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Somewhere in my heart in ancient times, I wandered Through these valleys, I have climbed among these hills Faces from a past, I’m haunted by their mem’ries Lives and loves I’ve lost, I feel them in me still New ground, Far as I can see New ground, Underneath my feet Stranger, In a stranger’s land New chance, to know who I am

If I have the strength

To begin again

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“One of the most solid pieces of writing advice I know is in fact intended for dancers – you can find it in the choreographer Martha Graham’s biography. But it relaxes me in front of my laptop the same way I imagine it might induce a young dancer to breathe deeply and wiggle their fingers and toes. Graham writes: ‘There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.’”

— Zadie Smith (via campaignagainstcliche)

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“Early morning simplicity“ by | Elliot Hawkey

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A man browses for books in the old Public library of Cincinnati. The building was demolished in 1955. Today an office building and a parking lot stand where it used to be

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Tallis said nothing to rebut the biting misery, nor those assumptions. He had larger things to concern himself with than a need to assuage foreign nobility - unless said noble contained information or leverage - of their uncomfortable internal prejudices. If Lord Iversen's thoughts weren't a danger to the immediate situation of murder, motives, and what this network of frilly manipulators intended to do about it - and they weren't - then to loathe him was impersonal.

Loki Iversen could have dreamt of vendettas, of peeling and pining Qunari skin to his walls, and still the Avvar would have invited him into his office.

The clock-hands above Iversen’s head felt like they had slowed to a hazy crawl. Despite the disconnect, there was a prayer of peace within Tallis' pit of compartmentalised thoughts that his Archebald might be enjoying a few hours reprieve. Perhaps in a den. The seediest one Orlais had to offer. His attendant had earned that peace tonight. In scarcely two moonrises hence, they would meet again at the gates; perhaps, with a Lord Iversen in tow.

An inhale drew Tallis' attention to a sharp point. He hadn't imagined the wet undertone to it.

Children. An absent wedding band. The implication of a single father alone in a distant city, weeks from help. Not to mention the illustrius, masquerading, false information broker, their Countess Laurent.

The confession may as well have been a flash bomb turning the glittering room ashen. The Qunari's non-threatening slouch-posture faded, and he stood, graceful, an unfolding that was endless, vertebrae by vertebrae, his mass blocking out one of the lamps behind him.

There was a furnace in the Qunari's still gaze. A black, black furnace. None of the fripperies of social disrespect, of pretending to empathise with Lord Iversen's specific plight. Simpering projections of how one did feel, or should feel in a situation such as this was for nobles tossing coins to beggars in the streets. Both men did speak coldly, as if they had shared a lifetime of overshooting shoving their healthy emotions down to where that might be tolerable, but the merchant was silken-quiet now,

"---Is it blackmail?"

“You may be a merchant but your prowess in a fight, brief as it may have been, proves there is a great deal more to you.” The answer felt defensive. Perhaps it was. Loki swallowed. He felt chastised. More misery to add to his already miserable plate, his shit feast of shitloaf and shit-on-the-cob. “I would think my disposition has proven I’m not motivated by prejudice unlike many of my kind.”

As he wrung his hands, he contemplated his next course of action. Speak with the Countess, pack his belongings, and leave. Or would it be folly to return to his quarters? Was there an ambush lying in wait there just in case the initial kill had failed? What items could he reliably leave behind and what were required to bring with him? He could buy new things prior to heading out on the road, but to wait until morning or leave as soon as possible in the dead of night? He couldn’t think. Every thought in his mind felt muddied or otherwise entrapped in a shroud of fog that no matter what he did could not be revealed. More than anything he desired a hot bath, a long rest, a brief respite from the horrors of the day, the tragedy of a betrayal.

Think, Iversen, you bloody buffoon.

“It’s…my children.” The words were quiet. He stared down at his open palm and ran a thumb across the worn lines there, the calluses that were forming at the base of his fingers. When he breathed again, a sharp inhale, he lifted his head and cleared his throat, speaking in a level tone despite the glassy sheen over his eyes, “I’m sorry for bringing so much trouble here, and thank you for your aid and kindness. I can’t stay, though. I have to find them.”

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“It is a terrible thing, this kindness that human beings do not lose. Terrible, because when we are finally naked in the dark and cold, it is all we have. We who are so rich, so full of strength, we end up with that small change. We have nothing else to give.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness.

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desert blooms

instagram - twitter - website

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Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Lavinia Dickinson written c. march 1862

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fernlichtsicht

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The gesture was a familiar one from the corner of Logan’s peripherals: on instinct he raised his glass in acquiesce. Logan's head never left the back of the chair. He feared not for the practically psychic implication that oft upset the upstanding citizens of this, fine town: Loki was used to Logan’s large and sleepy demeanour still having the senses of a man used to a hostile road. Like a retired sharpshooter dozing before a tavern fire, it was unwise to chance how far those peripherals really went.

Unlike Logan’s usual reticent pauses, the cowboy’s answer was so immediate as to be thoughtless. And yet tonight, it was warranted, the excuse he would give himself; this steadfast father, week after month after year here, endlessly resolute and wholehearted and lovely, and oh-so-vulnerable. The outstretched arms of his demeanour could be felt through stone and weary armour.

“I have witnessed Kings and silver-tongued artisans enough to prefer your cause more than most. And I am ... old.”

The King’s persona upon this realm hazed with his sudden study of the dwindling of activity outside the tall and dusty study window. He had heard his own break-through tone of soul-heavy tiredness with a delay in processing it for what it actually was. Unsettled himself with that viscerally crawling, snap back to being bodily-aware, the surprise of it. He had been pensive. Subdued for a moment as if flitting against the edge of a meditation, his nail traipsing lightly along the rim of his empty glass.

The muscles of his neck ticked. This was not home. There was, unfortunately, space in the lazy days of Midgard for a glimpse of Haetta. He had been so many Things in thousands of years, with the title of cowboy sewn no differently into his skin than Sire or Throne-Spined, the reminder of what Loki really asked of him panged like one breath short in his scarred lungs.

The mountain straightened in his chair, restarting himself with a disgruntled exhale, “You are no young thing either, Mr Iversen. This hard-earned survival of ours, reaching an age of where other’s choices and bodies have failed them. Fond as we both are in embracing modern change, and new ideas. When does one have permission to consider oneself wise, and experienced in our decisions, instead of foolishly opinionated?” Against Logan’s silhouette, that ever-present frown was deepening, “'That is our burden. Your children and grandchildren will never have to endure your struggles the way you have endured. And I do not need to have witnessed the precise manner in which this society did treat you, who are different, before your work in this town, to know that you have wrested much resistance of change from these peoples already. Look at them."

As he considered Logan's words, a crease appeared between his brows, affecting an expression not of consternation but deliberation. Aside from the truth in Logan's words—a viewpoint Loki had failed to see despite its obvious presence—there was something else there, tucked in the altered vernacular of his friend. It went unnoticed for a moment until the rumble of the "'tis", an old word, even by current standards. He regarded Logan, then, with the quiet realization that there was a great deal more to him than he let on. Little surprise, given the sheer luck of his companion and Vasilija in their unsavory occupation, and their overall odd dispositions. But to see a hint of it so evidently laid bare, like peeling back the layers of an onion, was jarring.

Who are you really, Mr. Reeves?

"I suppose you're right," Loki remarked, downing the contents of his glass in one swallow. The crease between his brows smoothed, his gaze averted to inspect the empty cup, its crystalline surface reflecting the low light of the room. "It would be foolish of me to expect a life of ease in this industry. I merely want a future for my children that does not require them to fight so hard for it."

Loki rose from his seat and crossed to the decanter of spirits where he refilled his glass and, gripping the decanter by its neck, offered to refill Logan's. As he poured, he asked, "You're a wise man, Mr. Reeves. Have you experience in the political sphere?"

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"Eating." The ancient ignored the siren's distaste for nebulous comments, which she had informed him was barely tolerable upon a ship where knowing those around them, their crew, their abuses, their wants and honesties, was vital for working together. Though she had come to her own realisation that it was her companion's unintentional nature, a resting default of marble, bordering on judgemental, dark flinchless features that failed indicate if he was being wholly, bluntly truthful, or flawlessly a liar.

He was as carnivorous as herself. The explaination was plausible. Or evasive.

Given the blood, and decay, and Haetta's usual meticulous hygene habits, it was hard to tell.

Disgust was more readily shown, however. The elder exaggerated a frown, rubbing a knuckle against his earhole,

"You will bloody mine ear, if you are not careful. Do not do that again."

His deferral only intensified her curiosity (and her obstinance in the face of rejection). She planted herself on the deck, a bristling figure in the moon's full light.

"HÆTTA." Her voice, quiet still on the otherwise silent seas, radiated, dual-toned and sharp as a knife. It echoed around her rather than their surroundings, like steel armor with barbed points. When she spoke again, the effect was gone. "Don't be an arse. What were you doing?"

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Forest of Ice

calibreus

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Fangophilia Taro: Full Arm Armor (2013)

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Edvard Munch (via feuille-d-automne)

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Hélène Cixous, from The Selected Plays of Hélène Cixous; “The Perjured City”

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jenny holzer