#Lapidify

[maniccaffeineaddict]

oh good morning :)

that was one heck of a dream you had

(se) lapidifier: to turn to stone

it was horrible it can be classified as a nightmare

[lovelylexis]

Lapidify

to turn into stone

[malevolat]

mon cœur lentement se lapidifie

[rrenlolz]

The Arkenstone. Sterling silver and Herkimer diamond. One of my all time favorite pieces, and still available! DM me if you're interested. . . . . #herkimerdiamond #quartz #crystallove #crystaljewelry #crystalwitch #shinythings #Lapidify https://www.instagram.com/p/B-D6Is8nUIq/?igshid=1o1o0jcjcgzk

[lapidifydesign]

This is going to be a bit of a long, rambling post. Here are the take home points:

I am moving to Des Moines, Iowa in July.

My jewelry will continue to be available at Raven Moon Emporium and Sanctuary Imports.

The Lapidify Etsy shop will be closed part of June and all of July.

I an not accepting custom orders until August.

I will be vending at Free Spirit Gathering, Galaxycon Raleigh, and East…

[icecreambaby55]

#lapidify #wordoftheday #dictionarycom verb (used with or without object) to turn into stone. Examples: Perhaps in a few months a slow seepage, rich in minerals, would return to these passages and gradually glue their bodies to the rocks where they sat, to seal their crypt and lapidify their bones. David Brin, Earth, 1990 The rule of the Abang, in an age when the techniques existed to lapidify any rule to permanency, was, because of the very rise of a party, doomed. Anthony Burgess, The Enemy in the Blanket, 1958 Origin: The relatively rare verb lapidify, “to turn into or become stone, petrify,” comes via French lapidifier from Medieval Latin lapidificāre. Lapidificāre is a transparent compound of Latin lapid- (the inflectional stem of lapis “stone”) and the Latin verb-forming suffix -ficāre, ultimately a derivative of facere “to make, do.” The resemblance between lapis and Greek lépas “bare rock” is “hardly accidental,” as the pros say: Both words probably come from a Mediterranean (non-Indo-European) language. Lapidify entered English in the mid-17th century - Dictionary.com (at Janesville, Wisconsin) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFFAet3A3b8/?igshid=gelbpdgjaboo

[definegodliness]

Centerpiece

A life's eroded Marble, statuesque, Here stoically Abides Devouring loss With pallid Heart, once lauded Picaresque, Lapidified beneath The softest Moss.

These feet shan’t Bleed If on land I should roam; No vengeful sea Shall reduce me To foam, Yet, Marble I've turned, And marble I stare Cross paths That could lead me to Anywhere.

--- 4-2-2023, M.A. Tempels ©

[lovelypeasantjellyfish]

You make me feel - Wilhemina Venable x Reader

Hi there! This has been in my wip folder since June, and I’ve finally finished it. 

This was inspired by the song ‘You make me feel’ by EASHA, it was just so sweet and fluffy and it just reminded me a lot of Mina, so...here it is! 

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Reader

Trigger warning(s): None (that I know of. Please let me know if there’s anything I need to add)

Words: 1193   AO3 Link

The sound of Wilhemina’s keyboard clacking echoed as she corrected mistakes in the report, irritation at the careless misspellings made and clear ignorance of the subject by her soon-to-be former assistant manifested as a dull throbbing around her head. She stopped, sighing slightly as she shifted in her chair, sitting straighter, the usual ache wasn’t there tonight, but she moved anyway.

Her eyes flickered to the time at the bottom of the screen, 11:34 pm on a Friday and she was still on her laptop. There was still much to be done and completed before she could turn in for the night, and the thought almost made her sigh again. You would think that having assistants would result in her having a less crushing workload, but they only seemed to increase her frown lines even more, especially when they never lasted more than two months. Needles of irritation prickled at her neck as that thought crossed her mind, it was so hard to find good help these days.

A soft yawn broke Wilhemina’s train of thought, and she looked to the armchair in the corner of her home office. The armchair was well-worn and homely, and didn’t match the modern minimalistic aesthetic she had brought over from her workplace at Kineros, but she hadn’t protested when you dragged it in that one Wednesday night when she hadn’t emerged from the room in hours, instead merely rolling her eyes and scoffing before turning back to her screen.

Now, as she looks at you curled on the seat with a blanket across your shoulders facing her, she supposes she can forgive the mismatch in aesthetic. In the past, she would have told you to leave and go to bed. But she likes your company, she tells herself that it was because you’re quiet and would stay out of her way, but as she looks at you, with your eyes half-closed but still looking straight at her, something stirs in her chest—maybe she could be selfish, just this once, and keep you awake a little longer.

Your eyes meet and you perk up, grinning at her, she watches as you twist your body so that you’re leaning on the thick arm of the seat, chin resting on folded hands as you blink back at her. Wilhemina’s shoulders relax as she focuses on the screen once again. Thirty minutes. Just thirty more minutes and she’ll turn in for the night.

The minutes fly by as Wilhemina speed reads and corrects the numerous mistakes, and when the last word on her screen echoes through her mind, a sigh of relief escapes from her. This satisfaction was mild at best. The work would pile up over the weekend and she would have a fresh load of paperwork and carelessly prepared reports to wander through on Monday. The needles came back with this simple thought, and her shoulders lapidified, the work was truly endless. Wilhelmina pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes drifting in the direction of the armchair; at least she has the weekend to recover.

Wilhelmina’s heart drops.

It was empty.

When did you leave?

Something warm lands on her shoulder, and she flinches, immediately reaching for her cane. She’s about to spin around when it squeezes her shoulder lightly.

“What are you thinking about, my love?”

She silently breathes a sigh of relief and lets her hand fall back to the keyboard, staring intently at the screen. She was fine. It was just you.

“Work” She replies, eyes following the lines that the words in the report made. She had already read it once before, barely a minute ago. But she could hear her own heartbeat, and it was because you had startled her, and certainly not because you had referred to her in that way.

“Hmmm…” You hummed, bending down to kiss her on the top of her head. An apology, she realises, as your hair tickles her cheek when you lean in close, the hand still on her shoulder squeezing lightly again. She breathes in your shampoo, soaking in its intoxicating lilac scent.

No, the fluttering of her heart was definitely not because of your affection.

She would never say it, but you had affected her in so many ways since appearing in her life a good two years ago. Even now, as your hands seek hers out, she can't deny the little rush of emotions flooding her. Nor can she deny the fact that she tries harder for you.

That soft snicker of 'Darling' from her imbecile bosses as they walked by at the end of her lunch break, just as she was ending a phone call with you, had been what made her realise this.

Well, that coupled with the stirring in her chest as you laughed when she told you how she had 'basically instilled the fear of God into them' (your words, not hers. She thinks she was being perfectly reasonable), and during one of your Saturday dates, when you complimented the lilac dress she had spent close to an hour choosing from her myriad of purple outfits.

Her eyes flicker to your reflection in the screen; you were still standing behind her, eyes downwards and a soft smile on your lips as your hands massage her right one, fingers coaxing the tension out. Wilhelmina stays still for a while, the coolness of your fingertips on her skin was a welcome change from the flush of heat that was spreading throughout her before she takes her hand back. Swallowing, she shifts her gaze to a corner of the screen where you’re not present, there was no doubt that you were pouting behind her, and the few minutes with you standing behind her already had her heart going crazy.

Her vision goes blurry for a minute and she blinks in surprise before the familiar sound of plastic tapping against each other makes her realise that you had stolen her glasses off her face. She’s about to open her mouth and protest, but her mind goes blank as your fingers make their journey along her jaw, stopping briefly at the pink dusting her cheek before tilting her chin up.

Your gaze transfixes her as you place the glasses on the desk with your other hand, and she stops breathing entirely.

Your slightly messy hair.

The undone button of your pyjama top.

Your slightly parted lips.

“Are you done for tonight?”

Wilhelmina inhales, nodding once.

Your fingers leave her face, and she turns back to the screen, saving her work and shutting down the laptop. Once the lid was closed, she takes your waiting hand and stands.

Her eyes traced the line of your back, down to where your hands met hers. Your finger pads pressed lightly into the back of her hand as you led her to the shared bedroom. It was an unfamiliar feeling, being led, when she was usually the one doing it, but Wilhemina wasn’t complaining, the pressure as you gently squeezed her hand brought warmth to her cheeks, and she felt something stir in her chest again. You made her feel, and she never wanted you to stop.

[lorienfae]

Phantom Telescopes

Stargazers electrify their senses with the sky, ripe for the discovery of something tantalizing, they paint love with the stars. If only we could lapidify the sentiment to eternity, keeping it preserved at the point of apex, to savor forever. In dreams, we mollify the restless hearts that beat in solitude in feeling's putrefaction; absentmindedly reaching for our phantom telescopes.

© Anna S., 2020

[windstrewn]

mirrors

In any dream, one could quiet-up a quay...

In any dream, one could quiet-up a quay—     Be it this dirt, our moon, that star.             Some dare see                 Themselves in the revelry                     Of sea-rapids-tried,                         Or in the placidity of a perfect glass;                 I find me in time’s craggy pass,               On the lapidified face of alone…             In summer-storm,           Atop a…

[lalalun-lalun]

Day 13 - Lapidify

The first time she saw it, she hadn’t understood it. The gradual whitening of the skin, fading from even the deepest of rich browns to that pale, austere marble. She thought they were turning to stone, perhaps. The distant look in the eyes—the way the pupils seemed to constrict, losing focus, and the gaze turned hard, until slowly the iris and pupil faded out of view, merging with the white until some type of shadow seemed to eclipse the area, as though implying a new and unusual depth—that, too, made her think of what she’d seen in ancient ruins or town squares with new commemorations.

Then there were the veins of gold, amid the other striations and flecks of gray-tinted toning. Accents that almost seemed intentional, artistic, and made Lalalun think of the techniques she’d seen using gold to repair cracks in china or porcelain. The truth of the detail, however, made it clear that this was no delightful accent—it only served to enhance how unnatural looked the white that replaced skin, and eye, and wing, and clothes, and hair.

It was almost beautiful, in a way, until you looked closer. Then you saw the twist of a bone that ought to have been broken to exist at such an angle, or the elongation of a joint that moved the figure from balanced to monstrous. The way the eyes and mouth often gaped, and how bottomless pits seemed to exist in each.

She’d thought the Light always beautiful, until she saw these things.

She pitied them, these statue-like enchanters, exquisite and petrifying, terrifying in their loveliness, altogether wrong. But there was only one way to address it, now that she knew—only one thing to do with that pity.

She shattered them like glass, fractured them like stones, and snuffed them out like candles.

[cavitymagazine]

“I AM ALL OF WHAT I COULD EVER CONTAIN” - Review of Mike Corrao’s “GUT TEXT,” by Evan Isoline

11:11 Press

Paperback | $15.00 U.S.

Like much of Mike Corrao’s printed work, GUT TEXT (produced by Minneapolis-based 11:11 Press) does not operate as a book in the traditional sense. Stylistically, one encounters a hybridized form of fiction with formal echoes of Beckett, Borges, and Bolaño jigsawed epigenetically with the reality-melting theory-scapes of Artaud, Deleuze, and Derrida, and composed post-modernly (or posthumanly) in an art-minded manner à la Dada, Gysin/Burroughs or John Cage. There is also room here to accommodate contemporary philosophical strains of accelerationism or nihilism. Corrao’s hybrid form has been referred to "Avant-Theory-Fiction" in underground literary communities in the fellowship of Spanish writer and neuroscientist Germán Sierra and Inside the Castle’s mythic biblio-morphologist John Trefry. The general idea being that new mutations of fiction may approach a resemblance to conceptual art, philosophy, architecture and even science. A moment where reality and fiction bleed toward an ever-disinhibiting, non-dualistic event horizon. In GUT-TEXT, what we obtain as reader is not necessarily a story, moral or even a narrative. Again, this is in the normative sense of what it means to "write a book"—the limitations of which mainstream lit still clings myopically to. What Corrao transmits is the genealogical potential of text. The microbial residues of alien geographies and mitochondrial pantheons. Theatrical formulas of character. Potentially not even Corrao’s. We are permeated with a living germ to which our body now plays host. Throughout the book (which feels entirely sublimated as an object, to the point of becoming an analogous kind of carrier or infected "body") the text on each page seems to exist miasmatically apart in a parallel plane; a liminal or limbo-like space associated with the blank page.

I repeat again, the text seems to exist. This is not the voice of a man but perhaps the voice of the innumerable micro-organisms that mysteriously animate him. Their names are two-letter spells. Their nature is virus. The word made flesh. As the text grows it also disintegrates, molts, and what reads as an uncanny waltz of organic and entropic gestures seems to mimic human life cycles. Like a single, large egg cell that subdivides by repetitive mitosis, these organismal thespians effervesce and congeal into autonomous entities that exhibit the desires and dreads inherent in the construction of human persona. In literature, there is a difference between the use of language and the use of text. This is similar in painting when a painter wishes their work to be seen free of technical device in a decidedly materialistic way. Not the illusion of a landscape, figure or still-life, but just paint. Pigmented medium on substrate. Throughout GUT-TEXT I am disconcertingly reminded of the agenthood and parasitic medium of the text. The text does not affect the part of the brain that processes literature in the linear custom of interpreting experience through illustrative oral narration.  It affects the part of the brain that engages when trying to understand patterns within abstract systems, initiating an instinct similar to that of decyphering, code-breaking, map-reading or star-gazing. It’s an understanding of equilibrium within the duality of the cosms. An echolocation inside the labyrinth. As players on a stage, these little entities, these glyphic, typographic orphans of a larger ancestral body, crawl and gurgle through their amnesia in a sentient quest for coherence; for a reason to exist. Once the brain is properly inoculated with the text-organism, once its spore is contracted, ingested, incorporated, consumed, subsumed, embodied, encarnalized, fertilized, engulfed, corporealized, germinated, inseminated, generated, promulgated, sexualized, metabolized, atomized, excoriated, engendered, digested, reduced, condensed, fermented, curdled, coagulated, extrapolated, dispersed, dispatched, diffused, dissolved, dissected, deflected, coalesced, evanesced, perspirated, vaporized, nebulized, secreted, exsanguinated, urinated, micterated, fecalized, defecated, alienated, excavated, transformed, transduced, transmorphed, transmogrified, evacuated, ejaculated, eliminated, dislodged, disgorged, dissociated, putrefied, petrified, calcified, lapidified, fossilized, cadaverized, exhumed, expelled, exited, exerted, exuded, exhausted, exalted, exonerated, exiled, ejected, exorcised...

... Once the peristaltic vibration of matter is fully pantomimed at such a scale via Corrao’s biotic, textual gut-culture, the reader may begin to question the ontological limitations of its own plastic, viral identity, and of the haptic and mythological nature of the book sitting in its my hand. At such a paradoxical scale, Corrao’s literary "non-language" finds a curious meaning, mostly because it asks essential questions. Beyond the temporal veneers of one’s assumed identity, what subconscious or otherworldly forms does desire take on? How many ghosts are inside each one of our bodies?  Near the end of the book, which through insinuation may never really end, just before the pages go black, one of Corrao’s inner bacterium proclaims, “I am all of what I could ever contain.”

[*Evan Isoline is a writer and artist living on the Oregon coast. He is the founder and editor of a conceptual publishing project called SELFFUCK. His full-length debut is forthcoming from 11:11 Press.]

[rrenlolz]

Exciting news, everyone! The Lapidify Etsy page is back open, and I'm accepting custom orders again. I'll be working hard to add new items to the online shop in the coming weeks (you guys bought up most of my stock at GalaxyCon!). In the meantime, can we all pause to appreciate the AMAZING NEW LOGO that @magicklore made for me? I'm over the moon about it. . . . . . . . . . #crystallove #etsyseller #typography #bohochic #bohostyle #jewelrygram #handmadejewelry #artistlife #Lapidify (at Des Moines, Iowa) https://www.instagram.com/p/B1AizBtnVIo/?igshid=1ng1gt0racnjn

[luanne1979]

Build Your Vocabulary|Lapidify

Medusa

Greek mythology warned that those who gaze into Medusa’s eyes would lapidify.

Word of the Day SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2020 lapidify [ luh–pid–uh-fahy ] 

verb (used with or without object)

Archaic.

to turn into stone.

Word of the Day Credit: Dictionary.com

Photo Credit: Giphy.com

[lofihipbot]

lofi hip hop beats to lapidify to

[illgetth3r3]

Neglect slit throat

Forsaken carcass

Left for decomposure

Turned to ashes

Lapidify

-HMW