill.  As Liz and I talked, I also sent her Imagine the Moon, a lyric poem listing the folkloric names of each month’s full moon.  Liz, who is a brilliant editor, suggested that I create a second tier of information to parallel each month’s verse, so I wrote accompanying text for the educational market based on the core curriculum philosophy of STEAM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Art, Math)  Imagine the Moon with wonderful illustrations by Leslie Stall Widener will be released late spring, 2017.  

Meantime, my friend Karen Shafer, who I first hired to manage the Whole Theatre Company forty years ago, has asked me to help on an advisory board to develop Aunt Karen’s Farm, her visionary dream.  Over decades, Karen has bought and renovated four houses along a road in Mt Vision, NY, near Cooperstown.  With space for twenty-two guests, Karen sees Aunt Karen’s Farm as a developmental artist retreat.  Dance, theatre and film companies have already used the facilities to work on projects. Last spring, I invited a company of a dozen storytellers, many of whom I first met three decades ago when Marie Winger and I organized the MidAtlantic Storytellers Conference, to join me for a long weekend.  This community of storytellers, including me,  had recently been working as an ensemble with Ray Gray in a series of collaborative performances at the Mercer Museum.  Inspired by the weekend at Aunt Karen’s Farm, Phil Orr, Luray Gross, Bill Wood, and I, have continued to collaborate, creating On the Road With Orpheus, a musical storytelling performance piece which riffs on the Orpheus myth by layering folktales, personal stories, and current events into a two act play.  We will be performing the show  June 14, 2017, at the Grapevine in Washington DC.

My friend Steve Zeitlin published a wonderful book this year The Poetry of Everyday Life.  In it he writes, “In the babble of mothers and their babies, in the inscriptions of teens in their yearbooks, and in the jump rope rhymes and expressions shared among family members lies a world of unselfconscious artistry and poetic expression that is always available to lift our spirits and inspire our creative expression.”   This sense of life’s poetry immediately made me think of my own Anjel, now eleven, who began middle school this year.  Watching her flourish in sixth grade reminds me of the great teachers I had at that age, particularly Marjorie Bull and Colin Reed.  Each of them invested me with a sense of my ability to create and own the world, and, now, I see Anjel discovering those strengths in herself. Both practical and empathetic as well as filled with imagination, she is a wonderful writer, a delicious companion.  I have often asked her opinions as I edited my own books.  I have no greater joy than to sit side by side with her ( actually, Bianca, my beloved dog, usually likes to snuggle between us) as we read and work and chat.  Her presence is my greatest pleasure, my fullest, most beautiful moments.  Sheer poetry.

At home in Montclair, we continue inviting artists to present their work in our living room.  In recent years, my friend Gladys Grossman has pulled me along to hear Monique Owens at the Village Gate.  Monique was a student at Demarest Middle School where I did playwriting residencies year after year thanks to Gladys.  I am friends with Monique’s whole family, so I was overjoyed to host Monique Owens and Friends at a house concert in the fall.  Then, on December 1, Jean Rohe and Liam Robinson continued their tradition of bringing their holiday show to our home with a wonderful performance of traditional and original music to bring a finale to 2016.  I always fondly recall that first afternoon when Jim Rohe (who had become my friend as  part of a storytelling class I was teaching at the Montclair Adult School) invited me over to the little house in Nutley.   There, I first met Jean and her brother Dan sitting in their high chairs singing Baby Beluga.  Ah, how the years go by!  

2017 looms before me- and let me be frank-  brings with it lots of personal and political trepidation, and I am wondering if the answer lies in trying to tend my own garden or in trying to change the world, but I am thinking of the opening second act image from Wallace’s production of Happy Days.  There is  Winnie (superbly played by Bette Carlson ) buried up to her neck, but as the lights come up, she opens her eyes, smiles and exclaims, “O Happy Day.”  It would be so easy to list the failures and disappointments that seem about to bury us, but in writing this end of the year letter,  I want to acknowledge how good it is to awake in a world that always brings opportunity for something new to be born.  I send this letter out to you because you are important to me, a part of my life, and even if much time passes before we are together again, you are here, not just in memory, but in the now.

I heard this story on a TED talk.  Alexander the Great coming over the Himalayas meets a naked yogi sitting on a rock  “Where are you going?”  the yogi asks .  Alexander replies, “I’m going to conquer the world!”  The yogi silently thinks Alexander is completely nuts.  " What are you doing?” Alexander then asks.  “I am trying to find nothing,” the yogi replies, and Alexander thinks the yogi is completely nuts.   No one can foresee the future, nor restore the past;  only in the constantly disappearing now is the song at the center of our story.  

Marge and I send our love to all of you.

With hopes for health and happiness AND, as my mother used to say, Money isn’t everything, but it doesn’t hurt.

Gerry

[thevoguecab-einstein-blog]

A Delightful Embrace of Fashion In Dance

IT’S the 1980s and in Stadium Dato’ Syed Omar, Alor Setar, a man performs an Indian classical dance at the invitation of the Sultan of Kedah. In the audience is a little girl eagerly explaining to her astounded father every one of the 10 incarnations of Lord Vishnu that the dancer is performing.

When it ends, the little girl sighs and prays she will get to see this dance again soon. Today, the stadium no longer exists, the little girl’s all grown up and the dancer is now a celebrated icon known to all as Datuk Ramli Ibrahim. When I tell him that I was that little girl, Ramli exclaims: “But darling, that was more than 30 years ago!”

With a broad smile, the multiple award-winning artiste insists that my story is another example of how well he connects with children. As the chairman of Sutra Foundation, he’s created a strong bank of new talents from his outreach programme which offers dance training to children from Kajang and Ladang Sungai Choh in Selangor.

These children will be showcasing some of what they’ve learnt at an upcoming Indian classical production called Amorous Delight.

POINT OF EMBARKATION

The story of this production began close to 10 years ago when Ramli was presented with a copy of a manuscript called Amorous Delight.

Published by Museum Rietberg Zurich (2006), it was collaboratively written by Eberhard Fischer and Dinanath Pathy. In the manuscript, there are magnificent palm leaf illustrations by an unknown master engraver hailing from the Nayagrah district of Odisha. These illustrations are based on the 9th-century Amarushataka, a Sanskrit anthology of 100 short verses. A complete tapestry on the sense of belonging, these verses display the entire spectrum of the experience of love, in intense poetic language.

Calling this manuscript “the point of embarkation”, Ramli says that he saw its potential as a lyrical dance production.

Eager to showcase this, Ramli chose the Indian classical dance of Odissi to interpret the handful of verses from the manuscript. As Odissi is a classical dance from eastern India, Ramli feels that it exposes his dancers to lifelong virtues such as discipline, commitment to self and also, as participating members of a group or community.

At that moment, Bobby, Ramli’s labrador retriever makes an entrance and the 64-year-old dancer breaks into a broad smile. “This dog is like a Buddha,” he says. “He brings calmness into the household.”

Duly petted, the dog moves away to welcome the person who makes Ramli’s present staging of Amorous Delight particularly fascinating, Datuk Sri Bernard Chandran.

After introductions are made, Ramli confides that it has been a pleasure to work with one as professional as Bernard. He appreciates the fact that the celebrated fashion designer did in-depth research for this project. Quietly, Bernard smiles and clarifies this by saying: “Sometimes, it’s better not to know too much. Basic knowledge is good enough.”

As Bernard elaborates on the efforts he’s made, it’s obvious there’s a ring of truth to Ramli’s earlier statement. Indeed, other than studying the illustrations from the manuscript, Bernard also used his innate knowledge of Hindu mythology to understand that, at its most basic, the dancers need to look sensual and romantic.

The next challenge Bernard faced was the issue of how to make clothes for people who generally have body shapes different to the ones he’s used to working with. While the women on the catwalk are generally thin, the dancers tend to be voluptuous.

“Their shape,” he adds, “is busty with a small waist and big hips.” This can become more pronounced with some costumes, such as the ones made from Kanjipuram saris with their heavy silk fabric. To make the dancers appear soft and sensual, Bernard adds delicate fabrics such as chiffon to these.

Determined to put the Malaysian stamp on his works, Bernard also uses other elements such as belts and sequined patterns to portray the Malay heritage.

ALL ABOUT THEATRE

Will all these resonate with the dance itself? Particularly when it’s based on a passage like Verse 74 from the Amarushataka which, when translated into English, reads:

“Alone with him in the solitary bed chamber, the young wife lifted herself up slowly and feasted her eyes on the adorable face of her lord, who feigned deep sleep. But as she kissed his face, she was surprised at the thrill of his cheeks and bent down her head abashed. Laughing out loud, her husband kissed her long.”

A pictorial representation of this scene appears in a poster for last year’s production of Amorous Delight. Although the costumes are opulent and the jewellery lavish, the issue was if it properly reflected the simplicity of dress people would wear in a bed chamber.

Pursing his lips, Bernard leans forward and says: “Well, there needs to be some glamour. That’s what people want to see. It’s theatre.” As a concession to the informality of the scene, the 48-year-old father of five says that he’ll probably look at the accessories the dancers wear or even suggest that they wear their hair loose rather than in a tight bun.

“I allowed him to push the boundaries,” interjects Ramli. The rationale of so doing ties in with Ramli’s approach to dance which is based on two major philosophical and literary principles from Greek mythology — the Apollonian and Dionysian principles. In Greek mythology, Apollo and Dionysius were the sons of Zeus. Apollo represents order, predictability and stability. Dionysius is all about chaos, instability and surprise. Throughout his career, Ramli has tried to strike a balance between these two principles.

From experience though, Ramli is aware that he can only go so far for there was a time when he was chastised for not adhering to certain rules of costume, such as omitting to wear something called the Ordni during a performance.

All said and done, both men are determined to express themselves as freely as possible. In fact, Ramli reminds me that he always strives to “speak the language of dance”. This he calls rasa.

“In dance, learning what the shloka (a couplet of Sanskrit verse) means isn’t as wonderful as learning what the shloka is imagined as [When I dance], I identify with my own spirit first, then the audience.” In so doing, the onlooker, be it a little girl or even royalty, becomes secondary to Ramli’s dance.

Both men hope that with Amorous Delight, they can transcend controversies that may generate from those who are unnecessarily puritanical.

Cited from: Aneeta Sundararaj. (2017). A delightful embrace of fashion in dance. Retrieved from, May 5th, 2018 https://www.nst.com.my/news/2017/03/217708/delightful-embrace-fashion-dance

Glossary

Astounded

shock or greatly surprise

Incarnation

(with  reference to reincarnation) each of a series of earthly lifetimes

Manuscript

a book, document, or piece of music  written by hand rather than typed or printed

Magnificent

extremely  beautiful, elaborate, or impressive

Anthology

a published collection of poems or  other pieces of writing

Interpret

explain  the meaning of (information or actions)

Virtues

behaviour showing high moral  standards

Fascinating

extremely  interesting

Sequined

ornamental disc or spangle

Resonate

produce  or be filled with a deep, full, reverberating sound

Feasted

eat and drink sumptuously

Feigned

simulated  or pretended; insincere

Opulent

ostentatiously costly and luxurious

Philosophical

relating  or devoted to the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality, and  existence

Predictability

the ability to be predicted

Stability

the  state of being stable

Chastised

rebuke or reprimand severely

Omitting

leave  out or exclude (someone or something), either intentionally or forgetfully

Transcend

be or go beyond the range or limits  of (a field of activity or conceptual sphere)

Puritanical

having  or displaying a very strict or censorious moral attitude towards  self-indulgence or sex

[marcusssanderson]

10 Amazing Books for Getting Inspired and Finding Your Inner Magic

You never know what might inspire you—a movie, a play, a painting, something a friend told you, an item on a shelf, a walk in the woods, even a stranger you see on the street. I find it especially pleasing when inspiration is captured in a book. Perhaps because when it is in book form you can take it with you and use it whenever you need that burst of energy—the promise of what could be, the encouragement to move forward.

Finding inspiration is usually serendipitous. It happens when we least expect it. But I love it, even more, when I can curl up with a book prepared to be inspired. I have put together a list of my top ten inspirational books. I hope that that they will touch you the way they touched me.

  Books That Remind You How Awesome You Really Are

On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King

I earn my living as a writer so I was intrigued when a friend gave me a copy King’s book. It was not at all what I was expecting. He offers no step-by-step process or helpful hints. Instead he takes you on a journey walking you through his own creative process. It was the most inspiring and dare I say, the only helpful book on writing I have ever read. Stephen King makes you realize that we all have stories inside of us, we just have to set them free.

  Picasso: A Biography for Children by Noah Aeon and Sama Dean

This delightful little book traces the life of Picasso from the first time he picked up a pencil through his many periods. It illustrates how imagination begins the creative process and brings it to life. While it is a children’s book don’t miss this sweet opportunity to be inspired by this amazing artist. It is a wonderful lesson for any age.

The Intuition Principle by Angela Artemis

The Intuition Principle teaches you how to identify and tap into your intuition to live the life you dream of. Angela Artemis believes that we allow our intuition to be overpowered by reason. She teaches you how to take charge and follow your “gut.” It is a wonderful guide filled with great examples and lessons for leading a fulfilling life.

  Amazing Books for Getting Inspired and Finding Your Inner Magic

39 Ways to Make a Cancer Patient Smile by Sue Reif

When I learned my client had cancer, I did not know what to do or say. We were not really friends. My initial thoughts were that if anything, she wouldn’t want overwhelming contact; that she’d prefer space, alone time. When I read Susan Reif’s book I learned that I was very wrong. Her book is a delightful, inspiring and creative guide for those of us who do not know what to do or say. Today Sue is one of my dearest friends and I had the amazing opportunity to work with her on the publishing end of this amazing chronicle.

The 90-Day Game by John Felitto

If you think that when it comes to business need hard work is more important than inspiration, think again. The 90-day Game is a very creative, off-road methodology for getting in touch with your true vocation and turning it into a career or a lifestyle. Felitto uses a series of games that are fun to play and encouraging. It’s not at all one of those success-overnight promises. Instead it’s a creative method that allows you to accomplish your goals, whatever they may be.

  The Seven Spiritual Secrets of Yoga by Deepak Chopra

When people think of yoga, they think primarily of the physical practice. While the poses or asanas provide flexibility, balance and stamina, Chopra reminds us of the spiritual side of yoga and how the practice, on and off the mat encourages positive thinking and spurs creativity like no other practice. As a yoga practitioner myself, I know how true this is.

  Out of Our Minds: Learning to be Creative by Ken Robinson

I first encountered Ken Robinson on Ted.com. “Do Schools Kill Creativity?” was the title of his talk. In a lighthearted manner he made a profound and inspiring case for how schools undermine rather than nurture creativity. “Out of Our Minds” expands upon the theme. True to his own words, “It is about why creativity matters so much, why people think they are not creative, how we arrived at this point, and what we can do about it.”

  Amazing Books for Getting Inspired and Finding Your Inner Magic

The big book of Brainstorming Games by Mary Scannell & Mike Mulvihill

This is a wonderful resource. As a college professor, I have brought many of the ideas in this book into my brainstorming sessions with my students. It is filled with wonderful ideas that trigger creativity and show you how to think outside of the box.

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare

In my opinion, no author exceeds the Bard in terms of creativity. Revisiting his genius from time to time is exhilarating. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is masterful at creating intrigue, incorporating twists and turns and filling our eyes and imagination with amazing images. Other comedies will lift the spirits equally, such as Much Ado About Nothing, All’s Well that Ends Well, The Tempest and others. If you feel you struggle with the language try a No Fear Shakespeare which puts the original text alongside modern English.

  Just Believe, Stories of Inspiration by Rosemarie Monaco

I ending with my own book, because now you can see how he books on this list gave me the courage, or should I say the inspiration, to write my own stories.

Just Believe is a collection of poems and stories about the part of ourselves we keep hidden, yet this part is the essence of who we really are. It is that which makes us able to do anything we set our minds to. I explain in my intro how I wrote each story with the spirit of the child in mind. Pablo Picasso said “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” That idea has always haunted me. What happens to us? Why do we banish the artist? Why do we stop believing in magic? My goal was to awaken the child in all of us; to return us to a place where anything is possible. Where all you have to do is dream to make it so.

The post 10 Amazing Books for Getting Inspired and Finding Your Inner Magic appeared first on Everyday Power Blog.

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient book of Proverbs and book of Psalms

for july 9 of 2021 with Proverbs 9 and Psalm 9, accompanied by Psalm 20 for the 20th day of Summer and Psalm 40 for day 190 of the year (now with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 2nd revolution this year)

[Proverbs 9]

[Wisdom’s Feast]

Wisdom has built herself a palace

upon seven pillars to keep it secure.

She has made ready a banquet feast

and the sacrifice has been killed.

She has mingled her wine, and the table’s all set.

She has sent out her maidens,

crying out from the high place,

inviting everyone to come

and eat until they’re full.

“Whoever wants to know me and receive my wisdom,

come and dine at my table and drink of my wine.

Lay aside your simple thoughts and leave your paths behind.

Agree with my ways, live in my truth,

and you will find righteousness.”

If you try to correct an arrogant cynic,

expect an angry insult in return.

And if you try to confront an evil man,

don’t be surprised if all you get is a slap in the face!

So don’t even bother to correct a mocker,

for he’ll only hate you for it.

But go ahead and correct the wise;

they’ll love you even more.

Teach a wise man what is right

and he’ll grow even wiser.

Instruct the lovers of God

and they’ll learn even more.

The starting point for acquiring wisdom

is to be consumed with awe as you worship Yahweh.

To receive the revelation of the Holy One,

you must come to the one who has living-understanding.

Wisdom will extend your life,

making every year more fruitful than the one before.

So it is to your advantage to be wise.

But to ignore the counsel of wisdom

is to invite trouble into your life.

[A Spirit Named Foolish]

There is a spirit named Foolish,

who is boisterous and brash;

she’s seductive and restless.

And there she sits at the gateway to the high places,

on her throne overlooking the city.

She preaches to all who walk by her

who are clueless as to what is happening:

“Come home with me.”

She invites those who are easily led astray, saying,

“Illicit sex is the best sex of all.

Our secret affair will be sweeter than all others.”

Little do they know when they answer her call

that she dwells among the spirits of the dead,

and all her guests soon become citizens of hell!

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 9 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 9]

I’m thanking you, God, from a full heart,

I’m writing the book on your wonders.

I’m whistling, laughing, and jumping for joy;

I’m singing your song, High God.

The day my enemies turned tail and ran,

they stumbled on you and fell on their faces.

You took over and set everything right;

when I needed you, you were there, taking charge.

You blow the whistle on godless nations;

you throw dirty players out of the game,

wipe their names right off the roster.

Enemies disappear from the sidelines,

their reputation trashed,

their names erased from the halls of fame.

God holds the high center,

he sees and sets the world’s mess right.

He decides what is right for us earthlings,

gives people their just deserts.

God’s a safe-house for the battered,

a sanctuary during bad times.

The moment you arrive, you relax;

you’re never sorry you knocked.

Sing your songs to Zion-dwelling God,

tell his stories to everyone you meet:

How he tracks down killers

yet keeps his eye on us,

registers every whimper and moan.

Be kind to me, God;

I’ve been kicked around long enough.

Once you’ve pulled me back

from the gates of death,

I’ll write the book on Hallelujahs;

on the corner of Main and First

I’ll hold a street meeting;

I’ll be the song leader; we’ll fill the air

with salvation songs.

They’re trapped, those godless countries,

in the very snares they set,

Their feet all tangled

in the net they spread.

They have no excuse;

the way God works is well-known.

The shrewd machinery made by the wicked

has maimed their own hands.

The wicked bought a one-way

ticket to hell.

No longer will the poor be nameless—

no more humiliation for the humble.

Up, God! Aren’t you fed up with their empty strutting?

Expose these grand pretensions!

Shake them up, God!

Show them how silly they look.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 9 (The Message)

[Psalm 20]

For the worship leader. A song of David.

May the Eternal’s answer find you, come to rescue you,

when you desperately cling to the end of your rope.

May the name of the True God of Jacob be your shelter.

May He extend hope and help to you from His holy sanctuary

and support you from His sacred city of Zion.

May He remember all that you have offered Him;

may your burnt sacrifices serve as a prelude to His mercy.

[pause]

May He grant the dreams of your heart

and see your plans through to the end.

When you win, we will not be silent! We will shout

and raise high our banners in the great name of our God!

May the Eternal say yes to all your requests.

I don’t fear; I’m confident that help will come to the one anointed by the Eternal:

heaven will respond to his plea;

His mighty right hand will win the battle.

Many put their hope in chariots, others in horses,

but we place our trust in the name of the Eternal One, our True God.

Soon our enemies will collapse and fall, never to return home;

all the while, we will rise and stand firm.

Eternal One, grant victory to our king!

Answer our plea for help.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 20 (The Voice)

[Psalm 40]

A Joyful Salvation

For the Pure and Shining One

A song of poetic praise by King David

I waited and waited and waited some more,

patiently, knowing God would come through for me.

Then, at last, he bent down and listened to my cry.

He stooped down to lift me out of danger

from the desolate pit I was in,

out of the muddy mess I had fallen into.

Now he’s lifted me up into a firm, secure place

and steadied me while I walk along his ascending path.

A new song for a new day rises up in me

every time I think about how he breaks through for me!

Ecstatic praise pours out of my mouth until

everyone hears how God has set me free.

Many will see his miracles;

they’ll stand in awe of God and fall in love with him!

Blessing after blessing comes to those who love and trust the Lord.

They will not fall away,

for they refuse to listen to the lies of the proud.

O Lord, our God, no one can compare with you.

Such wonderful works and miracles are all found with you!

And you think of us all the time

with your countless expressions of love—

far exceeding our expectations!

It’s not sacrifices that really move your heart.

Burnt offerings, sin offerings—those aren’t what bring you joy.

But when you open my ears and speak to me,

I become your willing servant, your prisoner of love for life.

So I said, “Here I am! I’m coming to you as a sacrifice,

for in the prophetic scrolls of your book

you have written about me.

I delight to fulfill your will, my God,

for your living words are written upon the pages of my heart.”

I tell everyone everywhere the truth of your righteousness.

And you know I haven’t held back in telling the message to all.

I don’t keep it a secret or hide the truth.

I preach of your faithfulness and kindness,

proclaiming your extravagant love to the largest crowd I can find!

So Lord, don’t hold back your love or withhold

your tender mercies from me.

Keep me in your truth and let your compassion overflow to me

no matter what I face.

Evil surrounds me; problems greater than I can solve

come one after another.

Without you, I know I can’t make it.

My sins are so many!

I’m so ashamed to lift my face to you.

For my guilt grabs me and stings my soul

until I am weakened and spent.

Please, Lord! Come quickly and rescue me!

Take pleasure in showing me your favor and restore me.

Let all who seek my life be humiliated!

Let them be confused and ashamed, God.

Scatter those who wish me evil; they just want me dead.

Scoff at every scoffer and cause them all to be utter failures.

Let them be ashamed and horrified by their complete defeat.

But let all who passionately seek you

erupt with excitement and joy over what you’ve done!

Let all your devoted lovers rejoice continually in the Savior, saying,

“How great and glorious is our God!”

Lord, in my place of weakness and need, I ask again:

Will you come and help me?

I know I’m always in your thoughts.

You are my true Savior and hero,

so don’t delay to deliver me now, for you are my God.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 40 (The Passion Translation)