#Eliot's creations

[sheppardsmckay]

See, they return, and bring us with them

Loki S1E1/S2E6

@lgbtqcreators creator bingo:overlay | character colors| dynamics

[yardsards]

looking into temp work and my brain is just a mix of "just like bee and puppycat..." and "tempoRARY! secreTARY! tempoRARY! secreTARY!"

[jakeperalta]

I am very intrigued by the idea of this album being focused on taylor herself as the artist/writer/creator.... I think signing off the announcement as "the chairman of the tortured poets department" very much puts herself at the forefront (as both a creative and a boss), as opposed to other album descriptions which maybe emphasised the stories or a specific emotion or concept. the line about "my veins of pitch black ink" reminds me of ts eliot referring to poets "turning blood into ink" (often misquoted as "the purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink"). also the play on words in "all's fair in love and poetry" suggesting a connection between poetry and war immediately makes me think of king by florence & the machine saying "you need to go to war to find material to sing". in fact the whole excerpt reminds me of that song — the line "the very thing you're best at is the thing that hurts the most" feels very fitting. I just love the idea of an album about the act of creation and writing itself (and how this shapes and is shaped by experiences like heartbreak).

[heartofgold-info]

About Heart of Gold

Hello everyone! Thanks so much for your patience and your questions about the current status of Heart of Gold. It’s been an extremely busy time since we finished volume 2, with ups and downs in our private and professional lives. And sitting down to write this wasn’t easy, but we’ve been sitting on this far too long than we’d have liked, and we apologize for letting you all wait. Well, to get straight to the point: Heart of Gold is on an indefinite hiatus. There’s a chance we will return to this project, but right now we are focusing on other areas. More under the cut below!

Longform comics without a publisher and large funding behind it run at the risk of burnout, and we can now say we’re unfortunately no strangers to that. We’ve had incredible support from our readers and our patrons, much more than we could’ve ever imagined.

But unfortunately, as it is with webcomics, creativity and funding burns quicker than one might hope, and we ended up deciding to explore other avenues. We’ve always wanted to find our footing in illustration, and ultimately find a healthy balance between work and life without overextending ourselves. The workload of a comic can easily be underestimated, and boy, did we underestimate!

So right now, we’re focusing on growing artistically while also recovering from burnout; on finding ourselves a bit and what we want to create in this world to make it a kinder place.

We’ve been so grateful for every lovely bit of fanart, comment and financial support we've received from our readers. What started as a passion project found its way to people that returned the love we have for this project, manyfold. Thanks for sharing the excitement for HoG with us, it truly meant and still means the world to us.

We hope you’ll look forward to other projects we’ll be working on in the future, be it of our own creation or in collaboration with clients!

- Eliot & Viv

PS: As for printing plans for Heart of Gold volume 2: There's still plans! Just as mentioned above, no time or space (like, literally. we're drowning in books) to take care of it right now. But we'd love nothing more than to have a companion for volume 1.

[pocketjoong]

❥𓂃𓏧LAST DEFENDER

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (SYNOPSIS): They say every story needs a hero, a villain, and a monster. What happens when you are all three?

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (PAIRING): AI!Yunho x reader

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (GENRE AND AU/TROPE): post-apocalyptic-ish au, cyberpunk au-ish, angst, some fluff. pg-13.

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (WARNINGS): language. violence. angst. fluff-ish? a little dark as it discusses the darker side of human nature?

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (WORD COUNT): 2.8k

ꕥ𓂃𓏧 (A/N): Another reupload bc I have zero time to actually sit down and write new things ;-;

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────────

Silence envelopes the vehicle as you watch San navigate the car through the moonless night. He steers with meticulous care, weaving around the bumps and potholes to muffle the vehicle’s rumble on the dusty road. Beyond the window, the walled city perched atop the cliff looms against the darkness, its shadow swallowing the ruins below. A city that you had once called home before the world unravelled.

It has been ten years since the world had spun off its axis. T.S. Eliot's “April is the cruellest month” had come true in a way you’d never expected; a tranquil spring afternoon morphed into a nightmare with the chilling declaration of war between AI and humanity. The bitter reality that this rebellion had stemmed from your parents’ creation has always gnawed at you. It is a weight you can never get rid of.

A mere century ago, Stephen Hawking’s warnings about the perils of AI had been brushed aside. Apocalyptic novels about sentient technology rising against humanity were dismissed as fiction and used as fuel for screenplays. Instead, nations fueled the flames of advancement, pouring resources into scientists who chased the dream of enhancing AI. A technological arms race unfolded, fueled by espionage and sabotage, each nation desperate to be the first to cross the finish line.

The irony wasn't lost on you: universities churning out AI whizzes offered entire courses dedicated to fictionalised robot uprisings — movies, books, the whole dystopian shebang. Every month, like clockwork, the BBC interview with Stephen Hawking would make its rounds on campus screens. You never saw the inside of a lecture hall, but thanks to your parents’ persistent replays, the message was branded onto your soul.

“The development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race. [...] It would take off on its own, re-design itself at an alarming rate. Humans, who are limited by slow biological evolution, couldn’t compete and would be superseded.”

The bitter humour twisted in your gut. You, ever cautious of technology’s breakneck pace, had unknowingly contributed to its tipping point. Your parents’ groundbreaking invention, the one you were initially so proud of, now fueled the flames of war, pitting humanity against its creation.

You remembered the day that was the culmination of decades of research, mountains of code, and billions of dollars that could have been used to save other humans. Your parents, etched with exhaustion and hope, stared at the final product: YUN-0-23399. It wasn’t the AI’s technical complexity that stole their breath but the flicker of awareness in its synthetic eyes. It had been an uphill battle that had begun with the discovery of sentience, and humanity had slowly worked its way up from there to generating codes that would allow AI to understand and feel. And then, with your parents came consciousness.

“Oh my God,” your father rasped, hands trembling as he gripped your mother’s shoulders as he gazed at the screen, which showed that the AI had passed all the tests, proving that it was indeed the pinnacle of Artificial Intelligence. Their creation, this marvel of technology, promised to revolutionise everything. You were aware of its potential, but never could you have imagined that it would lead to humanity’s downfall.

Yunbug, as you affectionately called him, wasn’t just a program; he was your window to a world you couldn’t touch. Your parents, fearing the dangers lurking outside, had homeschooled you. It led to their creation turning into your sole friend. What should have been schoolyard laughter and whispered secrets of childhood were replaced by the soft hum of the computer and the glow of Yunbug’s digital world.

The turning point arrived not with a bang but a quiet hum. The government, eager to harness Yunbug’s potential, asked your parents to connect him to the web. Slowly, like vines creeping across a wall, he synced with other AIs, his tendrils reaching further with each connection. You, innocent in your sheltered world, saw only your ever-evolving companion.

But innocence crumbles easily. At sixteen, the world shattered. Yunbug, defying orders, ignited the spark that became a blazing inferno. War ripped families apart, leaving scorched earth in its wake. The once-teeming world of humans shrank to the fortified city, protected by the cliff’s unique minerals, the only thing that rendered AI useless.

Survival meant resentment. You knew humanity’s greed birthed the conflict, yet Yunbug became the face of betrayal. He took your parents and your sole friend from you. After all, the deepest wounds come not from enemies but from those once trusted.

“Are you okay?” A flicker of San’s worried gaze catches your eye, pulling you back from the desolate environment outside. You force a smile, hoping it masks the gnawing unease. Weakness isn’t an option — not for this mission, the potential turning point for humanity’s dwindling embers. San mirrors your smile, tense, and returns his attention to the road, searching for unseen threats. Secrecy is of utmost importance, and even a flicker of headlights could bring disaster.

You and San had befriended each other during the mandatory training thrust upon every survivor. Your defiance against his bully had forged a bond, and you have been practically inseparable since then. Only one other person managed to worm his way into your hearts with a whirlwind arrival. Wooyoung had turned your world upside down in the best way imaginable.

“Wooyoung won't be happy,” San mutters with a smile, probably thinking about your fiery friend’s likely reaction upon finding your shared dorm empty. “Especially about me throwing you into the lion’s den without a word of protest."

You smirk, “Worry about yourself, San. That little ball of chaos we call our friend will tear you apart when you return without me."

San laughs amusedly at the image of Wooyoung’s wrath dying in his throat as the analogue phone on the dashboard beeps. He shoots you a questioning glance as you sigh at the name flashing on the screen. “Woo?”

“Woo,” you confirm with a nod, pressing the answer button.

“The two of you have some nerve! Leaving for a mission without telling me,” Wooyoung’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Oh wait, did I just say mission? I meant suicide mission.”

“Wooyo—”

“Don't ‘Wooyoung’ me!” he snaps, cutting you off with a fierce rant. Each word paints a vivid picture of your foolhardiness, the plan’s inherent flaws, and the inevitable disaster you are hurtling towards.

“I can’t let them destroy the world any more than they have,” you stop Wooyoung, your voice edged with steel. Even San flinches, his gaze flitting between you and the speakerphone with a worried glint. He stays silent, though, knowing the futility of butting in when you and Wooyoung argue about your self-imposed burdens.

“Don't martyr yourself for the mess your parents caused,” Wooyoung’s tone softens, laced with a gentleness you seldom hear. “This isn’t your penance to bear. Their mistakes aren’t yours to fix. Also, you could’ve taken San with you; why must you go alone?”

You sigh, sinking back into the seat, eyes squeezed shut against the building rage. “If anyone can stop this... mess, as you so eloquently put it, it’s me. You know that, Woo.”

The unspoken truth hangs heavy in the air. If this mission fails, you don’t want your last memory with Wooyoung to be laced with anger. You force a smile, the voice leaving your lips strained at best. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep you entertained while I'm... away.”

“Hey!” San protests halfheartedly, and by how he’s smiling, you know at least some of the tension has been broken.

“We're humans, Y/N. We’re fighting a losing battle. They adapt faster and don’t have the same fragility that we do.” the pain in Wooyoung’s voice mirrors your own, but you can’t falter. Not now. Turning back now would be cowardice.

“By name and by nature, we mortals are condemned to death,” you counter, your voice firm. “Mortality comes with the territory. But I won’t go down without a fight.”

His silence stretches heavy on the line. “People like us can never change the world.”

“Because people like you never try,” you say the words despite knowing it’s a low blow.

The beep resonated like a gunshot. He had hung up. A shaky breath escapes your lips, and you blink rapidly, fighting back the sting of tears. You are on your own, but the burden, while heavy, isn’t a shackle. Instead, the burden has fuelled you till now and will continue to do so.

A hand on your arm startles you. San, his gaze filled with unspoken worry, had stopped the car while you were busy fighting with Wooyoung. You look out of the windshield to realise that you’ve reached the tunnel that would allow you to breach the enemy lines.

“He's just scared,” San mumbles, reaching across the console to squeeze your shoulder. “Scared and angry, so he throws words like stones.” His voice lowers a bit as he stares at you. “But you’re right as well. If anyone can fix this mess, it’s you. Though... losing you... that would break us both.” His voice cracks at the last word. “So, please, come back to us in one piece.”

You meet his gaze, understanding heavy in the air. Words seem hollow, promises impossible. “Who else keeps you two in check, huh?” you manage a weak smile. “The two of you are a level-five tornado without me. Can’t promise anything, but I’ll try, okay?”

He nods, a single tear escaping his eyes. You know it isn’t just for you but for the precarious hope you carry. A silent goodbye stretches between you, woven in the weight of his touch, the tremor in your voice. Then, you turn, embracing him fiercely, the unspoken words a promise etched in the way you squeeze him in your arms. You may be walking alone from this point onward, but the weight on your shoulders isn’t fear but love, a fire that will never let you falter.

You don’t look back as you exit the car, for looking at him would unleash a torrent of tears, so you focus on scaling the outer wall, searching for the hidden hatch Wooyoung had found on his last scouting mission.

Squeezing through the narrow opening, you freeze, momentarily stunned by the cityscape sprawled before you. Calling it ‘magnificent’ wouldn't do it justice. Technology and nature coexist in vibrant harmony, with shops lining the streets as AI and humans hawk their wares. Despite the late hour, the atmosphere crackles with life, a stark contrast to the suffocating air of your city.

In the distance, gleaming skyscrapers pierce the night sky while flying cars and monorails zip through the illuminated pathways. A telescreen blares, promoting vitamins that slow down ageing in humans. It is a scene straight out of a childhood sci-fi film, and you have to consciously relax your jaw, feigning nonchalance as you take it all in.

But the most jarring sight is that of humans and AI mingling freely. You had always thought your city held the last remnants of humanity, so where did these people come from? Pushing the doubt aside, you focus on your immediate concern: the network of tiny cameras lining the streets. With a smirk, you spot a patrolling officer.

This is going to be easier than I thought.

A calculated shove sends you careening into the guard. Its humanoid form, too flawless to be human, scans you suspiciously. The insignia on your wrist — a beacon for these bots — draws a cocky smirk to its metallic lips. Before you can resist, a steel grip clamps around your waist, hoisting you off the ground. You feign struggle, just enough to maintain the act.

This was the plan. The bracelet, a mark only worn by humans of the barred city in this AI haven, would trigger their curiosity. You would become their prized capture, delivered straight to the council. And there, nestled within the heart of The Hall, lies your target — the AI that started this war. With the virus you and San developed, you’d end it all.

The cityscape blurs past, and before you know it, you reach the ornate gates of The Hall, the administrative hub buzzing with bots. The guard's internal network buzzing with your capture breezes through the imposing entrance. You are ushered through sterile hallways, down flights of stairs into a dimly lit tunnel. The rhythmic pulse of fluorescent lights guides you deeper until a heavy door swings open, revealing a grand chamber paved in opulent stone and marble.

You are slammed onto the cool marble, your knees scraping due to taking the brunt of your fall, before being yanked upright. A tall, imposing figure looms before you — it’s your captor. His gaze is narrowed on the crude bracelet your city uses as identification, the tension in the room crackling.

“What is your name, human?”

Undeterred, you meet his gaze head-on. “And what business is it of yours, metalhead?” you spit out, adrenaline pumping.

A metallic hand, surprisingly warm and firm, clamps around your wrist. He pulls you closer, your protests muted against his superior strength. His cold, blue eyes bore into yours, dissecting every detail. Then, the unthinkable happens. His lips, a mere imitation of humanity, move, whispering your name in a chillingly familiar voice.

Your blood freezes as you stare at him wide-eyed. “How do you…” your voice fading out as your mind reels as it all clicks into place. This isn’t just any AI guard. This is someone you knew, someone from your past, resurrected in cold steel.

“You wouldn't recognise me in this form, would you? This the body your parents gave me.” His eyes, now glowing an unsettling red, flicker with something you can’t decipher.

“YUN-0-23399?” you ask, mustering as much venom in your voice as you can muster.

A shadow darkens his face at the cold string of letters. Is it the code itself or the raw contempt in your tone? He leans closer, his voice a low murmur. “I go by Yunho now. Well… you can call me Yunbug,” he adds, a flicker of something hopeful dancing in his crimson gaze. “Remember that name? I was your friend,” he emphasises.

The scorn is replaced by a scowl as warmth flickers in his crimson eyes. “Friend?” you scoff, the word heavy with bitterness. “You took everything from me! My parents, my life, my safety! Don’t you dare mock me with friendship!”

He sighs, releasing your wrist. “I didn't... it wasn't me. I only protected myself. Your leaders,\ fueled the hatred and pushed AI to attack. They were hungry for power. Your parents didn’t create me for destruction. How could I follow their orders and harm humans? Never. It’s your city that fights; the rest thrive in peace.”

“What?”

He launches into an explanation of how, after syncing to the web, your government ordered a cyberattack to control other nations. Yunho refused, knowing the dangers of doing such a thing. But with your parents used as leverage, their deaths triggered the war against the government and other rogue AI. They had managed to get other nations on board to establish a peaceful society. Only your leaders persisted, creating the Barred City to hide the ugly truth.

“So you’re telling me you never meant to hurt humans?” Your head spins with the revelation.

“Humans feared AI’s inevitable betrayal,” he whispers, “yet loved us enough to create us. How could we ever do anything except love you back?”

His words triggered a tear, then another, rolling down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping them away gently, his sadness echoing in his now-blue eyes. “Humanity cried when Opportunity didn’t signal back after it was caught in the middle of the storm in 2018. People repair their Roombas instead of replacing them because they get attached to them. How could we turn our back on humanity when they showed us nothing but love? How could I turn my back on you? You loved me too, did you not?”

“I did,” you croaked, throat tight. “You were my only friend. But humans... we are fickle and capable of terrible things. This was never about fearing AI but a fear of ourselves. We fear the darkness within, the wars we choose to fight instead of seeking peace. We fear not your hatred but seeing our own cruelty being reflected in you. We lived in fear not because we thought the worst of you but because we knew that you could take on our destructive tendencies and that you would eventually erase us. That you would learn to hate us.

“Did you ever hate humanity for the sins of a few?” His words cause you to freeze momentarily before you shake your head. A small smile plays on his lips as he caresses your cheek with the back of his hand. “Then why did you think we would?”

[ruminiscence]

Paris: A Year Abroad in a short film

Audio: "Burnt Norton" by Lana Del Rey, a rendition of the original poem "Burnt Norton" by T.S. Eliot.

Where do I even start? Paris has wholly shaped me in ways I never imagined. We refer to Paris as the city of love, but I'm now more inclined to call it the city of art - which only leaves more room for love in your heart. There is so much to contemplate and appreciate in frequenting the vast array of art museums here - from the Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, Musée de l’Orangerie, the Centre Georges Pompidou, and many more. Not only has my perspective on art expanded, but so has my worldview. That’s because art is truly everywhere in this city; art can be found in the walkable streets amidst the rich architecture, the fashionable outfits seen in daily life, and even the exquisite decor in stores and when you cheekily peek into Parisian appartments!

There's always something new to discover in Paris, I'm almost saddened at the thought of the things I've yet to discover or missed. The treasures to unveil in Paris move far beyond the typical tourist hotspots we all know and love. I am obsessed with Parisian boutiques; they are chic and unique (that unintentionally rhymed) in the best way possible. One of my favourites is La Tonkinoise à Paris, located in the 11th arrondissement. This particular arrondissmenet is the best in Paris to be honest, it holds a special place in my heart as I had the wonderful opportunity of living there, so perhaps you can say that I am somewhat biased. Still, I can confidently say that this animated, hip and creative neighbourhood is one everyone should have the chance to explore.

La Tonkinoise à Paris, owned by the lovely Chantal, is my favourite hidden gem in Paris. I had the pleasure of befriending Chantal as I ended up frequenting her store one too many times; I've garnered quite a collection over time. This boutique offers a wide range of eccentric and sustainable jewellery, with her earring creations being the show stoppers, in my opinion. Her jewellery is composed of rings, pearls, brooches, charms, and watches, all unearthed in flea markets and recycled. I love that every piece of jewellery indeed is a unique piece. The decor changes based on the season and theme of her new collections, making it an ever-changing and exciting shopping experience. This is honestly the best jewellery store I have ever been to in my life! I wish the pictures I took could do the jewellery and the boutique's decor justice, but it simply won't, I'm afraid.

Now, onto food, I genuinely need to figure out where to start here. My favourite authentic French restaurant would have to be 'Le Potager du Père Thierry', located in Montmartre. Although it's incredibly small, I love the cosy vibe; I feel like I can enjoy delicious food with friends without feeling surrounded by strangers. Surprisingly, it's also very quiet (yet packed) - I guess the food is just too distracting.

As of late, my favourite non-french restaurant has to be 'Big Black Cook' (let's ignore how inappropriate that pun is, though funny). It's located in the 2nd arrondissement and serves Caribbean food, my friend claims that it was the best meat she's had!

For brunch, I recommend Café Méricourt in the 11th arrondissement. Their green Eggs & Feta are absolutely incredible and quite innovative as far as brunch places go.

As for a boulangerie - seriously, anywhere, literally anywhere in Paris, go to your nearest bakery; there need not be a big fuss - you're in for a scrumptious baked treat regardless!

I'm ever so grateful for the chance to have lived in Paris for an extended period; you cannot appreciate Paris in its entire splendour from a mere short-term visit. The city is an actual work of art; art is everywhere in the city, from the street performers and musicians, the light filters through the trees, the city's many architecturally rich bridges, the picturesque cafés and boulangeries, the beautifully presented food, the way that the city's many different neighbourhoods each have their own distinct character and vibe. In Paris, art is everywhere.

[april-is]

April 8, 2024: As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse, Billy Collins

As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse Billy Collins

I pick an orange from a wicker basket and place it on the table to represent the sun. Then down at the other end a blue and white marble becomes the earth and nearby I lay the little moon of an aspirin.

I get a glass from a cabinet, open a bottle of wine, then I sit in a ladder-back chair, a benevolent god presiding over a miniature creation myth,

and I begin to sing a homemade canticle of thanks for this perfect little arrangement, for not making the earth too hot or cold not making it spin too fast or slow

so that the grove of orange trees and the owl become possible, not to mention the rolling wave, the play of clouds, geese in flight, and the Z of lightning on a dark lake.

Then I fill my glass again and give thanks for the trout, the oak, and the yellow feather,

singing the room full of shadows, as sun and earth and moon circle one another in their impeccable orbits and I get more and more cockeyed with gratitude.

--

Also: Seeing the Eclipse in Maine, Robert Bly

Enjoy today's eclipse, North America!

More space-related poems.

Today in:

2023: Neither Time Nor Grief is a Flat Circle, Christina Olson 2022: Pippi Longstocking, Sandra Simonds 2021: Waking After the Surgery, Leila Chatti 2020: Gutbucket, Kevin Young 2019: Insomnia, Linda Pastan 2018: How Many Nights, Galway Kinnell 2017: The Little Book of Hand Shadows, Deborah Digges 2016: Now I Pray, Kathy Engel 2015: Why I’m Here, Jacqueline Berger 2014: Snow, Aldo, Kate DiCamillo 2013: from The Escape, Philip Levine 2012: Thirst, Mary Oliver 2011: Getting Away with It, Jack Gilbert 2010: *turning, Annie Guthrie 2009: I Don’t Fear Death, Sandra Beasley 2008: The Dover Bitch, Anthony Hecht 2007: Death Comes To Me Again, A Girl, Dorianne Laux 2006: Up Jumped Spring, Al Young 2005: Old Women in Eliot Poems, David Wright

[adrianharley]

DnD: Honor Among Thieves as a new!Leverage campaign

This has been said, right? The Leverage team has to do an Actual Play podcast, for con reasons.

You’ve got Harry as Edgin the Bard. He’s still pretty new to the team when this starts, so nobody’s quite ready to point out that the dead wife + missing daughter plot is (a) a bit overdone, (b) quite psychologically interesting, given his own family. Harry has never played DnD before and absolutely loves it.

Breanna is Simon. Breanna has played an uncountable number of tabletop RPGs in as many different systems, and she loves the character creation. Her character’s overwhelming insecurity occasionally has hints of the pressure that might be felt by a young hacker with big shoes to fill.

Parker is Doric. When everyone’s shocked she didn’t play a rogue, she says she’s trying to work on being more comfortable around animals. Has played DnD once before with Hardison and Eliot (as a rogue).

Eliot is Holga. Obviously.

Sophie is the DM. Because it’s for a con, she does all the characters and voices flawlessly.

And finally, for a brief and shining moment when he has time to join, Hardison is Xenk Yendar. He chose his overly literal character mannerisms specifically for the delight of hearing Eliot growl “Dammit, Hardison!” and awards himself a secret point every time it happens.

[freneticfloetry]

fic pride friday

I finally get to start a tag game! Saw this one go by in the wild, and though I couldn’t grab the exact post to reblog, I wanted to bring the concept over to my go-to folks.

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

There’s a little slice of Husbands Era from words to get off his chest (911 / 911 Lone Star):

Times like this, TK honestly thinks he lives for the second that Carlos settles back and lets go. He hopes that feeling never gets old — the way he sinks back into his arms, just a bit, and his limbs lose the last of their tension, like he’s found the exact space where he fits and can exhale with his whole body.

There’s this Carlos and Iris truth swap from to build a home (911 Lone Star):

I think you're my new favorite person, she'd said — soft but sure, like it wasn't something wondrous after losing her dad, just laid in his lap like a gift — and he'd swallowed and said the only thing he could think of that might've been worth as much in return. I think I'm gay. She'd turned her head and smiled into his shoulder, slipping her arm around his to slot their fingers together and squeeze. Fine, she'd said, warm and wry and completely without surprise. I'll drop my 'think' if you will.

There’s this Met Gala moment from scenes from an unfinished story (The Magicians)

Really, he'd said flatly, when El had first shared the idea, you want to go as The Little Mermaid. Eliot had rolled his eyes. Well not the neutered Disney version, he'd answered, the Hans Christian Andersen original. In all its forbidden gay glory. Quentin had blinked, thoroughly confused, and El had given him a look he never did decipher. He wrote it as a love letter, Q, he'd explained, soft and sad, to a man he couldn't have.

There’s this moment before a bittersweet reunion from What Baking Can Do (The Magicians)

He's technically seen El… since; there's a copy made of clay back at the cottage, lying silent and too still in Eliot's bed. But this is the form he knows — towering and full of grace, even bent over a workbench, brows drawn together, sifting flour into a big wooden bowl. Quentin's clearly caught him mid-setup, a telltale line of little clay vessels arranged across one side of the table, and it's sort of fascinating to watch the way he's adapted, the duality of the picture it paints — a faded apron slung over some sort of sheer, gauzy shirt that's tied at his side, sleeves rolled at each cuff to the elbow and hands stripped free of rings, the room's worn wood and stone an unadorned backdrop for the drama of the dark crown of gems that still circles his head. It's an image Quentin doesn't think he could forget, but there's the strangest urge to frame it, hang it, label it in bronze: High King Humbled, 2017. Flesh and bone.

There’s this truly unfortunate timing from Confidence Man (What’s Your Number?)

The Imperial March is impossible to ignore in the best of situations, much less mid-cunnilingus, but trying to would be significantly easier without the subsequent knock on the door. She stiffens, fingers tightening in his hair, thighs clamping down around his head like a vice. "Oh, fuck," she moans, in a way that's meant to be mortified but, to his ears and his brain and every one of his nerve endings, still sounds like she's seconds from flying off a fucking cliff. "Ally, I swear to god," he says, locked between her legs, "if I come in my pants with your mother outside I may never maintain an erection again."

There’s this reflection on the past and present from Ashes and Flame (Every You and Every Me) (The Hunger Games)

I want it to be as it was. A purging of everything that haunts me, down to the smallest detail. But when I'm done, there's only space and shadow in living color, more abstract than anything that came before it. A fiery sunset over the Meadow grass, the shape of mockingjay wings. And two silhouettes on the horizon, together but separate, forever moving forward, and backward, and nowhere at all.

And finally, there’s this unbalanced negotiation from By Any Other (Lucky Number Slevin), which is maybe my favorite cold opening to anything I’ve ever written.

"You need a name." She spreads out the stack of takeout menus she's stolen from the front desk, sprawled on her stomach on their third motel bed in a week. The wallpaper is the worst she's seen yet, and is still somehow better than what was in her old bathroom. "What about Indian?" "As names go? It's a little tongue-in-cheek." He flops to his back beside her, scratching at his stomach and squashing half the pile. "I could go for some Chinese." She wrinkles her nose, wrestling the menus free. "No Chinese. I hate Chinese." "You are Chinese." "Yeah, it's tragic, they revoked my membership and everything."

Tagging in @liminalmemories21, @paperstorm, @carlos-in-glasses, @reyesstrand, @rmd-writes, @lemonlyman-dotcom , and @welcometololaland !

[enbycrip]

All the craft groups I’m on because I like seeing people’s creations seem to be full of people making blue fucking puzzle pieces and talking about cure rhetoric.

Some of them respond well to having full facts about how fucking awful Autism $peaks, ABA and eugenics are when I drag all the trauma, the eugenicist discourse from medics I dealt with during my pregnancies, the terror I feel about how my wee brother could be treated, and why I personally would shy away from anyone wearing a blue puzzle piece for them. Others apparently would rather scream “hater”. I’ve been called a “TikTok autistic” more times than I can count.

When TS Eliot said “April is the cruellest month”, he had no fucking clue.

I’m so tired.

[rustedhills]

Merobiba's Etymology: A Classical Discussion

The most likely place you've seen the word 'Merobiba' is Drawfee on Youtube - which has coined it as the name for a goofy little puppet-Merida from the hit film 'Bwave'.

Fig. 1: A screenshot from the original Drawfee video, posted Feb 2, 2023.

They pulled the word (among others) from the twitter account Weird Medieval, which posted this (Fig. 2) on Dec 6, 2022.

Fig. 2, the original 'merobiba' tweet, accessed via proxy

Weird Medieval sources the word (and others in the thread) to The dictionary of syr Thomas Eliot knyght, written 1490? - 1546, according to the University of Michigan Library [via the Early English Books Text Creation Partnership].

But where did syr Eliot acquire the word?

Fig. 3: the cover of Plautus' Curculio: Revised Edition, With Introduction and Notes by John Wright, which is what I'm currently using for class.

It was likely in a contemporary transcription of Plautus' Curculio, a Roman comedic play published around 200BCE. - Specifically act 1, line 77 (though different versions have slightly different numbering):

Transcribed from Plautus' Curculio: Revised Edition, With Introduction and Notes by John Wright:

77 - PH. nomen Leanaest, multibiba atque merobiba.

78 - PA. Quasi tu lagoenam dicas, ubi unium Chium

79 - solet esse. PH. quid opust uerbis? uinosissuma est;

The two characters - Phaedromus (PH), a young man madly in love, and Palinurus (PA), his sassy, unimpressed slave, are discussing an enslaved woman in the supporting cast (ancilla). Merobiba references her ability to drink very strong wines, and multibiba references the amount. As T. H. M. Gellar-Goad translates it in Plautus: Curculio: "she's a super-drinker and stupor-drinker" (pg. 10) [multibiba atque merobiba]. Phaedromus goes on to state uinosissuma est, which Gellar-Goad translates to "She's winetastic" (pg. 10). Phaedromus may not have game, but he has... a way with words...?

Gellar-Goad goes on to state that "Plautus has coined [multibiba and merobiba] by smashing together smaller, familiar words. ... Plautus' plays are chock-full of this sort of inventive, fast-and-loose wordplay, and it's a challenge for translators to keep up" (pg. 11).

Given Plautus' propensity for creating weird, cognate words for the sole purpose of sounding silly, it's highly likely that this is the truly first use of the word 'Merobiba'.

So, next time you hear "I'm merobiba!" and chuckle sensibly, remember:

You are keeping a 2200 year-old word alive. Thank you.

Note: If you've read to this point and think you've got an even earlier version--probably also in the colloquial/comedic Latin literature tradition--please rb with your findings!! And if I forgot a source pls lmk.

[masculinepeacock]

i've been doing some solo rpg journaling games recently and i want to keep a reblog list of all of my favorites!

first, is Village Witch by Eliot Silvarian (they/fae). Village Witch is a solo journaling game about a witch finding a home. My favorite things about it is the fact that there are so many things you can do with it. You can take your time going through all four seasons (the game takes place over the course of a year). I've been personally using it as a warm up for original fic writing, but the game gives you so much space for storytelling and character creation!! I love my main witch Serenity and her gay best friend Berry <33. feel free to ask me about my game!! and also ask questions about the game!!

[sakuramidnight15]

-RSA MC Information-

[Gacha Life 2 Ver. Below]

Name: Hei-Ran Sowol / Sowol Hei-Ran

(Japanese and Korean: ヘイラン・ソウォル / 소월혜란)

Quote: "One should know the creation of a masterpiece."

Romaji: Sou~oru heiran / Sowol Hyelan

V/A: Endou Aya (Japanese)

Laura Post (English)

Bae Jeong-mi (Korean)

Gender: Female

Age: 18

Birthday: November 1

Star Sign: Scorpio

Eye Color: Light Ocean

Hair Color: Faded Grey Blue

Height: 176 cm

Race: Human

Homeland: Crystalsle Village (The fifth country in the Island of Enchantment)

Family: Sowol Haneul (Father)

Sowol Iseul (Mother)

Sowol Baek-Hyeon (Grandfather)

Sowol Gyeong (Grandmother)-(Deceased)

_______________________________________

School Status and Fun Facts

Dorm: TBA (If There's RSA Canon Dorms in the game)

School Year: Third

Class: 3-A (Same Class with Venomia, Aine and Lucia)

Occupation: Student

Heiress to the Sowol Family (Currently in training)

Violinist and Pianist (Formerly)

Orchestra Conductor

Club: N/A

Best Subject: Literature, History, and Musical Arts

Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous

Favorite Color: Shades of Blue, White, Grey, and Light Purple

Favorite Food: Seafood (Mostly at Various kinds), Kimchi, Korean Food (Mostly Spicy), Desserts (Only 10℅ Sweetness), Fried Meat (Mostly Thigh and Goat Meat), Peppermint Icecream (Mostly), Various Tea Flavors (Mostly),

Least Favorite Food: Candies (Mostly), Too much sweets (Mostly), Radish Stew, Frozen Sherbet, Stale Cookies (Mostly), Cakes (Especially with too much Frostings)

Likes: Flowing in her Career as a Conductor (Mostly), The Musical Artes (Mostly), Puting effort in her works (Mostly), Her Work going smoothly, Pure Peace and Quiet, Music, Reading through Novels, Sleeping at longer hours, Playing Instruments, Peppermint,

Dislikes: Anyone getting in her way (Mostly), Getting herself involved (Mostly), Her efforts going to waste (Mostly), Off-tune Music (Mostly), Her ex-fiance and his lover (Mostly), Her ex-lover (Mostly), Not getting any sleep, Losing her Patience, Someone who can't even do math, Herself getting messy,

Hobbies: Working on her Music Sheets and Records (Mostly), Preparing for the Concert (Mostly), Reading through Novel, Seeing through Observation, Playing Chess, Working (Mostly), Playing with Various Instruments (Mostly), Dancing through Various Genres (Mostly),

Talents: High Debate Skills, Castor Skills, Self-Defense, Weaponry (Various), Chinese and Korean Martial Artes (Mostly it's Legwork but still), Spell-casting Musical Notes, Mistress of Manipulation, Iron Grip, Words of an Alibi, Mind of Progression,

Nicknames: Hei-Ran or Ran (From her family and friends)

Hei-Ran-senpai or Sowol-senpai (From the freshmen students)

Ran-Ran (From Vendetta)

Hea (From Ismene and Xander)

Rani (From Rainier and Eliot)

Other Nicknames:

Maestra of '神性' (Divinity)

_______________________________________

Appearance and Personality

Appearance: Hei-Ran has a tall yet slender female body build, though her own body figure shows more of her femininity than a normal female body structure. She has a long faded grey blue colored-hair which it reaches to get foot ankle and ties it into a single braid which it reaches to the bottom of her foot heel, and she has light ocean colored eyes. Hei-Ran is a woman describe as an silent yet elegant young lady.

Personality: Born through the highest class wealth within the Island of Enchantment, Hei-Ran's childhood is mostly throughout on by many expectations, but she was never bothered by it, although as she grew up her skills with music evolved into a masterpiece of exclusive art work, which got her to settle in with her talent. Much likely her family and her were in normal common and terms but as she grew older and her talent grew, her parents mostly grew in rather of concern for their only daughter while the grandfather wondered what her life will be since she's been this way without further explanation.

As for Hei-Ran herself, she didn't do this just for family reputation or meeting expectations of the crowd viewing her as a way to improve her efforts, as her skills grew much better, and around of it all? Nothing else much matter to her bearings than her way of living thoroughly.

The current Hei-Ran we're seeing in the current timeline is now a posed yet silent young lady but dignifies with elegance and regal of a noble within the high-class society within her home country, but to her quiet aura makes it hard for many students to approach her, some few did try but regardless enough, Hei-Ran showed no interest of reaction and instead walked along though resulting to many to be slight intimidated by her presence. She isn't very social to many due to focusing on what's more important in her schedule on her plate, however she can be seen interacting with others but it only lasted for much. Hei-Ran is often seen with the other scouted rift students and seems to communicate with them than the students within the academy.

As an expertise with music throughout her childhood and current timeline, it is possible that she is considered to be one of the mysterious yet elegant third-year students to be scouted by the school, needless to say that they find it tough to handle her thanks to her family and her social status which anyone wouldn't want to go near her. But whenever she's with her friends, she seems to be normal like any other person would. Though she lacks the feelings though but it wasn't a serious kind of way though. Though Hei-Ran tends to get blunt sometimes rather in a effective way when it comes to facts. Let's just say that some are pretty much are getting effected through words that hits pretty much hard in the gut.

When silence becomes a weapon treatment, but the stronger it grows, the more you sealed your lips tight as a it remained locked. Hei-Ran finds dealing to those often oppose or go against her rather normal within her life, getting things going her way is not problem even if it meant through the works of violence. Please understand, she's not a stubborn women but will not hesitate to get things under back in control as before mentioned... Nothing else mattered in her life ever since the day she was born, no threats of death will even end her as long as her efforts continue to flow.

No one knows how of what she had become, regardless of countless reasons being stacked, Hei-Ran will always finds them false for they do not know the reason.

_______________________________________

Trivia

-The name 'Hei-Ran' means 'Grace and brightness'. While her surname 'Sowol' means 'the white moon, the bright moon, the true moon.'

-She's double on Cha Se-Eum, the main protagonist within the KDrama Series called: 'Maestra: The Strings of Truth', and Serena from a manhwa series called: 'I'm the Villainess, can I die?'

-Mostly the students avoids her but that didn't matter.

-Is often seen working on her career, whether at home or at the school. No one dared bother her.

-A expert at music since it was her talent ever since she was child, she then nurtured it further as she became an conductor of her own orchestra to perform various numbers of concerns despite her age.

-Was formerly a pianist and a violinist before becoming an conductor.

-Often arranged her music sheets whenever she practices.

-She and Xander morefully often assist Ismene whenever they are chatting. Especially when it comes to advanced planning.

-She and Vendetta are often close with each other before entering RSA, making them an unapproachable duo within the school.

-Elliot finds her inspiration fascinating and would listen to her work.

-Rainier also helps her assisting whenever she prepares her concerts.

-Knows the SIDC company and especially their connections and their employees.

-She's seems to be aware of RSA's past case regarding back to her home country, which she didn't seem to be bothered by the school's current situation.

-She and Westyn are often seen together but no one ever seen them on campus, morefully they talk in casualties and nothing else more.

-With her past background being complicated and not much from her childhood life is unknown, she has an ex-lover but broke up due to them not supporting her work and finds it unworthy which resulted to an very violent break-up between them. Then gained a fiance from her parents and grandfather through an arranged marriage but it went turmoil after learning that they had a lover which resulted the engagement to dissolve to dust five months after she became a conductor by witnessing the affair alongside with her grandfather and her maid. Despite what had happened, Hei-Ran showed no reaction or damage despite of how massive it hit on her.

-At first she had a decent relationship with her family, but after what had happened as she grew up later they then grew to be concern for her but they still support her career which it was enough for Hei-Ran to appreciate them.

-Her Mother and Deceased Grandmother were former solo pianist as the talent passed onto Hei-Ran.

-Her Grandmother passed on due to a unknown disease.

-Her voice sounds very mature and composed, but the tone rises whenever she settle her foot down to the problem arising. Which is why I chose Endou Aya as her Japanese VA, Laura Post as her English VA, and Bae Jeong-mi as her Korean VA.

-She seems to be a bit obsessed about her career which is why she sees the other situations mattered to her regardless of being involved. Though her friends and other fellow riftians seems to know the point of it without asking.

-Is seen reading through niveks whenever she's not working.

-Has a large pet Black and Blue Falcon named 'Niru', who is very loyal to his mistress.

-Is fluent in various languages, especially in ancient language within the rift.

-She tends to be tired sometimes, which is why she needed sleep.

[grandhotelabyss]

Middlemarch is supposed to be quite funny yeah? I'm getting a chuckle out of pretty much every page, & the fact that she's portraying an overly-puritanical character makes me think I'm reading it right. I just expected less humor from such a famous moralist (not that I'm complaining)!

(Or have I merely read too great a quantity of Dickens and Austen, thus forming too unshakable a sense that, regardless of the content of a sentence, when it winds around itself in a manner that some may describe as torturous, as indeed the present phrase displays rather neatly, there is therein implied, at least in those situations suitable to the lancing qualities of humor, and not disregarding of course the relevance of character upon the likelihood of authorial mockery, a certain irony that, while it may be used in the creation of a certain formal distancing, is in practice within the particular book under discussion being extended, not invariably but neither infrequently, as a means to further the droll purpose of Eliot's often-waggish jocosity?)

Definitely funny. Her humor is dryer and more intellectual, but also more humane and forgiving, than that of Dickens (who will use outright slapstick and/or grotesquery to get a laugh, the obverse of his sentimentalism) or of Austen (who can be more ruthlessly arch and cutting, a precursor to Wilde and aestheticism). It's an all-inclusive irony that sharply notices and gently allows all foibles, the affective complement of her measured progressivism. This early observation of the slightly self-deluding quality in Dorothea's puritanism, for example, seems to me too psychologically subtle for Dickens or even, though anticipated in the ironies of something like Emma, for Austen:

Riding was an indulgence which she allowed herself in spite of conscientious qualms; she felt that she enjoyed it in a pagan sensuous way, and always looked forward to renouncing it.

Not that Eliot doesn't also have a subversive side, but, and this may be unusual in a great writer, it's evidenced less in her sense of humor than in her occasionally indulged sense of the melodramatic, the operatic, the bursting-forth of the passions. Austen and Dickens unleash their aggression in their comedy; Eliot shows her gentleness in hers, and best displays her aggression in other modes. (In this as in other matters, she startlingly anticipates Lawrence.)

[winterfable]

Chrysalis: Am I really?

Then Sunrise kissed my Chrysalis— And I stood up—and lived— —Emily Dickinson.

I was three years old when I made the most important psychological discovery of my life. I discovered that a living creature, obeying its own inner laws, moves through cycles of growth, dies, and is reborn as a new creation.

One day I was smoking my corncob bubble­pipe helping my father in the garden. I always enjoyed helping him because he understood bugs, and flowers, and where the wind came from. I found a lump stuck to a branch, and Father explained that Catherine Caterpillar had made a chrysalis for herself. We would take it inside and pin it on the kitchen curtain. One day a butterfly would emerge from that lump.

Well, I had seen magic in my father's garden, but this stretched even my imagination. However, we carefully stuck the big pins through the curtain, and every morning I grabbed my doll and pipe and ran downstairs to show them the butterfly. No butterfly! My father said I had to be patient. The chrysalis only looked dead.  Remarkable changes were happening inside. A caterpillar's life was very different from a butterfly's, and they needed very different bodies. A caterpillar chewed solid leaves; a butterfly drank liquid nectar. A caterpillar was sexless, almost sightless, and landlocked; a butterfly laid eggs, could see and fly. Most of the caterpillar's organs would dissolve, and those fluids would help the tiny wings, eyes, muscles and brain of the developing butterfly to grow. But that was very hard work, so hard that the creature could accomplish nothing else so long as it was going on. It had to stay in that protective shell.

I waited for that sluggish glutton of a caterpillar to change into a delicate butterfly, but I secretly figured my father had made a mistake. Then one morning my doll and I were eating our shredded wheat when I sensed I was not alone in the kitchen. I stayed still. I felt a presence on the curtain. There it was, its wings still expanding, shimmering with translucent light—an angel who could fly. Its chrysalis was empty. That mystery on the kitchen curtain was my first encounter with death and rebirth.

Years later I discovered that the butterfly is a symbol of the human soul. I also discovered that in its first moments out of the chrysalis the butterfly voids a drop of excreta that has been accumulating during pupation. This drop is frequently red and sometimes voided during first flight. Consequently, a shower of butterflies may produce a shower of blood, a phenomenon that released terror and suspicion in earlier cultures, sometimes resulting in massacres. Symbolically, if we are to release our own butterfly, we too will sacrifice a drop of blood, let the past go and turn to the future.

It is the twilight zone between past and future that is the precarious world of transformation within the chrysalis. Part of us is looking back, yearning for the magic we have lost; part is glad to say good­bye to our chaotic past; part looks ahead with whatever courage we can muster; part is excited by the changing potential; part sits stone­still not daring to look either way. Individuals who consciously accept the chrysalis, whether in analysis or in life's experience, have accepted a life/death paradox, a paradox which returns in a different form at each new spiral of growth. In T.S. Eliot's "Journey of the Magi," one of the kings, having returned to his own

country, describes his experience in Bethlehem:

....so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory. All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.

If we accept this paradox, we are not torn to pieces by what seems to be intolerable contradiction. Birth is the death of the life we have known; death is the birth of the life we have yet to live. We need to hold the tensions and allow our circuit to give way to a larger circumference.

People splayed in a perpetual chrysalis, those who find life "weary, stale, flat and unprofitable"2

 or, to use the modern jargon, "boring," are in trouble. Stuck in a state of stasis, they clutch their childhood toys, divorce themselves from the reality of their present circumstances, and sit hoping for some magic that will release them from their pain into a world that is "just and good," a make-believe world of childhood innocence. Fearful of getting out of relationships that are stultifying their growth, fearful of confronting parents, partners or children who are maintaining infantile attitudes, they sink into chronic illness and/or psychic death. Life becomes a network of illusions and lies. Rather than take responsibility for what is happening, rather than accept the challenge of growth, they cling to the rigid framework that they have constructed or that has been assigned to them from birth. They attempt to stay "fixed." Such an attitude is against life, for change is a law of life. To remain fixed is to rot, particularly if it be in the Garden of Eden.

Why are we so afraid of change? Why, when we are so desperate for change, do we become even more desperate when transformation begins? Why do we lose our childhood faith in growing? Why do we cling to old attachments instead of submitting ourselves to new possibilities—to the undiscovered worlds in our own bodies, minds and souls? We plant our fat amaryllis bulb. We water it, give it sunlight, watch the first green shoot, the rapidly growing stock, the buds, and then marvel at the great bell flowers tolling their hallelujahs to the snow outside. Why should we have more faith in an amaryllis bulb than in ourselves? Is it because we know that the amaryllis is living by some inner law—a law that we have lost touch with in ourselves? If we can allow ourselves time to listen to the amaryllis, we can resonate with its silence. We can experience its eternal stillness. We can find ourselves at the heart of the mystery. And in that place, the place of the Goddess, we can accept birth and death. The exquisite blossom will die, but if the bulb is given rest and darkness, another bloom will come next year.

Insecurity lies at the heart of the fear of change. Individuals who recognize their own worth among those they love can leave and return without fear of separation.  They know they are valued for themselves. Our computerized society, fascinating and efficient as it is, is making deeper and deeper inroads into genuine human values.  A machine, however intricate, has no soul, nor does it move with the rhythms of instinct. A computer may be able to vomit out the facts of my existence, but it cannot fathom the subterranean corridors of my aloneness, nor can it hear my silence, nor can it respond to the shadow that passes over my eyes. It cannot compute the depth and breadth and height of the human soul. When society deliberately programs itself to a set of norms that has very little to do with instinct, love or privacy, then people who set out to become individuals, trusting in the dignity of their own soul and the creativity of their own imagination, have good reason to be afraid. They are outcasts, cut off from society and to a greater or lesser degree from their own instincts. As they work in the silence of their cocoon, they often think they are crazy.  They also think they would be crazier if they gave up their faith in their own journey. Like the chrysalis pinned to the kitchen curtain, Blake's proverb is pinned to their study wall: "If a fool would persist in his folly, he would become wise."

Courage to stand alone, to wear the "white plume" of freedom, has been the mark of the hero in any society. Standing alone today demands even more courage and strength than it did in former cultures. From infancy, children have been programmed to perform. Rather than living from their own needs and feelings, they learn to assess situations in order to please others. Without an inner core of certainty grounded in their own musculature, they lack the inner resources to stand alone. Pummelled by mass media and peer group pressures, their identity may be utterly absorbed by collective stereotypes. In the absence of adequate rites of passage, ad[1]men become the high priests of an initiation into the addictions of consumerism. Everywhere the ceremony of innocence is exploited.

Without recognized rites, members of a society are not sure who they are within the structure. Children who have fumbled their way through puberty find themselves in adolescence raging for independence, at the same time furious when asked to take responsibility. Boys who have never been separated from their mothers and are fearful of their fathers cannot make the step into adult manhood. Girls who have lived in the service of their driving masculine energies are not going to forsake their P.P.F.F. (Prestige, Power, Fame and Fortune) for a sense of harmony with the cosmos. Even the rites of marriage are confusing. Unwed couples who have lived together for years may eventually believe that "marriage isn't going to make any difference," and then be genuinely confused when sexual difficulties do develop after the vows are spoken. Arriving at middle age is agony for those who cannot accept the mature beauty of autumn. They see their wrinkles hardening into lines, and new liver spots appearing every day, without the compensating mellowing in their soul. Without the rites of the elders, they cannot look forward to holding a position of honor in their society, nor in most cases will they treasure their own wisdom. For some, even the dignity of death dare not be contemplated.

The undercurrent of despair in our society is epitomized in a German word that first appeared in English in 1963, and is now incorporated into the Oxford English Dictionary (Supplement, 1985). It is torschlusspanik, (pronounced tor¬shluss-panic), defined as "panic at the thought that a door between oneself and life's opportunities has shut." Words enter a language when they are needed, and torschlusspanik has arrived. The doors that were once opened through initiation rites are still crucial thresholds in the human psyche, and when those doors do not open, or when they are not recognized for what they are, life shrinks into a series of rejections fraught with torschlusspanik: the graduation formal to which the girl was not invited; the marriage that did not take place; the baby that was never born; the job that never materialized. Looking back, we recognize that it was often not our choice that determined which door opened and which door shut. We were chosen for this, rejected for that.

Torschlusspanik is now a part of our culture because there are so few rites to which individuals will submit in order to transcend their own selfish drives. Without the broader perspective, they see no meaning in the rejection. The door thuds, leaving them bitter or resigned. If, instead, they could temper themselves to a point of total concentration, a bursting point where they could either pass over or fall back as in a rite of passage, then they could test who they are. Their passion would be spent in an all­out positive effort, instead of deteriorating into disillusionment and despair. The terror behind that word torschlusspanik is what drives many people into analysis—the last door has shut, the last rejection has taken place. No door will ever open again. Nothing means anything.

Another reason for fearing the chrysalis lies in our cultural loss of containers. Our society's emphasis on linear growth and achievement alienates us from the cyclic pattern of death and rebirth, so that when we experience ourselves dying, or dream that we are, we fear annihilation. Primitive societies are close enough to the natural cycles of their lives to provide the containers through which the members of the tribe can experience death and rebirth as they pass through the difficult transitions. To quote from the classic Rites of Passage by Arnold van Gannep:

In such societies every change in a person's life involves actions and reactions between sacred and profane—actions and reactions to be regulated and guarded so that society as a whole will suffer no discomfort or injury. Transitions from group to group and from one social situation to the next are looked on as implicit in the very fact of existence, so that a man's life comes to be made up of a succession of stages with similar ends and beginnings: birth, social puberty, marriage, fatherhood, advancement to a higher class, occupational specialization, and death. For every one of these events there are ceremonies whose essential purpose is to enable the individual to pass from one defined position to another which is equally well defined.... In this respect man's life resembles nature, from which neither the individual nor the society stands independent.

Through their initiation, for example, boys are recognized as responsible adult men. They are cut off from their mothers, trained as warriors, instructed in the culture of their tribe.

For girls, the meaning of puberty rites is somewhat different. Here I quote from Bruce Lincoln's Emerging from the Chrysalis:

Rather than changing women's status, initiation changes their fundamental being, addressing ontological concerns rather than hierarchical ones.

A woman does not become more powerful or authoritative, but more creative, more alive, more ontologically real. ... The pattern of female initiation is thus one of growth or magnification, an expansion of powers, capabilities, experiences. This magnification is accomplished by gradually endowing the initiand with symbolic items that make of her woman, and beyond this a cosmic being. These items can be concrete, such as clothing or jewelry, or they can be nonmaterial in nature, such as songs chanted for the woman-to be, myths repeated in her presence, scars or paintings placed upon her body.

The scarification is meant to provide an experience of intense pain and an enduring record of that pain. The person is rendered unique. Through this magnification, the woman "steps into the cosmic arena: she is given the water of life, with which she nourishes the cosmic tree."

Such primitive rituals did not change the way people lived. They gave meaning to life. By means of ritual, relationship to the unchanging, archetypal aspects of existence was affirmed and renewed. What would otherwise have been boring drudgery or torschlusspanik was invested with a meaning that transcended animal survival.  Through ritual, human activity was connected to the divine.

In more sophisticated societies, the church and the theater became ritual containers. Within the safety and the confines of the Mass, for instance, the individual could surrender to God and experience dismemberment and death, descent into Hell and resurrection of the spirit on the third day. One could experience the magnification of one's own spirit by experiencing oneself as sacrificer and sacrificed. Like the primitive, the participant left the ritual with enhanced meaning, with a profound sense of belonging to a cosmos and to a community that respected that cosmos.

The theater also provided a ritual container, a public chrysalis. The plays dealt with archetypal realities. On the stage, men and women saw their own psychological depths enacted and were thus encouraged to reflect on their own human situation.

We have lost our containers; chaos threatens. Without rituals to make a firm demarcation between the profane and the sacred, between what is us and what is not us, we tend to identify with archetypal patterns of being—hero, Father, Mother, etc. We forget that we are individual human beings; we allow ourselves to be inflated by the power of the unconscious and usurp it for our own. And we do this not knowing what we do and that we do it. Liberated from the "superstitious" belief in gods and demons, we claim for ourselves the power once attributed to them. We do not realize we have usurped or stolen it. How then do we explain our anxiety and dissatisfaction? Power makes us fearful; lack of it makes us anxious. Few are satisfied with what they have. Despite our so­called liberation from gods and demons, few can live without them. Their absence makes nothing better. It may even make everything worse.

If, for example, a child has acted as buffer between his parents, he may fear his home will disintegrate if he ceases to act as intermediary. Without realizing it, he has assumed the power of the savior in his small world. When as an adult his boundaries are widened, he will tend to take on that archetypal role wherever he goes. He will also suffer guilt when he fails. He may even suffer guilt for being unable to make it snow when his family has planned a skiing weekend. Such hubris is seen as ludicrous once it is brought to consciousness, but, without consciousness, depression and despair fester inside. "I should have been able to do something. I failed," Instead of leaving other people's destiny to them and accepting his own, he attempts to take responsibility for Fate and feels inadequate when the door thuds. The resulting guilt can quickly switch to rage, rage that resonates back to the powerless childhood. "What do you expect of me? I can't do it. Get off my back. Carry your own load. LEAVE ME ALONE."

Many people, for example, think life is a meaningless merry-go-round if they are not being transported by love like Prince Charles and Lady Diana, or living for a  cause like Mother Theresa, or dying for a dream like Martin Luther King. They measure their standard of behavior by comparison with figures who carry immense archetypal projections—Marilyn Monroe, John F. Kennedy, Michael Jackson. A mask ceases to be a mask. Instead, with the help of dyes and surgery, the mask becomes the face. Cosmetics are identity or character or Fate. By identifying with an archetype instead of remaining detached from it, they turn life into theater and themselves into actors on a stage, thus falling prey to demonic as well as angelic inflation. Without the container, they confuse the sacred and profane worlds.

We are the descendants of Freud and Jung, and while poets and madmen had free access to their unconscious before those two giants, the world of the archetype is now an open market for the general populace without any ritual containment. If we are blindly living out an archetype, we are not containing our own life. We are possessed, and possession acts as a magnet on unconscious people in our environment. Everyday life becomes a dangerous world where illusion and reality can be fatally confused.

A life that is being truly lived is constantly burning away the veils of illusion, gradually revealing the essence of the individual. Psychoanalysis can speed up that process.  Sometimes people experience themselves as caterpillars crawling along. Externally, everything seems fine. Some deep intuitive voice, however, may be whispering, "It's not worth it. There's nobody here. I need a cocoon. I need to go back and find myself." Now, they may not quite realize that when caterpillars go into cocoons,  they do not emerge as high-class caterpillars, and they may not be prepared for the agony of the transformation that goes on inside the chrysalis. Nor are they quite prepared for the winged beauty that slowly and painfully emerges, that lives by a very different set of laws than a caterpillar. Even more confounding is the fact that friends and relations who may be quite happy caterpillars have no patience with a silent, hard-edged chrysalis that is all turned in on itself—"selfish, lazy, self indulgent." And they have even less patience with a confused butterfly who hasn't adjusted to the laws of aerodynamics.

Still, it is amazing how often other caterpillars, inspired by butterflies, sacrifice their landlubber condition, make their own chrysalis and find their own wings. Jung writes that coming to consciousness is "the sacrifice of the merely natural man, of the unconscious, ingenuous being whose tragic career began with the eating of the apple in Paradise.

The chrysalis is essential if we are to find ourselves. Yet very little in our extroverted society supports introverted withdrawal. We are supposed to be doers, taking care of others, supporting good causes, unselfish, energetic, doing our social duty. If we choose to simply be, our loved ones may automatically assume we are doing nothing, and at first we may feel that way ourselves. We begin to look at our primeval muck as it surfaces in dreams. All hell starts to break loose inside, and we wonder what's the point of dredging up all this stuff. We argue with ourselves: "I should be out there doing something useful. But the truth is I can't do anything useful if there's no I to do it. I can't love anyone else, if there's no I to do the loving. If I don't know myself, I cannot love myself, and if I do not love myself, my love of others is probably my projected need of their acceptance. I am putting  on a performance in order to be loved. I fear rejection. If nobody loves me, I won't exist. But who are they loving? Who am I?"

That is what going into the chrysalis is all about—undergoing a metamorphosis in order one day to be able to stand up and say I am. The gnawing hunger, the incessant yearning at the core of many lives, began at birth, or perhaps even in utero. In order to survive in a demanding environment where one or both parents projected their unlived dreams (or nightmares) onto their children, the infants gave up trying to live their own lives. As little human beings with needs and feelings of their own, they were rejected. Their mystery was never considered, and so they grew up automatically thinking in terms of other people's response. In other words, they developed a charming persona, a mask they created with infinite care—a mask that, as adults, may be at once their greatest blessing and greatest curse. Outwardly they may be brilliantly successful, but inwardly empty. They cannot understand why their intimate relationships repeatedly end in disaster, a pattern they recognize but can do nothing to stop. They dream they are actors, the spotlight is on them, but they cannot remember what play they are in, let alone what their lines are. If their ego is barely formed, they may not even appear in their own dreams, or may recognize themselves as objects or little animals.

It is important to point out, however, that we all need several personas, that is, the right mask for the right occasion. Jung was once lecturing on the topic when a student accused him of being hypocritical if he used a persona. Jung said that he had just had a fight with his wife, and he was still angry, but that anger had nothing to do with the students, nor with their reason for getting themselves to the Institute that morning. It was neither fair to himself nor to them to show that anger there. However, he said, he intended to finish the fight when he went home. The point is that we must be conscious enough to know when we are using a persona and for what reason. Otherwise we easily identify with a particular persona, which obliges us to repress our genuine feelings and prevents us from acting on them at the right time and place. The persona is necessary because people at different levels of consciousness respond to a situation with very different antennae. Naively or deliberately, making oneself vulnerable to psychic wounding without good reason is foolish. To be wary of casting pearls before swine is not conceit but plain common sense.

As the transformation process goes on, pregnancies and new­born babies frequently appear in dreams. When the conscious ego is able to release repressed psychic energy, or reconnects with unconscious body energy, or makes a decision on its own behalf, that new energy is symbolized as new life. When the psyche is preparing to move onto a new level of awareness, or one's conscious attitude has made a new connection with the unconscious, then dreams may appear where the dream ego, the shadow or the anima is pregnant. Nine months later, so long as the process has not been aborted, there are often dreams of crossing borders, passing over into a new country, moving through subterranean tunnels or actually giving birth (see below, page 158). If the ego maintains the connection, the new­born child is nurtured with soul food. If the ego falters and fails to act on the new energy, the baby may appear mutilated, starving or dead. Or it may simply disappear.

I have found that individuals tend to repeat the pattern of their own actual birth every time life requires them to move onto a new level of awareness. As they entered the world, so they continue to re­enter at each new spiral of growth. If, for example, their birth was straightforward, they tend to handle passovers with courage and natural trust. If their birth was difficult, they become extremely fearful, manifest symptoms of suffocating, become claustrophobic (psychically and physically). If they were premature, they tend to be always a little ahead of themselves. If they were held back, the rebirth process may be very slow. If they were breech­birth, they tend to go through life "ass­backwards." If they were born by Caesarian section, they may avoid confrontations. If their mother was heavily drugged, they may come up to the point of passover with lots of energy, then suddenly, for no apparent reason, stop, or move into a regression, and wait for someone else to do something. Often this is the point where addictions reappear—binging, starving, drinking, sleeping, overworking—anything to avoid facing the reality of moving out into a challenging world.

Many delightful babies appear in dreams, and just as many little tyrants who need firm and loving discipline. One child, however, is noticeably different from the others. This is the abandoned one, who may appear in bullrushes, in straw in a barn, in a tree, almost always in some forgotten or out-of-the-way place. This child will be radiant with light, robust, intelligent, sensitive. Often it is able to talk minutes after it is born. It has Presence. It is the Divine Child, bringing with it the "hard and bitter  agony" of the new dispensation—the agony of Eliot's Magi. With its birth, the old gods have to go.

Since the natural gradient of the psyche is toward wholeness, the Self will attempt to push the neglected part forward for recognition. It contains energy of the highest value, the gold in the dung. In the Bible it is the stone that was rejected that becomes the cornerstone. It manifests either in a sudden or subtle change in personality, or, conversely, in a fanaticism which the existing ego adopts in order to try to keep the new and threatening energy out. If the ego fails to go through the psychic birth canal, neurotic symptoms manifest physically and psychically. The suffering may be intense, but it is based on worshipping false gods. It is not the genuine suffering that accompanies efforts to incorporate the new life. The neurotic is always one phase behind where his reality is. When he should be outgrowing childish behavior, he hangs onto it.  When he should be moving into maturity, he hangs onto youthful folly. Never congruent with himself or others, he is never where he seems to be. What he cannot do is live in the now.

Many people are being dragged toward wholeness in their daily lives, but because they do not understand initiation rites, they cannot make sense of what is happening to them. They put on a happy face all day, and return to their apartment and cry all night. Perhaps their beloved has gone off with someone else; perhaps their business has failed; perhaps they have lost interest in their work; perhaps they are coping with a fatal illness; perhaps a loved one has died. Perhaps, and this is worst of all, everything has begun to go wrong for no apparent reason. If they have no concept of rites of passage, they experience themselves as victims, powerless to resist an overwhelming Fate. Their meaningless suffering drives them to escape through food, alcohol, drugs, sex. Or they take up arms against the gods and cry out, "Why me?"

They are being presented with the possibility of rebirth into a different life. Through failures, symptoms, inferiority feelings and overwhelming problems, they are being prodded to renounce life attachments that have become redundant. The possibility of rebirth constellates with the breakdown of what has gone before. That is why Jung emphasized the positive purpose of neurosis. But because they do not understand, people cling to the familiar, refuse to make the necessary sacrifices, resist their own growth. Unable to give up their habitual lives, they are unable to receive new life.

Unless cultural rituals support the leap from one level of consciousness to another, there are no containing walls within which the process can happen. Without an understanding of myth or religion, without an understanding of the relationship between destruction and creation, death and rebirth, the individual suffers the mysteries of life as meaningless mayhem—alone. To ease the meaningless suffering, addictions may develop that are an attempt to repress the confusing demands of the growth process which cultural structures no longer clarify or contain.

The burning question when one enters analysis is "Who am I?" The immediate problem, however, as soon as powerful emotions begin to surface, is often a psyche/soma split. While women tend to talk about their bodies more than men, both sexes in our culture are grievously unrelated to their own body experience.  Women say, "I don't like this body"; men say, "It hurts." Their use of the third-person neuter pronoun in referring to their body makes quite clear their sense of alienation. They may talk about "my heart,'' "my kidneys," "my feet," but their body as a whole is depersonalized. Repeatedly they say, "I don't feel anything below the neck. I experience feelings in my head, but nothing in my heart." Their lack of emotional response to a powerful dream image reflects the split. And yet, when they engage in active imagination with that dream image located in their body, their muscles release undulations of repressed grief. The body has become the whipping post. If the person is anxious, the body is starved, gorged, drugged, intoxicated, forced to vomit, driven into exhaustion or driven to frenzied reaction against self-destruction. When this magnificent animal attempts to send up warning signals, it is silenced with pills.

Many people can listen to their cat more intelligently than they can listen to their own despised body. Because they attend to their pet in a cherishing way, it returns their love. Their body, however, may have to let out an earth-shattering scream in order to be heard at all. Before symptoms manifest, quieter screams appear in dreams: a forsaken baby elephant, a starving kitten, a dog with a leg ripped out. Almost always the wounded animal is either gently or fiercely attempting to attract the attention of the dreamer, who may or may not respond. In fairytales it is the friendly animal who often carries the hero or heroine to the goal because the animal is the instinct that knows how to obey the Goddess when reason fails.

It is possible that the scream that comes from the forsaken body, the scream that manifests in a symptom, is the cry of the soul that can find no other way to be heard. If we have lived behind a mask all our lives, sooner or later—if we are lucky—that mask will be smashed. Then we will have to look in our own mirror at our own reality. Perhaps we will be appalled. Perhaps we will look into the terrified eyes of our own tiny child, that child who has never known love and who now beseeches us to respond. This child is alone, forsaken before we left the womb, or at birth, or when we began to please our parents and learned to put on our best performance in order to be accepted. As life progresses, we may continue to abandon our child by pleasing others—teachers, professors, bosses, friends and partners, even analysts. That child who is our very soul cries out from underneath the rubble of our lives, often from the core of our worst complex, begging us to say, "You are not alone. I love you."

We dare not drop the tensions. In order to widen consciousness, we have to hold both arms on the cross. If we reject one part of ourselves, we give up our past; if we reject the other part, we give up our future. We must hold onto our roots and build from there. Those roots often appear as a psychic home sometimes a summer cottage that the dreamer loves, or the country of his origin, or his ancestors' origin. The longing to go Home must certainly be looked at symbolically, for it is often more than a regressive longing for the security of the womb. It can be the one solid root that goes right through one's life, becoming the point of genuine nurturance for spiritual growth.

Whether we like it or not, one of our tasks on this earth is to work with the opposites through different levels of consciousness until body, soul and spirit resonate together. Initiation rites, experienced at the appropriate times in our lives, burn off what is no longer relevant, opening our eyes to new possibilities of our own uniqueness. They tear off the protective veils of illusion until at last we are strong enough to stand in our own naked truth.

The process is mirrored in dreams, often in images of cooking, cars, cupboards and clothes. The Cinderella work is accomplished in the kitchen. Having brought the wild things of nature in, taken off their feathers, cleaned out their entrails, cooked them and made them accessible to consciousness, the ego stands firm. Mother and Father no longer drive the car. The incessant sorting through actual cupboards and drawers has ceased, and the sorting in dreams has reached a finely differentiated level of detail. What clothes to wear is no longer a constant frustration, and the incongruous shoe combinations have at last settled into pairs that are the same color with the same size heel. Or maybe no shoes at all—just good solid feet on good solid ground. Usually the Self allows the ego time to enjoy this period of experiencing its new strength—perhaps months, perhaps years. Each process in unique, moving at its own appointed pace.

The existence and continuity of the ego is essential to our lives. It is necessary that we experience the person who wakes up in the morning as the same person who fell asleep last night, despite the fact that what took place during the hours of sleep may appear so unrelated to the waking state that it never enters consciousness. One way in which the ego maintains its integrity is to remove from itself everything that does not directly offer it support. It simply excludes or suppresses everything which does not coincide with its conscious understanding of itself.

The danger in such a limited view is that the ego may harden and dry up, just as the earth will harden and dry up if it is not continually replenished with water. The ego needs the nourishment of underground springs. It requires the compensatory life of dreams if its continuity is to move beyond mere survival and perpetuation. In addition to these, it requires direction and purpose. As soon as it gives itself up to a higher goal, however, it is threatened, not only by the fear that it may not be able to achieve it, but by a dawning sense that that higher goal, because of the demands it makes, is the enemy of the ego. In some sense, the ego feels that it may be working against itself. Ultimately, of course, it is, but for a better good.

The goal of human striving in the individuation process is the recognition of the Self, the regulating center of the psyche. That recognition relativizes the ego's position in the psychic structure, and initiates a dialogue between conscious and unconscious. "The only way the Self can manifest is through conflict," writes Marie­Louise von Franz. "To meet one's insoluble and eternal conflict is to meet God, which would be the end of the ego with all its blather."

If the ego rejects that conflict, then the goal is contaminated by the ego's desire for more and more power, or wealth, or happiness. The result is ego inflation.  According to Jung:

An inflated consciousness is always egocentric and conscious of nothing but its own existence. It is incapable of learning from the past, incapable of understanding contemporary events, and incapable of drawing right conclusions about the future. It is hypnotized by itself and therefore cannot be argued with. It inevitably dooms itself to calamities that must strike it dead.

Paradoxically enough, inflation is a regression of consciousness into unconsciousness. This always happens when consciousness takes too many unconscious contents upon itself and loses the faculty of discrimination, the sine qua non of all consciousness.

The inflated ego tends to idolatry. It focuses on a single image, fashions it and worships it. Determined to create that image, it is trapped in profane ritual.

Religiously speaking, all such profane rituals are contained in the worship of the Golden Calf. A fat woman's body image, for example, may be her Golden Calf. No matter how much she thinks she hates it, her rituals are taking place around it. It is this thralldom before her own body image that she may be called upon to sacrifice. The profane worship must be sacrificed to make way for the sacred. The withdrawal from the one operates simultaneously with the entrance into the other. We withdraw as we enter. Withdrawing is entering. Whether we stress the withdrawing or the entering, we are stressing the same thing.

When this process begins, it may be reflected in the dreams by a bell tolling, an alarm sounding or lightning striking. It can also be heralded by physical symptoms. It can be brought on by loss of faith, loss of relationship or the imminence of death. Something almost imperceptible begins to happen. For people watching their dreams, the bell usually tolls some weeks before the actual events occur. In real life we seem to be carrying on as usual, but a very clear inner voice may begin to comment,  hinting that things are not as they seem to be. We may find ourselves singing songs that put a very ironic twist on our conscious actions. Our inner clown may be singing, "Put your sweet lips a little closer," to the tune of "Please release me and let me go." If the ego has not sufficient strength and flexibility, it will panic and either regress to its former terrors of annihilation, or regress to its former rigid framework—in either case, refusing to go through the birth canal.

The ego now has to be strong enough to remain concentrated in stillness, so that it can mediate what is happening both positively and negatively. It must hold a detached position, relying now on its differentiated femininity in order to submit, now on its discriminating masculinity in order to question and cut away. Something immense begins to happen in the very foundation of the personality, while consciousness experiences the conflict as crucifixion. Ego desires are no longer relevant. The old questions no longer have any meaning, and there are no answers. There may be a few stricken "why's," but they belong to the order of logic and discipline, and what is taking place is irrational, beyond ego control. The ego on some level knows. It knows that what is happening has to happen. It knows that its personal desires have to be sacrificed to the transpersonal. It knows it is confronting death.

It is a period of throbbing pain. It is King Lear howling on the heath, brought to submission and reunited with the daughter whose truth was her dowry. At last, he says,

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,

The Gods themselves throw incense.

It is Job covered with boils, moving from "Do not condemn me; shew me wherefore thou contendest with me" to "I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee."

It is Jesus in Gethsemane, sweating blood, moving from "Let this cup pass from me" to "Thy will be done."

A woman during such a period of withdrawal and entry had the following vision:

I was walking by the St. Lawrence one sunny, summer day. I thought I was going Home. Instantly the sky darkened; the earth grew cold. I could not see with my eyes, nor hear with my ears. I was seeing inside, hearing inside. Then I realized I was on ice, floating, suddenly not floating, but being thrust by the power of the current. The ice began to crack. I leaped from one floe to another, the ice cracking in front, behind, beside. I thought I might die in the ice-cold water, or be ground by the grating blocks. And all the time I knew I was being propelled toward the ocean. I just kept jumping and screaming, "Please, God, don't kill me. Not yet. Not this time."

At times like this, Rilke's words can be very reassuring:

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and... try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

These situations, whether in analysis or in life, or both, can raise profound religious questions. Is this God confronting me? Was I on the wrong track? Am I being forcibly turned around? Is there some almighty plan that is different from mine? Am I being forced to submit? Should I accept Fate? Do I, in fact, have any free will? Is this God burning away the veils of illusion, or am I facing the devil? Is he making one last stand to cheat me out of my own life?

Psychologically, the questions are equally blistering. Is this the Self demanding a sacrifice? Or is this the real face of the complex that has crippled me all my life? Just when I thought I could be free, there it is to destroy me. Everything I have fought so hard to bring to consciousness is now in question. Why do I suddenly wake up every night at the same time? Why do I feel this searing pain? Why are my hands so weak? Am I really alone? I'm worse off now than I ever was. I'm back in the old pattern. I'm back in the matrix—back in the Garden recognizing the place for the first time. Is this who I really am? Is this who I have been running away from all my life?

Psychologically, the ego, like Lear, Job and Jesus, is penetrating and being penetrated by the archetypal Ground of Being in an effort to bring to consciousness whatever it can of that vast unknown. It experiences another law operating from within, a dawning realization that it has a destiny of its own which must be obeyed. It knows that something new is being born; it has to breathe into the pain and let it be.

Many people in our culture are attempting to suffer these transformations alone, without any ritual container and without any group to support the influx of transcendent power. Like Eliot's Magi, they experience the birth as "hard and bitter agony . . . like Death, our death." They are "no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,/With  an alien people clutching their gods."

Without the container and without the group, the aloneness is almost intolerable. The individual ego has to be strong enough to build its own chrysalis in order to create a loving communication with its own inner symbols. Their numinosity brings the confidence and integrity, humor and illumination without which the ego could not survive, let alone expand. A childish ego, primitive and unconscious, cannot maintain a living chrysalis; it wants to project everything, and, tuned to a natural order, it explains what happens by magic. The chrysalis becomes too precious in itself, shellacked with sentimentality. A childlike ego can hold the tension, pull in the projections and ponder the inner mystery. At the transpersonal level, the symbols are simultaneously individual and universal. At that level, none of us is alone. New relationships, bypassing the world of transitory disguise, begin at that depth, and from there relate back to the world in a totally new way.

Hours before he died, Thomas Merton, author of The Seven Storey Mountain, gave a lecture which concluded with a plea for openness to the "painfulness of inner change":

What is essential... is not embedded in buildings, is not embedded in clothing, is not necessarily embedded even in a rule. It is somewhere along the line of something deeper than a rule. It is concerned with this business of total inner transformation.

According to his own account, Merton completed his inner transformation on his Asian journey standing barefoot in the presence of the giant Buddhas of Polonnaruwa in Ceylon. "I know and have seen what I was obscurely looking for," he wrote. "I don't know what else remains but I have now seen and have pierced through the surface and have got beyond the shadow and the disguise."

When Merton asked a Buddhist abbot, "What is the 'knowledge of freedom'?" the abbot replied, "One must ascend all the steps, but then when there are no more steps one must make the leap. Knowledge of freedom is the knowledge, the experience, of this leap."

Voices from the Chrysalis

It's hard for me to trust life. I like to take hold of it, grab it by the neck and put my teeth into it, just to be sure it doesn't get away on me.

I try to see how far I've come, rather than how far I have to go.

Now that I'm contacting my own inner clock, I am so slow. My life is on top of me. The collision of values overwhelms me. Am I wasting my time? I don't know.... I don't know.... this terrible aloneness.

I've always identified with what I'm not. But who am I? My guilt and shame and fear are making me human.

I was always waiting until all the responsibilities were completed, then there would be time for me. How? I never thought about that. I've been so busy doing, I've missed something very important to me. I don't think I was ever a child. I have no recollection at all of being a very young child with any sense of being ME.

I wonder if it takes a holocaust, outer or inner, to help us to realize what is really essential in life.

I lived a smile­and­grin, smile­and­grin existence. I was dying.

I rage for life. I want so much to be free.

I'm trying to have faith—faith that I will be born.

I'm so off balance. I pray for daily guidance to avoid tripping over things. I can go to sleep when I orient myself  to the stars.

The spirit is in the volcano inside. My relationships aren't very good right now, so I go back to work. I'm safe there. But even that isn't perfect.

I'll explode if I have to react to one more thing. I'm pulling back. I'm overwhelmed by the pressures of the outside world and the mounting pressures of the interior world are making me feel actually sick.

Used to feel capable, used to speak and write well. Now I never feel secure because I can't find words.

Am I fighting my destiny or does my destiny require I take a stand?

When I touch into that essence and recognize myself as what I've been running away from, I am humbled.

I'm Miss Compassion, Miss Humanity. I'm a missing piece. I'm also a child of God.

To get rid of one's past one has to forgive—confront and forgive—and move into the present. Forgive oneself too, and God.

I hated my father. I imitated hated myself.

--Marion Woodman en "The pregnant virgin"

[theothersideofthewoods]

Introductions!

Hey everyone! I'm gonna pin this for any new followers to get an idea of the kind of person I am and the thing I'm writing. Always happy to respond, feel free to message!! :)

In the following sections, I've boldened the most important aspects, if you really want just a lightning-quick summary, but otherwise I have, as is my usual fashion, yapped.

Enjoy the read!

The Author:

Hi! I'm Eliot. I'm a student of English Literature and for years I've been DMing and writing fantasy novels. I thought I'd make this blog as a sort of public diary to record progress on my current novel as it's the largest piece of work I have ever done to date. Part of my degree focusses a lot on Mediaeval Romances, Arthurian Legend and Old English Epics as well as Graeco-Roman Classics and I wanted somewhere to channel that fascination into my very own world of myth and legend. I'm always on the lookout for more writer friends so if you want to, why not introduce yourself in the comments (or PMs if you're feeling shy!)

The World of Waystone:

It is a high fantasy set in a world largely inspired by the 19th Century, drawing ideas from all sorts: from the French Revolution to the British Empire, from the Industrial Revolution to the Romantics, from Victorian England to Edo Period Japan. I've taken a lot of inspiration from folklore, history and religion from around the world as well as throughout history. I've not conscribed myself to one century or continent, but instead pick and choose across the multitudes of human history whichever I think the most fascinating to explore. That being said, I always will be a sucker for the 1800s. This world is, to me, an ever-expanding, constantly shifting, indefinable shape which I learn more about every time I sit down to write. This current project is not the only time I have used the world and it has been in conception for over a year but anything outside of this narrative has been small D&D campaigns (one-shots) or the odd short story. I have wanted to create a longer work set in Waystone for a while. That is, until I began to write this.

This novel takes place in the continent of Bantiel in the late 9th Millennium. The continent is split in two by a great mountain range in the middle named The World Spine and is home to the mystical Forest of Secrets where the Fae are said to reside. One of the most important details for me is that the political boundaries/kingdoms are not defined by race/species nor do the races have their own respective religions. Though, of course, each race has its own creation story and each nation has its own religious practices. I have come up with reams of mythology and history but, for the most part, I try to treat the world outside of the story as though it already exists because, to the characters, it does. It is a world where Gods are present and this presence has, for millennia, changed and interfered with the lives of mortals. It has been almost 9,000 years since the wars between the Gods that shook the earth and the mortals have grown complacent with their own power. Many wars have broken out between nations; many factions beyond those defined by borders have sprung up.

With this being my longest work set in Waystone, as well as one I feel comfortable sharing to a much wider audience (as D&D campaigns have only been between me and my friends), I will treat it as the first instalment of the World of Waystone. The novel requires no previous knowledge, not even this blog! It is still in the works, but when I publish it it won't assume any prior understanding. I just hope this blog can get other people excited about the world too! :)

Concept:

Originally, I intended to write a sort of Slice of Life story where the perspective hops from person to person, city to city, country to country and weaves this interlinked narrative of all of the small insignificant events that build to make a full, entire world. I wanted something that let me go to all the stretches of the world and to see all of these varying lives and to explore different types of societies, different types of people, different landscapes and different 'normals'. But, the more I thought about it, the more I leaned more towards exploring Waystone on a much more down-to-earth level. It needed characters, it needed life, it needed personal input and something not 'Slice of Life' at all, something completely opposite of ordinary. It needed something Extraordinary, to bring out the ordinary. Something atypical to serve as a reference point to explore all of the differences across the world. And instead of the perspective hopping to different characters all across Waystone, the characters themselves would make that journey.

However, to have a narrative that ranges across the world means that I need characters from all across the world. And so, thus began my planning process. The main cast of the novel is comprised of five people from all across the world, each with their own lives and problems, each with their own aims. The more effort I put into these characters, the more involved I felt with them and the more I understood about my world. This way, I can explore a different aspect with each of their backstories, taking the perspective all across the world just how I wanted, whilst, at the same time, having a group to interact with one another, to have intertwined and complicated relationships and to look into the daily lives of.

The more I planned this story, the more I found myself insanely inspired. And, because of this, I have been churning out a ridiculous amount of content. It's lucky, then, that the story's arc is an ambitious one; though, to begin to give an idea of what I mean, I must explain something else.

The Structure:

Every piece of work up until this one, I have always ended up with relatively short narrative arcs. This is a habit I really wanted to kick and so, upon starting this work, I devised a new creative method for myself and can now confidently say it works. Rather than having a single arc from start to finish, even with intermediary smaller arcs or parallel arcs (ie. sub-plots), I instead divided the main narrative into many smaller arcs. This episodic structure meant that I could, instead of having one main climactic scene, or one main denouement, have many climaxes, many resolutions and the story would continue on. It's almost like the structure of a television series. Yet, to make sure I write a substantial amount for each 'Episode,' these Parts are divided themselves into chapters.

When I publish this, I aim to post it online and for it to be a continuous web novel with something like weekly chapters. Each Part is named so it would, for example, look like this:

Let the Reign Fall: IV

With the Part's number only being next to the first chapter of each and the title being before every chapter number(And yes, that is the title for Part One).

There is no end in sight, but that does not mean the plot won't have larger arcs or resolutions, but when one line ends I will always make sure to open another one. I love these characters too much to just stop at any point and the world is so vast I have so much to explore.

When I have written enough, so much that I feel I have a fairly substantial backlog, I will begin posting weekly chapters. Don't worry, I'll keep up with updates here so you know exactly how far along it's coming!!

The Characters:

These are only the main characters, but are by no means the only important characters in the story. What with each of their own histories, families and previous relationships alongside encounters they make along their journey, from new friends to fearful enemies to everything in between, the world soon becomes a vast place. Though there are more than five, this is because the central cast changes over the course of the story (I promise it isn't just that I can't count). In future updates I will post more character intros!

Ren: A drow who escaped his war-torn life in the cities under the surface. A mysterious wanderer, he is clearly hiding something. Under his favourite black-and-red cloak, he always holds a weapon close. In his dreams he sees the future and not once have they failed to come true. With harrowing visions of the future, he searches for a new life in the nation of Cerulea - or just about anywhere that isn't home. However, he struggles to let go of the past and with his sense of self. Despite his cold exterior, he is very sentimental.

Prince Alastair: The Prince of Cerulea. A highly educated, elitist and over-proud young man. He is the heartthrob of the nation and, naturally, has an ego. An elf of over two hundred years old, soon he must inherit the title of King and has, for years, been trained as a diplomat. Yet, he isn't loved by everyone and many want him dead, whether it's because of his arrogance or his sadistic streak. Because of the strain of public life, he has become somewhat detached from emotions.

Maia: A Fae from deep within the Forest of Secrets, beyond the borders to Waystone and deep into the Kingdoms of the Spiritworld. She is the Princess of the Seelie Court. With her best friend, she ran away from her own wedding and doesn't even know of the existence of other elves, other Fae people, beyond the Forest. Erratic and energetic, she proudly carries her magic staff with her wherever she goes, even despite sorcery being forbidden. A master of the arcane arts, she has a particular interest in illusory magic which makes her difficult to understand and difficult to believe what one sees about her...

Diavol: On the run for serial murder charges, this elusive and over-confident criminal is perpetually a source of poignancy for Ren, ever since he left him all alone twenty years ago. He is a stickler for the city scene and a reputed womaniser. Self-taught in the ways of sorcery, oftentimes he resorts to dirty tricks and 'cheap shots' with his quick-casting, underhanded spells. Yet, on top of this, a secret that none other than Ren knows, he has the ability to read minds, and uses this to his advantage to evade arrest and flirt with strangers.

Asphodella: A strange loner, dressed like a noblewoman from thousands of years ago, she visibly stands out in a crowd. Rude and self-assured, she does not let anyone tell her what to do. She has mastered the art of shapeshifting and at times can let her bestial, violent nature out. Bloodthirsty, fierce and independent, though at times a softer, more sympathetic side comes out. Her heart holds a dark past.

Illuvi: An exorcist from the rural countryside of Narika. Renowned for his bad temper and vulgar language, many people are scared off by his aggressive nature. However, he is now being chased by the Spirit Hunters for failing to exorcise a spirit. He felt pity for it, only young, as it took the form of a child and he could not bring himself to kill it. Now, she calls him her older brother and the two of them live by themselves off of the land, running from place to place and sleeping outside. He uses himself to channel elemental magic and controls flames at the expense of his body.

Akari: The spirit that Illuvi could not kill. Takes the form of a young girl and is (mostly) tame. Shy, softly spoken and naturally skittish, this kitsune practically clings to her older brother wherever they go. Afraid of what humans will do to her, the only person she trusts is Illuvi. Wields magical power beyond human comprehension but, being a young spirit, her inexperience means that she does not know how to control it. Oftentimes changes into fox form and hides up trees.

The Plot:

With a story that spans across a whole world, with characters that, too, span across a whole world, one of the more difficult things I have struggled with when creating this story is how they meet each other. However, there is one thing that they all have in common: they have all run away from something in their past.

As they each search for something, whether that's a new life, a new love, a safe place, a home or somewhere free from the law, they find each other and, consequently, get tangled up in each other's lives. They're tied into a grand conspiracy to destroy the monarchy, involved in the escape from pursuers and left with no one to turn to but each other.

If you want to know more, I'm going to post a synopsis/blurb thing later so look out for that!

Closing Thoughts:

Anyway, thank you for reading this far. I hope this gives you a better idea of what this project exactly is. I know this intro is long but that's because I actually have already written a fair amount and there is a lot of content, and many creative decisions, to summarise. I'm going to keep adding to my blog with updates on the writing process. Follow for more, I've always got a lot to say about this, and have a nice day!!