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poemoftheday · 2 years

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Poem of the Day 20 July 2022

The Dark Angel BY LIONEL JOHNSON

DARK Angel, with thine aching lust

To rid the world of penitence:

Malicious Angel, who still dost

My soul such subtile violence!

Because of thee, no thought, no thing,

Abides for me undesecrate:

Dark Angel, ever on the wing,

Who never reachest me too late!

When music sounds, then changest thou

Its silvery to a sultry fire:

Nor will thine envious heart allow

Delight untortured by desire.

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn,

To Furies, O mine Enemy!

And all the things of beauty burn

With flames of evil ecstasy.

Because of thee, the land of dreams

Becomes a gathering place of fears:

Until tormented slumber seems

One vehemence of useless tears.

When sunlight glows upon the flowers,

Or ripples down the dancing sea:

Thou, with thy troop of passionate powers,

Beleaguerest, bewilderest, me.

Within the breath of autumn woods,

Within the winter silences:

Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods,

O Master of impieties!

The ardour of red flame is thine,

And thine the steely soul of ice:

Thou poisonest the fair design

Of nature, with unfair device.

Apples of ashes, golden bright;

Waters of bitterness, how sweet!

O banquet of a foul delight,

Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete!

Thou art the whisper in the gloom,

The hinting tone, the haunting laugh:

Thou art the adorner of my tomb,

The minstrel of mine epitaph.

I fight thee, in the Holy Name!

Yet, what thou dost, is what God saith:

Tempter! should I escape thy flame,

Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death:

The second Death, that never dies,

That cannot die, when time is dead:

Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries,

Eternally uncomforted.

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust!

Of two defeats, of two despairs:

Less dread, a change to drifting dust,

Than thine eternity of cares.

Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so,

Dark Angel! triumph over me:

Lonely, unto the Lone I go;

Divine, to the Divinity.

#poem of the day #poetry #poem #lionel johnson

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exitwound · 3 years

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There are no unsacred places; / there are only sacred places / and desecrated places.

Wendell Berry, “How to Be a Poet”

#wendell berry #cr #w #p #u #washing machine heart #i know the end #undesecration #i love you i want us both to eat well #fav #poetry #k

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lichposting · 2 years

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God, Evil Elindrick being totally down to murder his boyfriend and then getting dragged to the nightmare realm to fight the Other is so fucking funny to me. Uno reverse card

#canon elin is gold dragon but I’m gonna keep doing lich on a separate save to see where it goes #either he realizes that what he’s done is awful and the end will never justify the means #or he latches on to that deep desire for power within his soul and goes all out #seelah leaving n sosiel breaking up with him are just oof #there’s a little teeny part of him that wants desperately for them to stay. to still be loved #and he’ll give that part away to seal his soul in a knife!#or he won’t #and he’ll go from planning suicide once the worldwound is closed to instead traveling the world and helping everyone he can #not to atone for what he did or anything #he knows he can’t undo the harm he’s caused. can’t undesecrate those tombs #simply because it’s the right thing to do and he has the power to do it #aghhh scrunglo from my rpg…#text #alma plays wotr #perso

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redorich · 3 years

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Heyo Red! May I ask about what Mumbo is up to in the Hermit Canyon AU? Does he try to avoid making lag with all the resource-generating machines, or is there just à distant corner of the server where time moves like syrup? Does anyone, like, go and check on him to make sure he hasn't gone a bit mad or got stuck in the wiring?

Karl knows something’s wrong. Even from thousands of blocks away, there is a creeping feeling of a problem that only he can fix. It feels like clammy hands on his skin, like feathers on the back of his neck, like the pinprick sensation of letting your foot go numb. After his Mothman-induced fever dream, Karl is reluctant to start any more adventurous missions until the next time he has to time travel, but, well, needs must.

In the Nether, he can’t feel it, so he has to travel via the Overworld. Honestly, he doesn’t mind it much. It’s nice to see all the untouched biomes further out into the world, all the pure land yet undesecrated. The feeling of wrongness, of time moving like putty, grows like a fungus the closer he gets. With no small amount of trepidation, Karl tethers his horse at the base of a gravelly mountain and begins to climb.

His fingers are tired and raw by the time he makes it to the top, though he’s only taken a little bit of damage from falling. As Karl crests the mountain’s snowy peak, an expanse of iron jungle awaits him. It looms, as much as any stationary machine can be said to do so. The closer Karl looks, the more he can make out the tell-tale shimmer of time delay. The magic of redstone engineering on a scale that puts the prison to shame, for a purpose he can’t even ascertain, threads its fingers through the server’s inner workings and seeps its way into the river of time, muddying its flow.

Karl’s head swims. Thinking through lag is like moving through an ocean of syrup and honey. Without his permission, his hands loosen their grip on the mountain and he goes tumbling down the monolith’s face. He falls, pauses for a moment, and then resumes falling only for the damage to finally catch up to him midair.

“Woah!” a man’s voice says. Hesitant hands stop Karl’s descent.

Karl groans, peering up at the dark figure above him with bleary eyes. The first thing he sees is a pale face, then night-black hair on the man’s face and scalp. After that, Karl finally notices the black suit sleeve stretched out toward him, and the pale hand sticking out of it. Oh, Karl finally thinks. His mind is lagging as much as the world around him. He’s helping me up.

Taking the proffered hand, the coldness of the man’s palm pings a sense of danger in Karl’s mind, but he accepts the help nonetheless and staggers to his feet.

“You alright there, mate? That looked like a nasty fall,” the man says. “Ah, one moment!”

The stranger awkwardly half-jogs a dozen paces away, flicking a lever stuck to the wall of the redstone monstrosity. (Privately, Karl entertains the thought that the exposed loops of iron blocks with the red dust on top look like the ribs of some behemoth, flecked with dried blood.) Within seconds of using the lever, the lag in the area clears up. The source of the encroaching magic gets dammed up, and the river of time once again flows clear. The machine stops.

“Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to be here right now...” the man says nervously. “So, er, can you just pretend that you didn’t see this?”

“You made this?” Karl croaks out instead, taking in the mechanical affront against the laws of nature. “The time dilation was caused by one man?”

“Yep!” the man says, puffing out his chest with a demeanor that appears simultaneously sheepish and proud. “Sorry, was I lagging the server? Oh! Where are my manners, my name is Mumbo Jumbo-- wait, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that, was I? Ah, I’m such a spoon!”

Karl stares dumbly. This man is not whitelisted, he thinks, though he has heard the stranger’s name before. “Did Dream invite you?”

“Er, yeah,” Mumbo says in a way that makes it clear as day that he was not in fact invited. “But don’t tell him I’m here! It’s a, uh, surprise birthday party machine. Uh-huh.”

Despite his best efforts, Karl cannot hide a smile. “Really? When’s his birthday?”

“I don’t know, but it’ll be his birthday one of those days and that’s when the machine will work!”

Karl snorts, and Mumbo wilts, put out that his lie wasn’t believable enough.

“I’m a vampire,” Mumbo tries. “I’ll eat you-- look!”

Sure enough, the man does have pointed fangs, but the effect is greatly dampened when Mumbo immediately pricks his own finger on them by accident. Finally, the man sighs.

“Please don’t tell anyone I’m here,” Mumbo says.

Karl nods. He doesn’t talk to people about his time-related adventures anyway, and besides, who would he snitch to? Dream? Fat chance. “Sure,” he agrees easily, “just don’t lag the server out so hard in the future.”

Mumbo kicks at the gravel beneath his shoes. “Yeah, sorry. I thought I was far enough out that it wouldn’t cause issues, but apparently the infinity-- er. This machine. Is heavy-duty. Yeah.”

Karl is achingly curious, but he is also far too concerned with his own safety to risk investigating further. He leaves, and attempts to put it out of his mind. If it’s truly important, he’ll find out eventually.

#mcyt #hc x dsmp #hermit canyon au #karl jacobs #mumbo jumbo #me.cpp #archetypal-archivist

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headless-baby-dolls · 2 years

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Some of the photographs of poet Lionel Johnson, and the only scene portrayal of him (that I could find). Lionel reached infamy for introducing Oscar Wilde to Bosie Douglas. Lionel struggled with his sexuality and fell into the depths of alcoholism and addiction from a young age. He died in his thirties of a cerebral hemorrhage after falling off a barstool.

Lionel is one of my favorite historical figures, and I'd like to share a poem of his called "Dark Angel". It's very beautiful and captures the desperation he felt in his personal life.

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust

To rid the world of penitence:

Malicious Angel, who still dost

My soul such subtile violence!

Because of thee, no thought, no thing,

Abides for me undesecrate:

Dark Angel, ever on the wing,

Who never reachest me too late!

When music sounds, then changest thou

Its silvery to a sultry fire:

Nor will thine envious heart allow

Delight untortured by desire.

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn,

To Furies, O mine Enemy!

And all the things of beauty burn

With flames of evil ecstasy.

Because of thee, the land of dreams

Becomes a gathering place of fears:

Until tormented slumber seems

One vehemence of useless tears.

When sunlight glows upon the flowers,

Or ripples down the dancing sea:

Thou, with thy troop of passionate powers,

Beleaguerest, bewilderest, me.

Within the breath of autumn woods,

Within the winter silences:

Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods,

O Master of impieties!

The ardour of red flame is thine,

And thine the steely soul of ice:

Thou poisonest the fair design

Of nature, with unfair device.

Apples of ashes, golden bright;

Waters of bitterness, how sweet!

O banquet of a foul delight,

Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete!

Thou art the whisper in the gloom,

The hinting tone, the haunting laugh:

Thou art the adorner of my tomb,

The minstrel of mine epitaph.

I fight thee, in the Holy Name!

Yet, what thou dost, is what God saith:

Tempter! should I escape thy flame,

Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death:

The second Death, that never dies,

That cannot die, when time is dead:

Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries,

Eternally uncomforted.

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust!

Of two defeats, of two despairs:

Less dread, a change to drifting dust,

Than thine eternity of cares.

Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so,

Dark Angel! triumph over me:

Lonely, unto the Lone I go;

Divine, to the Divinity.

#lionel johnson #bosie douglas #lord alfred douglas #bosie #oscar wilde #wilde #literary aesthetic #poetry

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red-ibis-red · 4 years

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Uncertain as I was I pushed forward, I felt right in my pushing, as if the effort itself meant something. That perhaps being amidst the undesecrated beauty of the wilderness meant I too could be undesecrated, regardless of what I’d lost or what had been taken from me, regardless of the regrettable things I’d done to others or myself, or the regrettable things that had been done to me. Of all the things I’d been skeptical about, I didn’t feel skeptical about this: the wilderness had a clarity that included me.

—Cheryl Strayed, Wild

#cheryl strayed #lit #wilderness

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affirmation--negation · 4 years

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I am speaking of a more sacred art, one that in the words of antiquity is a tool of the gods, a proclaimer of divine mysteries, the unveiler of the ideas; I am speaking of that unborn beauty whose undesecrated radiance only dwells in and illuminates purer souls, and whose form is just as concealed and inaccessible to the sensual eye as is the truth corresponding to it. Nothing of that which a baser sensibility calls art can concern the philosopher. For him it is a necessary phenomenon emanating directly from the absolute, and only to the extent it can be presented and proved as such does it possess reality for him. Schelling, “Philosophy of Art.”

#Schelling #Philosophy of Art

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ratchetclankarecute · 4 years

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Statement #0151216 - A Hopeful Infection

Hornet gives her statement to the Magnus Institute - thank you @i-can-do-tricks for writing a very lovely post-statement!

[Click]

Archivist

Statement of Hornet, Hornet um-

Hornet

Just Hornet is fine.

Archivist

Right, er, statement of Hornet regarding a plague known simply as the Infection. Statement recorded directly from subject, 16th December, 2015. Statement begins.

Hornet

If it had been a simple plague, it wouldn’t have been such a grim tale as such. With a plague that stemmed from a disease, one need only be sure proper quarantine measures are in place and that there are adequate healers available to tend to the ramifications of it.

Had it been only a plague, the King would not have deemed his cruelties necessary, would not have driven his kingdom to the brink and then over it for the sake of continuing his reign. “No cost too great” would not have leapt from his mouth to the tongues of all his subjects.

But the Infection was not, as it was, an ordinary plague that spread by bodies, but rather, by dreams. And of course, all things adjacent to dreams - thoughts, emotions, hope, memories, if anything was related to the mind, it could be corrupted.

Hope itself became dangerous to harbor.

Not out of some macabre expectation of disappointment, you understand, but out of the simple fact that anything resembling dreaming laid the mind open to the Infection.

I even had to kill a tutor of mine - his hopes to find a way to withstand and hold back the Old Light became themselves taken over by the Infection as his tired and overworked body became taken over by glowing cysts until he became but a walking husk. He was rather exceptional. I don't think I met a single ordinary bug afterward that was born in Hallownest and raised on the Pale King's promises as he was that survived as long as he did.

It was nevertheless enticing, the Light. Even after seeing the effects firsthand, I still dreamed of Her myself if I slept. Promises came through my dreams when I did sleep - everything I ever wanted, wished, hoped for, yearned for, all of it could be mine, if I only put down my needle, if I only laid down my duties, if I only rested long enough for cysts to grow in my body and burst through my chitin, allowed the Infection to take over my body and reduce me to a shambling, bursting shell of my former self, I could live in those dreams that contained all my heart desired and more.

The choice became relatively simple as time went on - either one gave up and leaned into hope, or cut it off and focused instead on necessity, on survival.

I was lucky. I had many advantages; I had training, God's blood, and a duty to all of Hallownest. I doubt all the focus in the world would have saved me had I lacked any of those things.

Though, even with my advantages, it was still difficult to survive. The line between desires that stem from dreams and desires that stem from need is thin, and so I had to cut them off entirely. I used necessity as my guide for the majority of the time - if I ate or slept it was because I could not continue otherwise, not because I was hungry or tired. And when at times I gave in to some indulgence or another, it was because I knew I would do so anyway later, only instead of making my decision immediately, I would spend quite a bit of time in my head trying to find some reason it was necessary for me to give in to indulgence, and fighting with myself was far more dangerous than any fleeting pleasures I gained from giving in here and there.

The stasis of Hallownest also saved me to some extent. I did not need to eat or sleep nearly as often as before and so could avoid idleness that led to dreaming. I avoided people as well to a lesser extent. Prattling could lead to connection, and connection could lead to hope however small, so if I had to speak with anyone I made sure to be curt.

The solitude at times resembled loneliness, but burying myself in my duties or reveling in the isolation worked well enough to cut short any desires I had for company. Life continued for me for a very long time that way - cut off from others, and from myself, but surviving because of it, and able to tend to my task of ensuring Hallownest remained undesecrated as a result of the disconnect.

Eventually however, it ended as all things do. My twice voided sibling proved their strength twice over, and then ended the Infection at its source, killing the Light itself; now all that's left of Her is the scars She left on Hallownest, and all that's left of the King who purged Her memory enough for Her to retaliate against the minds of all who had forgotten Her is the ruins of His kingdom.

Archivist

Nothing besides remains, hm?

Hornet

Well yes - *cough*

Archivist

Ah sorry, are you alright? Do you need-

Hornet

I'm fine, simply unused to speaking so long.

Archivist

Ah! Let me get you something to drink then-

[Click]

Archivist

Statement ends.

I don't believe I need to go into depths to identify this as a Corruption statement, though the scale in this particular case is quite alarming. The widespread hitching on hope and potential to fuel the Infection almost reminds me of the Desolation- and would tie nicely back to the Nightmares from statement #0151026, though the dreams there seem shaped by the Stranger rather than the Corruption...

Miss Hornet has already spoken of her siblings, tainted by the Dark and possibly the End, and how they "cured" the Infection, leaving the kingdom it plagued much safer for exploration. Martin brought up the idea of possibly taking a research trip there, clearly very excited, and I believe searching a place where at least some of the Entities are much closer than they are in London would do much to help provide better insight to their nature and just exactly what they are. One of Miss Hornet's associates has even mentioned having their own Archives in Hallownest, where he worked as an archival assistant for several years before their Head Archivist passed. Miss Hornet shut down the proposition without hesitation when it was brought to her notice, however, since apparently Hallownest has been rather inaccessible for quite a long time now, though she's doing what she can to possibly return someday.

An ancient kingdom full of secrets and touched by gods.... I'll admit, I'd like to explore there myself someday. Maybe I can join the research expedition with Martin if we're ever able to.

End recording.

[Click]

#hollow knight #hollow knight spoilers #tma #tma spoilers #my writing #and i-can-do-trick's #unsanitary #gore

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laityashes · 5 years

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The Adventures of Batgirl and Supergirl

Chapter 3

Leaning on the crystal rail of the balcony, Kara is transfixed upward into the darkness of the night sky. The stars glisten in a bright luxuriance. The inhospitable arctic of the Fortress of Solitude preserves a sky undesecrated by the lights of human civilization.

The kryptonian's gaze is enraptured by LHS 2520, a star in the Corvus Constellation. A red dwarf star so meaningless to scientists it's simply denoted by letters and numbers. Not worthy of being given an earthly name, only nominal enough to categorized and cataloged in some obscure astronomical journal. LHS 2520 located 27.1 light years away from Earth. A star that once held her whole world, but is now no more than small star that unaided human eye can not even see. Even with the vision granted to her by the yellow radiance of Sol, her own vision only sees a small glistening speck in the black abyss.

"Rao, Mighty and Eternal, I pray you earnestly cast your light upon the steps of Aunt Astra. Let your light illuminate the path of the righteous." Kara spoke aloud, her native tongue sounding foreign to her ears.

With a dejected sigh, the faux-millennial turns her gaze to the rough waters of the arctic sea. Before she goes back inside, she breathes in of the unique scent of the air outside the Fortress of Solitude. Once back inside the fortress, she goes through her bedtime routine, before finally taking the sleeping pills she and Kalex had concocted to assist her with falling asleep.

With her blonde tresses splaying across her pillow, Kara aches in her sleep. Her legs vigorously kicking the blanket from her body. She tosses and turns in the midst of a nightmare.

Upon her arrival to planet earth, feeling lost alone, and so afraid, she clung to her memories of Krypton. She clung to memories of their traditions. However, as the years passed, little details about her culture, and her parents, would slowly disappear. She couldn’t remember if her dad had an upturned nose, or if he would get dimples when he smiled. Little things would be devoured by this new planet she was forced to live on. New faces obstructing her recollection from memorizing her parent’s features.

With the loss always at the forefront of her mind, an image of her parents decorates the crystal wall above her bed. The image is reassuring. It captures her parents features where her memory starts to fail. Her room is similar to the one she had on krypton. It was round in shape, and even had similar steps that descended down towards the floor.

Kara, staying true to who was, manufactured a way to access images of her relatives. These images could be accessed through a hologram projector she and Kalex had built. She could even access Jor-El's Memory Hologram from Kal-EL's pod. Currently, while she slumbered, the hologram projector displayed an image of Rao. The projector had the capabilities to even mimic the red star’s rays if Kara desire it.

The little robot servant, Kalex, contained in his programming scores of recorded Kryptonian music. And, he would joyfully play different songs for her. He even celebrates Kryptonian holidays with her, and guides her through prayers she may have forgotten. The fortress was Kara’s only solace from the confusion that surrounded her on planet earth. The sanctuary for where she could be who she was, or at least what she use to be.

Following in Clark's footsteps, Kara pursued Journalism in college. She graduated college with a degree in Marketing and Journalism. And with her connection to Clark Kent, Kara landed a job CatCo. Clark had simply flashed his sheepish grin at Cat Grant, and, viola, Kara had been given a chance by Cat Grant. A one week chance, to be precise, and if she did not perform, Cat Grant vowed to fire her. By he end of the week, Cat Grant was smitten with her docile, and people-pleaser, of an assistant.

Unfortunately, Cat Grant, and her keen sense, was the reason for why Kara required an apartment in National City. She was why Kara kept up the appearance of living in National City. The Queen of Media would no doubt be suspicious if Kara had a P.O. box address on her drivers license or as her home address in her employment paperwork.The loft in National city was spacious, had abundant natural lightning, but it never felt like home. Never felt even remotely like to krypton compared to the Fortress.

Recently, the herone has learned when her pod had crash to Earth so had Fort Rozz. She had somehow led them out of the phantom zone with her and onto this planet. To add to her abd hand, all those prisoners were sentenced there by her mother. It was part of why Kal-El had set her up in a nearby orphanage when he found out, instead of keeping her with him. He wanted to keep her safe from the prisoners at Fort Rozz. Unfortunately, one of the prisoners on Fort Rozz was none other than her aunt. Secrets spilled from her aunts lips that pierced Supergirl`s already tattered heart. Now, Kara couldn't even bring herself to look at her mother's memory crystal. Her family was not the noble house she was led to believe it was. on top of that, her Aunt was set on taking over plant earth in some misguided ecological righteousness.

Aliens.

Bruce was right, they`re a wild card.

Maniacs are one thing. Flying aliens bent on mind control, definitely not the way Alex thought the week was going to go. Drug lords, crazy murderers, Eco-terrorist, and all the other filth in Gothem, that was a given. Rarely have they ever encountered an alien predicament in Gothem. It just wasn't a thing.

After Narrowly dodging a pair of heat vision beams, Alex is once again that day thankful for Bruce's insistence upon the rigorous training. Training to be prepared for scenarios like this. As Batman predicted, She couldn't always rely on her stealth to be her winning hand, not when her enemy could see through walls or even smell her from miles away. Let alone, fly faster than a speeding bullet...

After ducking again, and strands of her hair being singed, the red-head rolled behind a pillar. A red and blue blur in her puerperal vision caught Batgirl's attention.

"Astra, please, stop this," Came a familiar voice. Superman's Protegee coming to the rescue. Alex would've been lying if she said she wasn`t relieved to see the super.

"Little one, stand aside. I don't want to hurt you," the Kryptonian general replied. Her eyes glowing red hot at Supergirl.

Ignoring the plea, Kara edged forward to her aunt. "Aunt Astra, please. This is wrong."

With the solar enegry fading from her eyes, Astra meets her niece halfway. Gently caresses Supergirl's cheek and tucks a blonde lock behind her ear. All the while, her eyes are cold with resolve, only softening minutely at Kara, her only surviving relative of her bloodline.

"Can't you see these humans are going to destroy their planet, much like how our people destroyed ours. I let one planet die, I will not do so again," Astra declared. "Why do you side with Kal-El? With the Humans? You deserve better." Turrning her hand over, Astra trails the back of her fingers down Kara's cheek. Her eyes searching the blonde's for some understanding. "He has no meaning of the value of blood. If he did then---"

--brightly colored balls rolled across their feet, interrupting their conversation. Rolling to a stop, the bright orbs commence in deluging the vicinity in gas.

Green gas.

Supergirl grasps at her throat. She can hardly breathe. Her form curls over in pain, the sclera of her eyes burns, and her vision blurs. As she processes what has transpired, the blonde stumbles forward latching an arm around Astra's similar arched frame. Kara strains her eyes peering for a way out. The gaseous substance is like a ghostly fog blanketing the interior of the warehouse.

"It's...thinner...this way," Kara gasps between strained breaths and points in the direction of where Alex is located.

Astra is the first to step forward, seemingly hauling Supergirl with her despite the earlier intention of the younger alien coming to the aid of the elder. Shivers similar to weak convulsions rack the blonde's frame as they stumbled toward a portion of the Wayne Enterprises facility less saturated with the aerosol.Like dry leaves falling off a tree, they inevitability fall. Kara slips from Astra's hold first, collapsing to warehouse floor with a thud. Unable to stay upright without the other, Astra falls to her knees beside her niece's prone form. Before giving into oxygen deprivation, Astra wraps her form protectively around the Girl of Steel. She slips into unconsciousness with more ease knowing she has Kara in her arms.

A bone chilling laugh echoes. Bouncing from wall to wall. A manic laugh. One which would make any in the bat-family stiffen. Images of Barbara Gordon and Jason Todd flash through Batgirl's mind. A severed spine and a beaten corpse. The hairs on her neck stand on end and unbidden chill runs down her spine.

The Joker.

This whole thing was a trap.

Suddenly, Alex's head wretched backward, and a pair of blue eyes meets her.

"Puddin', look who I found!" Harley Queen exclaims. The blonde clown wears a sickening smile of glee.

"Look at that, I got a three for two special," comes a deeper voice from behind her. Emerging from the green mist behind her in bold and brazen attire is none other than the Joker. "Batman doesn't like it when I kill his pets. Tch, tch tch, seems he hasn't learned his lesson."

Breaking out of her stupor, Alex flips Harley over her shoulder, slamming the blonde into the floor. She turns to face the psychotic man, her eyes gleam with anger. She rushes forward, a remote taser patch in hand, eager to plant it on monster before her. Only, in her dash, the Joker waves at her with a beaming smile, next thing she knows she's staring up at the ceiling, lights are spinning, and the tail end of a body hitting the floor hits her ears. Her head feels moist with something, before everything goes black.

#supergirl cw #supergirl #kara danvers #alex danvers #danvers sisters #alex and Kara danvers #sisters

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introspectivereflectionz-blog · 5 years

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Not So Sweet

It was 2014 and 25 17-year-old students, including myself, were in AP English reading Wild: From Lost and Found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed. Not many of us knew what a Pacific Crest Trail was or knew how to hike but our teacher was adamant that we read this book. For those of us who haven’t read the book or at least seen the movie, Wild is about a young-woman named Cheryl Strayed who at the age of 26; hikes the Pacific Crest Trail from the Mojave Desert in California all the way up to Oregon by herself. The reason for her journey is that after the death of her mother at the age of 22, she turned to a life of promiscuity and drugs to help her cope with her grief.

As a 17-year-old reading the book, I did not quite understand the concept of grief and trauma. I just knew bad shit happened and when it does, go cry your river, build your bridge, and get over it. I didn’t understand that grief and trauma can manifest itself in the ways that it manifested in Cheryl Strayed. My images of grief always included people in black crying into handkerchiefs at a funeral; not a woman injecting heroin into her ankle and sleeping with random men. So, like most teenagers I wise cracked about how she used the death of her mother as an excuse to be a hoe.

Back on Friday, October 5th, I went on a hike with a friend of mines on the Sugarloaf Mountain in Dickerson, Maryland. It wasn’t anything huge or grandiose like the Pacific Crest Trail or the Appalachian Trail, but it was quite a feat for someone out of shape such as me. Most of the time I was alone running into brush and/or slipping down rocks because my partner was an adept hiker and trails like this were just mere child’s play to him and in this alone time, I remember Cheryl Strayed. I remembered the story I laughed at 4 years earlier and in the middle of the Blue trail, I took off my pack and sat on a rock. I listened to the sound of birds, the rushing of the stream down the mountain, and the wind rustling the leaves of the tree. I took a deep breath of the crisp, mountainous air, and I thought, “I am her.”

Like Cheryl Strayed, I experienced grief and trauma. I am a survivor of sexual abuse, I grew up in a home where I witnessed domestic violence, and my mother early in my childhood was very neglectful and would abandon us for weeks on end. I am also a daughter that was left behind due to parental suicide. At the tail end of 2017, my life started to spiral out of control. On top of the grief and trauma that I was trying to work with; my grandmother, aunt, and uncle died all within a month apart from each other which prolonged the dark cloud that was hanging over my head. Around this time, I also had a horrible habit of drinking profusely and putting my happiness into the hands of men hoping that they will nurture my aching heart back to health but, I always ended up being hurt and back in the bars and on Tinder.

Two weeks after my Uncle’s funeral in January, I thought I met the man of my dreams. He not only took my heart and nurtured it but, he showed me what love is supposed to look like. He showed me that love was not supposed to hurt and betray you and that it was supposed to empower and uplift you. There were many red flags in the beginning but, I willfully ignored them because I so desperately wanted him to be the answer to my prayers. Unfortunately, in June I drunkenly called him after a happy hour turned into a happy night propositioning him to let me come over for a night of sex only to hear another female’s voice on the other end of the phone. This sent my spiraling down into a suicidal psychosis. I flirted with the idea of suicide throughout my life, but I had had enough of the pain and my ex’s cheating was enough to drive me over the edge.

I was walking down Southwest Waterfront hysterically begging and pleading for him not to do this to me with him just offering rebuttal after rebuttal. I had a suicide note in my purse and I had a box cutter that I used on the train earlier to slit my wrists to get me to calm down. It was my intention to slit my wrist and drown myself in the Anacostia River that night but, something told me to live. I called 911 and told them that they had one minute to get to me before I turned the corner which led to the Marina in which I was going to make my last stand. At the grace of God, there was a car already on patrol and they arrived and took me to George Washington University Hospital to get treated.

Now four months later, I was on the Sugarloaf Mountain realizing the power that I had within myself. It’s something about being on a mountain looking down that makes you realize how badass you are. You feel like a giant looking out and seeing how small and insignificant the world is. You start to realize that everything that happened to you leading up to that point was nothing but a test that you needed to pass before you reach your full potential. Like Cheryl Strayed, I dealt with grief, trauma, substance abuse, and promiscuity and like her, nature helped me to start the process of healing. Once I got my ass off the rock, I was determined to summit that mountain. This was a test that I MUST pass.

As the hike continued, each incline became symbolic of all the adversities I overcame. Every cut and scrape became a reminder to not get too ahead of myself and to stay focused on the path ahead. I blazed that mountain determined that from here on out there was nothing that I couldn’t overcome. I was a goddess who is strong, beautiful, intelligent, brave, and deserving of love from others but most importantly herself. As we got closer and closer to the summit, I was starting to feel accomplished. A wave of emotion started to overcome me. I was finally about to complete this task that was going to kick start my journey to wellness but, shit started to happen. My hiking partner and I got lost and the sun was starting to go down. When we finally found the trail that lead to the summit, we were exhausted, hungry, and hiking up and coming back down would eat up most of the daylight that we had left.

On the way down the mountain, I grew discouraged. This one task that I set out to do, I couldn’t do it. That same negative voice that nagged at me for years and years was screaming, “Failure!” “Alcoholic Slut!” “Fat Ass!” and for a second, I believed her and that’s when I remembered Cheryl Strayed. She did not hike the full trail. The Pacific Crest Trail extends all the way from the Mojave Desert into Canada. She stopped in Oregon. I picked my head back up and looked at my step calculator on my phone. That day I walked 8.1 miles! I walked the full length of the White Trail (the longest trail on the mountain) and then some. When we finally came out of the forested mountain onto a paved road leading back to the car, I saw the beautiful sunset that painted the blue sky with hues that ranged from magenta to orange and this lush, green field with a pond next to it that had geese dutifully lined up along its edge. I finally saw the sunshine.

I spent most of my life looking at the bad that I forgot the good that was within me. Looking out onto that sunset made me realize that my goal in life was not to be perfect at everything but, it is to give life the best that I got. It is to try and try and keep trying until I succeed in what it is that God has planned for me. It is going to take some time but, I must be humble and patient. The Sugarloaf Mountain taught me that reaching the summit is not the most important thing, it taught me that giving it the best you got is what counts. On the ride back to the hustle and bustle of Washington, D.C. I told myself that I was going to summit that mountain by any means necessary and I will train and condition everyday if I must. I also told myself that I will take my life back into my hands. I will finish school, be successful, cut back on my drinking, and stop relying on men to make me whole.

My journey on the Sugarloaf Mountain can be described by the words of Cheryl Strayed that I read when I was 17 years old “Uncertain that I was as I pushed forward, I felt right in my pushing, as if the effort itself meant something. That perhaps being amidst the undesecrated beauty of the wilderness meant I too could be undesecrated, regardless of the regrettable things I’d done to others or myself or the regrettable things that had been done to me. Of all the thigs I’d been skeptical about, I didn’t feel skeptical about this: the wilderness had a clarity that included me.”

I AM WILD.

-Tiana Minter 2018

#self love #self care #reflection #hiking #journey #healing #my writing #writing #writers #writers on tumblr

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warhammer-40k-fantasy · 6 years

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Dark Angel by Lionel Johnson

Lionel Pigot Johnson (15 March 1867 – 4 October 1902) was an English poet, essayist and critic

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust To rid the world of penitence: Malicious Angel, who still dost My soul such subtile violence!

Because of thee, no thought, no thing, Abides for me undesecrate: Dark Angel, ever on the wing, Who never reachest me too late!

When music sounds, then changest thou Its silvery to a sultry fire: Nor will thine envious heart allow Delight untortured by desire.

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn, To Furies, O mine Enemy! And all the things of beauty burn With flames of evil ecstasy.

Because of thee, the land of dreams Becomes a gathering place of fears: Until tormented slumber seems One vehemence of useless tears.

When sunlight glows upon the flowers, Or ripples down the dancing sea: Thou, with thy troop of passionate powers, Beleaguerest, bewilderest, me.

Within the breath of autumn woods, Within the winter silences: Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods, O Master of impieties!

The ardour of red flame is thine, And thine the steely soul of ice: Thou poisonest the fair design Of nature, with unfair device.

Apples of ashes, golden bright; Waters of bitterness, how sweet! O banquet of a foul delight, Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete!

Thou art the whisper in the gloom, The hinting tone, the haunting laugh: Thou art the adorner of my tomb, The minstrel of mine epitaph.

I fight thee, in the Holy Name! Yet, what thou dost, is what God saith: Tempter! should I escape thy flame, Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death:

The second Death, that never dies, That cannot die, when time is dead: Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries, Eternally uncomforted.

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust! Of two defeats, of two despairs: Less dread, a change to drifting dust, Than thine eternity of cares.

Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so, Dark Angel! triumph over me: Lonely, unto the Lone I go; Divine, to the Divinity.

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renovarecanada · 3 years

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“Perhaps being amidst the undesecrated beauty of the wilderness meant that I too could be undesecrated, regardless of what I'd lost or what had been taken from me, regardless of the regrettable things I'd done to others or myself or the regrettable things that had been done to me. Of all the things I'd been skeptical about, I didn't feel skeptical about this: the wilderness had a clarity that included me.”

― Cheryl Strayed

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flightandhotel · 4 years

Photo

The name of Byron carved in bold letters

Upon one of the columns I found the name of Byron carved in bold letters. But I looked in vain for the name of Turner. Byron loved the Cape of Sunium. Fortunately, nothing has been done to make it less wonderful since his time. It is true that fewer columns are standing to bear witness to the old worship of the sea-god; but such places as Su- nium are not injured when some blocks of marble fall, but when men begin to build. Still the noble promontory thrusts itself boldly forward into the sea from the heart of an undesecrated wilderness. Still the columns stand quite alone.

All the sea winds can come to you there, and all the winds of the hills winds from the FEgean and Mediterranean, from crested Euboea, from Melos, from Hydra, from /Egina, with its beautiful Doric temple, from Argo- lis and from the mountains of Arcadia. And it seems as if all the sunshine of heaven were there to bathe you in golden lire, as if there could be none left over for the rest of the world.

The coasts of Greece stretch away beneath you into far distances, curving in bays, thrusting out in promontories, here tawny and volcanic, there gray and quietly sober in color, but never cold or dreary. White sails, but only two or three, are dreaming on the vast purple of Poseidon’s kingdom white sails of mariners who are bound for the isles of Greece. Poets have sung of those isles. Who has not thought of them with emotion? Now, between the white marble columns, you can see their mountain ranges, you can see their rocky shores.

Many are the things to do in Bulgaria. My country is not yet very well discovered and I am sure you would love it. It’s nature, history and great emotions.

A snow-white goat warming

Behind and below me I heard a slight movement. I got up and looked. And there on a slab of white marble lay a snow-white goat warming itself in the sun. White, gold, and blue, and far off the notes of white were echoed not only by the mariner’s sails, but by tiny Albanian villages inland, seen over miles of bare country, over flushes of yellow, where the pines would not be denied.

There is an ineffable charm in the landscape, in the atmosphere, of Greece. No other land that I know possesses an exactly similar spell. Wildness and calm seem woven together, a warm and almost caressing wildness with a calm that is full of romance. There the wilderness is indeed a haven to long after, and there the solitudes call you as if with the voices of friends.

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bookingshotelbg · 4 years

Photo

The name of Byron carved in bold letters

Many are the things to do in Bulgaria. My country is not yet very well discovered and I am sure you would love it. It’s nature, history and great emotions.

A snow-white goat warming

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