#Wilderness brain worm garden

[wifiwulf04]

FNAF DCA Slime Rancher AU

*cracks knuckles, squints at my dashboard and blows*

*hacks up half a lung at the sheer volume of dust flying in my face*

SO, we live :3 and have been watering the brain worm garden, writing… elsewhere that isn’t here and is our Ao3 as well as the uh, *glances at pileup of unfinished works in Google Docs* … actually, ignore that.

At the request of the lovely @sinnabee after watching her stream Slime Rancher 2, here is our list of I guess headcanons that we’ll more than likely end up writing at least a few scenes for :p

Also, Sun and Moon slimes from Sinna!!

Sun slimes:

Has lil nubbin hands to wave and pat things and hold on to Moony fins

Is friendly and vegetarian, fav foods are either heart beets cause they’re full of love or pogofruit cause in the wild they’re the most unproblematic things next to Pink slimes

Has gummy teeth that couldn’t even bruise you if they tried, they just end up harmlessly nomming away

Their rays are soft and very bendy

Will get along with any slime except Ringtails (they turn to stone in the sun and Sun is sad about their very presence freezing their new friends, so they try to bring apology snacks to the statues but as soon as they hop away, the Ringtails make a swift exit-stage-right)

Is infatuated with chickadees (cause Babey Birbs) and will protect them from Tarrs by swallowing as many of them as possible and regurgitating them in a safe place when the coast is clear

Will use their friendliness to their advantage if their Moon is hurt e.g. is so friendly that they can roll up and swallow a hen or two without scaring the rest of the nest, then bring them back to feed their Moon, wherever they’re hiding

Will also protect their Moon by luring threats away and close to a cliff before knocking them off and into the blimey deep (ehehe the slimey deep of the Slime Sea, ahem anyway) below, has absolutely no morality issue with doing this even to another slime or a human they’ve never met before

Suns are usually harmless, but if they're particularly excited or angry, their touch will burn

Their slime is also flammable and can stick to other slimes, but slides right off Moons

Moon slimes:

Have fins and a light like Anglers, slightly more dexterous front fins to hold on to Sun nubbins

Eats meat, but will help their Sun get food, even scaring off other slimes when their Sun isn’t looking to secure food (and only when their Sun isn’t looking cause otherwise they would get an earful to “be nice”. Pft, like being nice gets their Sunny the best food like they deserve)

Also brings their Sun wild honey as a treat

Does not get along with Anglers (they get jealous if their Sun interacts with an Angler, also the Angler's light hurts their eyes), Ringtails or Hunters (because they’re cheeky little sh-)

They have Teeth™ and will use them to protect themselves and their Sun

Their light also hypnotises other slimes and chickens, but Suns are immune to it. It makes a little jingling sound when the hypnosis is in effect

Will go toe to toe (or blob to blob I guess-) with Tarrs, especially if their Sun is in danger with them

Are extremely stealthy, especially at night. 

Is it part of their hypnotism or do they have something in common with Hunters? Viktor would like to know, but when he caught a pair, they were gone the next morning with a note in the corral that just said “better luck next time :p”

He spent the day hypothesising (read: having a minor mental breakdown scientific thought block) how in the hell they 1. managed to escape without breaking anything or setting off his alarms and 2. wrote. In readable English. Even BOb’s communications weren’t nearly as neat.

Facts about both:

They spawn together in pairs and only have the one pairing their entire lives

Rarely spotted, they seem to come and go and at most two pairs have ever been spotted at any one time, always in Starlight Strand

If you catch one but not the other, they will cry constantly (think sadge hungry boi and 'oshit there's a Tarr' sounds) and try to escape until they’re reunited in the same pen or free roam, not just adjacent pens. They will always be drawn to each other, so to find/lure their other half, just walk away with one in the Vacpack and the other will follow

Moon would try to free Sun by biting you and Sun will burn you if they bounce into you, so keep enough Vacpack space free for both

If an unpaired Moon is in a pen, they will start chewing through the corral walls. They’re smart enough to figure out that going for the barrier directly like other slimes do is much more difficult than attacking the barrier generator pillars which are much more solid than straining against a slippery forcefield

If an unpaired Sun is in a pen, a good chunk of your ranch may start to burn. I hope you have fire suppression and a good stain cleaner cause those burn marks aren’t coming out easy. Anything a distressed Sun touches will burn and the metal of your corral wall pillars is not heat proof

Even though Suns are so trusting and friendly, Moons are a lot less so, especially towards ranchers

They're smart enough to figure out that slimes disappearing into the suction tube and seldom being spit back out is Bad

Meanwhile Suns just want affection, trying to boop the rancher as soon as their Moon looks away cause Moon would try to nudge them away and scare/bite the rancher

Ogden swore he once saw a sick Sun, Viktor corroborated his account when he went to investigate and was attacked by an unnaturally dull and dark Sun. Unfortunately, he failed to capture it and when he returned with better equipment, it was gone. No one has seen it since, although Viktor hypothesised that it was a virus that could potentially spread to its Moon counterpart

What he actually saw was a Solar, a Sun which had forever lost its Moon for some unknown reason

Lunars are Moons that have lost their Suns, but no one in the community on the Range has ever seen one

If one is fired into the other with a Vacpack, they will form an Eclipse largo

(from left to right: Moon slime, Sun slime, Eclipse largo)

Eclipse largos:

Because of the velocity requirement (aka basically has to be yeeted together with considerable force, there's no need for them to combine in the wild), Eclipse largos are considered rancher-made instead of naturally-transforming by eating plorts like other largos

As a fusion of the two, they have the combined memories and personalities of Sun and Moon. As such, it is recommended to first gain the trust of and build a relationship with both slimes before fusing them or the resultant Eclipse may be difficult to manage

It’s not hard to have a decent relationship with Sun, but if you didn’t have one with Moon before fusion, you might find yourself nursing your wounds post-spontaneous bite in the middle of pets. Eclipse’s teeth are much, much worse than a cat’s nibblers

They hate being confined to a corral, much preferring to patrol the ranch instead

If the ranch is safe and nothing escaped, there is a chance they will unfuse at dawn and dusk. The chance that they unfuse is much higher if they leave the ranch at these times

They will herd loose slimes into the nearest corral, although occasionally this results in them getting themself stuck until the rancher frees them or they wreck the corral, whichever comes first

If they spot a Tarr, they will fight it by dragging it around with their teeth until it beats a hasty retreat or using its tentacles to throw it into the nearest body of (unoccupied by Puddles) water

They are also sometimes seen just staring into the distance at or near the edge of the ranch, always towards the East

You are not going to be able to force them to go anywhere, they are large and in charge. If you try to, you’re at a high risk of getting yourself or your Vacpack crushed between those dagger teeth

Luring them back to the ranch with the promise of cuddles, a honey-baked hen, cubed cubefruit and a water lettuce salad to wash it all down hasn’t failed yet

They will eat anything, including other slimes although genus cannibalism isn't going to be their first choice

Has there been recorded history of an Eclipse eating tech or a rancher? Viktor might have the answer to the former, but as for the latter… there are no living witnesses. Key word, living. And if the Far Far Range saw one unnamed rancher with a bad reputation gradually lose his slimes and disappear, no one saw anything

Eclipses may not have nubbins, but they can produce long tentacles that appear dark orange in the day and dark blue at night

Those tentacles would be warm or cool to the touch depending on Eclipse’s mood

Overall, not much is really known about them within the community of the Far, Far Range besides for rare sightings, but every time someone manages to capture a Sun or Moon, they escape the next day with an unsigned note left in the corral. Even Viktor’s surveillance tech hadn’t managed to catch the intruder’s identity, but he has footage of a tall figure in a dark cloak walking into his lab in the middle of the night and hacking into the containment unit he had the Sun and Moon in. The slimes hopped out of the open door and the figure looked straight at the camera, holding up a slim finger to their face with the faint glint of teeth and a glowing red eye in the shadow of their cloak as they held up the note, dropping it on the ground before the camera feed got corrupted.

[ribbetttt]

My Passion

I keep trying to produce an explanation, an answer for my existence. Surely, I must be here for something, for somebody? I think its creation, as that truly is what the meaning of life is to me. Creation. Making something from a nothingness that resides within yourself. The eyes of another peer to me and I want to give them a show. Something to be wilder, something to love. I look at my face and see what I feel. Sometimes disgust, like now. Sometimes I see the definition of beauty and strength. 

So, if creation is my existence, why is it hard for me to do so? I guess it might be due to that law, “on object that is still stays still unless acted by an outside force.” My natural state is an easy nothingness, gliding through my life without wanting to move. It seems to be that I wish to simply close my eyes and never wake.

I think to the book I’m reading, where the reaction to the innate nothingness is suicide. Perhaps my reaction to a life I am so cautious of is a pseudo suicide. You do nothing, say nothing, enjoy nothing. 

What makes me feel giddy? I don’t know, maybe a constant consumption. Forever feeding on the work of others, the pain of others, the joy of others. I can barely be without consuming so how can I let others consume me? I don’t want to do anything because being a void is so much easier. I want to be a husk of a shell of a man who will never exist. Always hiding away in the corners of a warm embrace, the time between this becomes a cutscene to skip at my leisure. 

I hate it, the duality of myself. The intense desire to move, but the lack of a body. Perhaps it is that which I cannot comprehend, the actualization of myself, that I hate. The fact that I must consciously put myself through life instead of having someone hold my hand and walk me down life’s garden path. I must I must I must. Nobody will live my life for me.

I want to sing and dance; I want to move freely without constraint and use my own body and mind and soul to flourish. I don’t want to be told what to do or to have an expectation of what is needed from me. I want to live without caring. I want to live I want to live I want to live.

But it’s so hard for me to live at all. Every step I take in my life causes the bones inside my frail frame to explode and shoot from my skin. The bones brittle and break from my skin. My flesh exposed to my ungrateful eyes. Disgusting. I hate these bones, this skin, this life. I want to escape it all. ESCAPE I CRY. ESCAPE ESCAPE. The pain of freeing myself makes me smile yet it is my worst nightmare. Uncomfortable worms of pain wriggling into my silly brain. I hate them, I love them, I need them. Oh, how I need this pain.

This pain shows me I can escape. My god I will escape.

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

so! couple of months back, me and family went on holiday to a self-catering cottage in the backcountry, and when we weren’t having a grand old time getting lost in the wilderness i spent my free time, not writing for this blog, but watching random youtube videos. somehow this led me to watching a lot of six the musical animatics. i dunno, i’ve always liked horrible-histories-esque modern retellings of history, and i was reading a historical fiction series about the six wives of henry viii anyway

trouble is, this stupid blog has been keeping the silm muses much more active than they otherwise would be, and that was even more true when i was trying to churn out a new headcanon every day. i got interested enough in six to start looking up fanfiction, and i guess the settings were similar enough the muses started talking to each other? and then i remembered that ‘seven brides for seven brothers but it’s the fëanorians’ post, and then i thought that even those hellspawn would probably still make better husbands than henry, and then my brain worms started matching them up

so yeah, that’s how this list of which son(s) of fëanor i’d pair off with each wife of henry viii as portrayed by six the musical came into existence (and specifically as portrayed by six the musical, even if they’ve been dead for half a millenium trying to pair up actual humans who actually existed with my goofball interpretations of someone else’s ocs feels skeevy, and also like it would require way more work than this list deserves.) there’s actually an au growing in my head to support a context in which these couples could happen, auuugggghhhh. anyway, i’m sorry

catalina: caranthir. admittedly this was the last one i came up with, there’s a bit of pair-the-spares going on here, but i do feel like they’d have a very functional dynamic. given how temperamental they both are they argue less than one might expect; they’re good at setting and negotiating boundaries, and while they snark at each other constantly whenever they have business to take care of they go in as a Team. catalina also feels like she’d absolutely refuse to tolerate hellbeast bullshit, so naturally i’ve stuck her with the most down-to-earth of the bunch. they’re not the loudest, but they’ll build a solid place to return to when shit starts exploding

anne: curufin. she is a tiny bundle of playfulness and cheek and pure blazing ambition, and i think curvo would vibe with that. they would scheme together, they’d go into every social engagement with a plan and try to manipulate everyone around them, with mixed results. they’d definitely get up to, if not the most shenanigans, the shenanigans with the most collateral damage, and i feel like their skillsets would complement each other in a way that would nicely maximise that damage potential. whatever their big project as a couple turns out as, it’ll rapidly escalate into Anne and Curufin Burn Down Valinor. or early modern england. or both!

jane: maglor. okay this isn’t just me putting the woman who wants a big family with the habitual child thief (though i will admit, there is some nice synergy there.) it’s more that they’re both survivors, in a way, they both have this resolve deep down that could weather anything the world threw at them. i feel like they’d be one of the quieter couples in this set? sneaking out of court parties to wander the gardens and laugh at each other’s terrible jokes. they’d skirt around the edge of things together, softly enough so as not to be noticed, watching the world go by. and if it came to that, i think she’d wait for him

anna: celegorm. look the essence of anna of kleve is living in a gigantic palace doing whatever the hell she wants and not giving the slightest fuck what anyone thinks of her, and i feel like celegorm would be amenable to that. they don’t actually spend that much time together, he’s off in the woods and she’s chilling in her big fancy house, but when they do meet there’s always winks and finger guns. speaking of guns, their most common Couple Activity™ is going hunting, but you’ll also find them trading stories about the nonsense their social circles get up to over booze. they don’t usually show up for ~events at the same time, but when they do, they cut a swathe across the hall so efficiently you’d think they’d planned it in advance

kitty: ambarussa. this isn’t even a romantic thing, i just want them to be friends. i want her to go on adventures and have fun and be happy and not have to worry about guys at all, you know? they’d be the ‘two dumbasses and an enabler’ kind of terrible trio, i think, the twins getting up to the stupidest shit and her cackling in the background. absolute terrors, cause so much trouble, and they always try to dodge the consequences to varying degrees of success. and then they all head off home, promising to see each other the next morning and make even more mischief tomorrow

cathy: maedhros. i picture them having these long elaborate discussions about philosophy and ethics and religion and the differences between their worlds and all kinds of other things, these fascinating debates that go on until one of them notices it’s 3am. their interests don’t overlap 100%, but they have this shared fondness for big Projects that they always end up supporting each other in. you don’t see them talking much in their formal public appearances, but in private or when they’re just hanging out they’ll banter back and forth with the kind of carefree ease that comes from how comfortable they are with each other. she’s significantly more low-key than he is, but when push comes to shove she is just as intensely opinionated and willing to defend her ideas. should the time come, she would stand up to him like nobody else could

[castielchitaqua]

kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R         my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

[lesbiancouplescounseling]

Racing heart and shallow breathing compete with agitation. I’m wide awake at 2:45 AM.

I NEED to buy a propane camp gas stove – NOW!

“How am I going to cook without a stove or power?”

Even crazier . . . .

I get out of bed and start online searches for camp stoves – predominantly the ones I’ve coveted from my fellow camper and boater friends.

Panic and dispiriting fear coalesce into fuel likely to melt my plastic credit card.  The burn to spend lights a flame that fills Amazon and REI shopping carts.

Not one who is generally prone to anxiety or unfounded fear, these emotional reactions signal how the COVID-19 (coronavirus) pandemic and shifting daily changes are worming into my psyche.

I’ve shifted from cavalier to cautious to deep distancing.

Luckily, the second cup of coffee kicks in and circulates high octane, oxygenated blood back into my brain. By morning light, rationality and calm pulse through my varicosed veins.  Yep, another reason for concern – by virtue of my September birthday, I’ve entered the cusp of the “at risk” age group.

In the thin veil of morning, I rediscover the gift of a brand-new day. As the sun rises, I empty the virtual shopping carts. As robins sing, I am reminded that spring is here.

The brilliance of color from spring flowers – purple crocus, pink and red bleeding hearts, yellow daffodils, rainbow-colored tulips – announces that nature, while appearing dead, is very much alive and well.  Perhaps remembering this can plant seeds of calm and security in my life today when the feel of winter dormancy weighs heavily on my shoulders and in my heart.

So today, just as my grandparents did every spring, I plant seeds.  These seeds are not from a Burpee seed catalog, will not be tilled in deep, rich loam soil, nor guided by The Farmer’s Almanac.  

I’m planting seeds in my soul, my mind, and my physical being.

In lieu of the Burpee catalog, my inspiration comes from The ONE Thing: The Surprisingly Simple Truth Behind Extraordinary Results by Gary Keller and Jay Papasan. Here’s the focusing question and premise . . .

“What’s the ONE thing I can do such that by doing it

everything else will be easier or unnecessary?”

Keller’s question and its nuances are a prodigious starting point for determining what seeds to plant. It is as inspirational as the colorful photos and descriptions in the Burpee catalog.

What is the ONE thing I CAN DO to nurture my soul?

What is the ONE thing I CAN DO to enlighten my mind?

What is the ONE thing I CAN DO to fortify my physical well-being?

Determining which seeds to plant is followed by decisions of how, when, and where to plant. For my grandma and grandpa, a portion of their guidance and advice came from The Farmer’s Almanac – rich with weather forecasts, life advice, and recipes.

A plethora of authors, people, and life experiences provide the context and guidance for the seeds I plant.  I’ve been thinking in bets, putting first things first, experiencing a year of yes, getting things done, and braving the wilderness thanks to Annie Duke, Stephen Covey, Shonda Rhimes, David Allen, and Brene’ Brown.

With family and friends, I share humor, love, and grief as a means of navigating matters of the heart. Introspection with authenticity, courage, and vulnerability (thanks Brene’!) seems to supply the suitable context for growth and the bountiful fruit of connection.

To truly germinate and bear fruit, seeds require environmental conditions that support the stages from germination to full maturity.  In life, per Og Mandino in The Greatest Miracle . . . .

“The most difficult tasks are consummated, not by a single explosive burst of energy or effort, but by CONSISTENT, DAILY APPLICATION of the BEST you have WITHIN YOU.”

Each of us is always doing something.  That something chains one action to another forming habits.  The habits I cultivate are the fertile ground for my soul, mind, and physical being.

As anyone who has planted a garden or flower bed knows, weeds slither into these fertile spaces.

As I nurture, enlighten, and fortify, I prudently and judiciously eradicate the weedy things. I am mindful that negativity, fear, anxiety, isolation, and gluttony are double-edged swords – like dandelions.  Often viewed as a terrible weed in groomed lawns, dandelions also have medicinal properties. Discernment is a sign of wisdom.

While earthworms are vital to plant soil, the “worm” in my psyche does little to serve me well.  I remind myself, it is spring; time to plant some seeds. . . .

“What is the ONE thing I can do . . . . ?”

To learn more, click here.

[soulvedamagazine]

Garden: Where we meet nature halfway

There are two kinds of forests on the planet. Natural forests and man-made jungles of concrete. This concrete ‘wilderness’ of tall buildings, busy roads, and never-ending highways comprise our world today, where we wake up every day to achieve our dreams and live lives of comfort and convenience. We accomplish this and more, however, at the cost of our wellbeing. If we’d look at the increasing number of people with stress, depression, and other psychosomatic ailments, we’d realise how much we need nature to heal our invisible wounds. A proverbial therapist, nature is a place that revives tired minds with its healing touch—through clean air, a quiet environment, the flora and the fauna.

No wonder, we don’t mind giving up the comfortable life of the city just to spend time in the countryside or in the woods, without the conveniences of our homes. The need to unwind and restore inner peace has become a primary need because the world we live in is dramatically different from the one our forefathers lived in.

Interacting with nature—walking barefoot on damp grass, soaking in the morning sun, breathing in the cool fresh air and listening to the sounds of chirping birds—is inarguably the greatest source of calm and peace. Since our worldly responsibilities and aspirations keep us from nature, a conscious effort to bring nature closer home could do the trick.

In the concrete jungles we live in, the closest substitute to nature is gardening. Whether one lives in a penthouse or a villa, one can build a garden of their choice. Be it Pineapple Lily orchids on a patio or a vegetable garden in the backyard, a garden can help people reconnect with nature and reap its therapeutic benefits. All it takes is a dedication to set up the garden and look after it. Nature does the rest in its mysterious ways.

To understand the benefits of gardening, let’s take a flight into space, where people have to work under difficult conditions. Up there, away from nature and its earthbound creations, there is no room for error in judgment. Yet, a lack of natural stimuli can depress or tire out humans leading to complications. A research conducted by NASA’s Behavioral Health and Performance team showed the importance of having some green in the extreme conditions of space. It also said humans can’t survive without nature, even in the safest of spacesuits or space stations. So astronauts were given seeds and plants to keep them happy, calm, and productive. Result? Today, every astronaut is a space gardener. Mike Foale, an astronaut from the ISS Expedition 8 said he used to look at his plants after waking up at the station every day “for about 10 to 15 minutes. It was a moment of quiet time.” Peggy Whitson, a biochemist who went to space too, described the feeling of having a plant in space as “dramatic”, in one of her letters from the space station.

Sow a seed and nurture it daily. By the time it blossoms into a plant, you, too, would have grown into a different version of yourself through years of exercise, meditation, and a healthy diet.

If gardening can help astronauts stay calm in space, imagine what it can do for people back on earth. As David Hobson, the famous Australian opera singer says, “I grow plants for many reasons: to please my eye or to please my soul, to challenge the elements or to challenge my patience, for novelty or for nostalgia, but mostly for the joy in seeing them grow.”

Gardening means different things to different people. Dace Jeyo, a kindergarten teacher with a passion for gardening says, “Gardening means getting your hands dirty. You should feel comfortable around manure or compost; otherwise gardening is not for you.” Dace is right. A garden needs love and care, like every other living thing on the planet. Nurtured well, a garden can evolve into a “thing of beauty, a joy forever” and a haven of peace.

Even though gardening is considered a hobby, it is more of an investment for our wellbeing. The returns are far more than the investment people make in terms of time and dedication. Gardening not only makes us healthy, but also transforms us into responsible and mindful persons. A study by Dutch researchers shows the moment one steps into a garden, the cortisol level in the brain reduces. As a stress hormone, cortisol reduction means good mood, better immune system, strong heart, and enhanced memory.

Sow a seed and nurture it daily. By the time it blossoms into a plant, you, too, would have grown into a different version of yourself through years of exercise, meditation, and a healthy diet. You will develop a strong mind and body. Researchers from around the world unanimously agree on how gardening can also decrease the risks of Alzheimer’s, stroke, psychosomatic disorders, and increase dexterity and strength, confidence, and cognition abilities. The long list of health benefits comes from a simple fact—gardening involves muscle movements and exposure to Vitamin-D that regularise blood circulation and blood pressure, and manage the secretion of hormones. Result: you will heal faster, have a healthy heart, strong bones, and be less prone to diseases such as diabetes.

Nature is an elixir that can give people a new lease of life. This is why doctors prescribe gardening as an activity to older people and individuals suffering from mental illnesses. For children, learning gardening early on in life can make them responsible and compassionate. Watching bumblebees searching for nectar or worms basking in the moist soil is soothing, but also teaches the importance of life and nature. Gardening, therefore, is the easiest route to get up-close and personal with nature and recreate our bond with it. It also renews our hope that one day, our grey forest will turn green once again.

[kvetchlandia]

Dave Heath     Poets Leroi Jones and Allen Ginsberg, 7 Arts Coffee Gallery, New York City     1959

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way The ground opens up and envelopes me Each time I go out to walk the dog. Or the broad edged silly music the wind Makes when I run for a bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars. And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up To my daughter's room and heard her Talking to someone, and when I opened The door, there was no one there... Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands

--Leroi Jones, “Preface to a 20 Volume Suicide Note” 1961

-

For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894-1956

Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on   the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,   talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues   shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--   And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing   how we suffer-- And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,   prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-   swers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn-- Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apoca-   lypse, the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom   Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed-- like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion-- No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,   trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-   ping each other, worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it   lasts, a Vision--anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,   Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-   dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and   the sky above--an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side   --where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the   first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward   Newark-- toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice   cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards-- Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,   and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life? Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light   on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the   sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward   the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved   thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on   the street, firs escapes old as you --Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me-- Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with   us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever   every time-- That's good!  That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove,   torture even toothache in the end-- Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul,   in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair   and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,   braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai!  we do worse! We are in a fix!  And you're out, Death let you out,   Death had the Mercy, you're done with your century, done with   God, done with the path thru it--Done with yourself at last--Pure   --Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all--before the   world-- There, rest.  No more suffering for you.  I know where you've gone, it's good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more   fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts,   loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands-- No more of sister Elanor,--she gone before you--we kept it secret you   killed her--or she killed herself to bear with you--an arthritic heart   --But Death's killed you both--No matter-- Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and   weeks--forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address human-   ity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin's at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar   --by standing room with Elanor & Max--watching also the Capital   ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL's hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts   pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and   laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave--lucky to   have husbands later-- You made it--I came too--Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and   will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer--or kill   --later perhaps--soon he will think--) And it's the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now   --tho not you I didn't foresee what you felt--what more hideous gape of bad mouth came   first--to you--and were you prepared? To go where?  In that Dark--that--in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the   Void?  Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream?  Adonoi at last, with   you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull   in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon--Deaths-   head with Halo?  can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence,   than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have--what you had--that so pitiful--yet Tri-   umph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower--fed to the   ground--but made, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe,   shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth   wrapped, sore--freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the   knife--lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman's icy--even in the Spring--strange ghost   thought some--Death--Sharp icicle in his hand--crowned with old   roses--a dog for his eyes--cock of a sweatshop--heart of electric   irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out--clocks, bodies, consciousness,   shoes, breasts--begotten sons--your Communism--'Paranoia' into   hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later.  You of   stroke.  Asleep?  within a year, the two of you, sisters in death.  Is   Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over   midnight Accountings, not sure.  His life passes--as he sees--and   what does he doubt now?  Still dream of making money, or that might   have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Im-   mortality, Naomi? I'll see him soon.  Now I've got to cut through to talk to you as I didn't   when you had a mouth. Forever.  And we're bound for that, Forever like Emily Dickinson's horses   --headed to the End. They know the way--These Steeds--run faster than we think--it's our own   life they cross--and take with them.

  Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, mar- ried dreamed, mortal changed--Ass and face done with murder.   In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, blamed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.   Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death.  Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I'm hymnless, I'm Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore   Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity--   Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing--to praise Thee--But Death   This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Won- derer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping --page beyond Psalm--Last change of mine and Naomi--to God's perfect Darkness--Death, stay thy phantoms!

--Allen Ginsberg, “Kaddish, Pt. 1″  1961

[ashwinder-venom-blog]

TRIGGER WARNING!!!!

The content of this blog may OFFEND members of various demographic groups, including but not limited to:

Trolls, orcs, goblins, demons, angels, fairies, spirits, deities, gargoyles, gnomes, werewolves, vampires, zombies, robots, androids, cyborgs, elves, hobbits, giants, dwarves, humans, other primates, felids, canids, other mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians, fish, worms, molluscs, arthropods, echinoderms, cnidarians, sponges, bacteria, viruses, fungi, plants, minerals....

....men, women, intersex people, agender people, transgenders, cisgenders, heterosexuals, homosexuals, bisexuals, pansexuals, demisexuals, asexuals, sadomasochists, furries, otherkin, fictionkin, aliens, natives, white people, brown people, Europeans, Africans, Americans, Native Americans, Pacific Islanders, Asians, Middle Easterners, Hispanics....

....conservatives, liberals, moderates, libertarians, progresssives, industrialists, globalists, colonialists, fascists, socialists, capitalists, gardeners, farmers, ranchers, pet owners, false environmentalists, anthropocentrists, humanists, transhumanists, biohackers, transcendentalists, atheists, rationalists, agnostics....

....Christians, Jews, Muslims, Zoroastrians, Hindus, Buddhists, Shintoists, Taoists, Heathens, Wiccans, Satanists, Scientologists, scientific researchers, computer programmers, office workers, medical professionals, religious leaders, false prophets, paranormal skeptics, paranormal investigators, government officials, military personnel, police officers, social justice warriors....

....feminists, civil rights activists, eugenicists, terrorists, vegans, vegetarians, pescatarians, paleo dieters, pet owners, pregnant people, infertile people, parents, oocytes, spermatocytes, embryos, infants, children, adolescents, adults, elders, baby boomers, millennials, college graduates, or high school dropouts....

....As well as anyone who has been vaccinated, fluoridated, fumigated, irradiated, intoxicated by alcohol, circumcised as an infant, artificially inseminated, fertilized in vitro, sexually assaulted, born with a chromosomal defect, diagnosed with a chronic illness, or prescribed prescription medication.

Could you make it through all that without puking, panicking, punching a wall, or popping a pill? Good. I don’t mean to offend, but it’s so hard not to these day, and I want to make sure I’m being inclusive enough. Patience and compassion are virtues I’m still working on, so please bear with me. What I share could save your life or limb some day.

Who am I? For starters, I’m a very private and security-minded person. I like to remain as anonymous as possible while still appearing as an individual. With the dangers of identity theft, cyber-terrorism, electronic surveillance, and preteen hackers, I suggest you aspire for anonymity as well. Keep it simple and vague like me.

Bisexual cisgender young adult female, childfree unmarried housewife, mostly white European heritage, living in the central United States of America. Been labelled nerd, geek, emo, goth, punk, hippie, rebel, freak, bipolar, autistic, narcissistic, antisocial, uneducated, genius, witch, doctor, rewilder, primitivist, prepper, survivalist....Take your pick.

I have a strong passion for....a lot of things. So many hobbies, interests, miscellaneous areas of expertise, etc....I could prattle on endlessly about the utterly irrelevant. But what is most relevant to YOU? I’ve already failed to keep it short and sweet, but I’ll try again anyway.

My passion for biology should really sum it up. Although that usually isn’t good enough for most people, not without expressing just how hot that passion burns. Geobiology, deep ecology, biochemistry, botany, herbalism, zoology, anatomy, psychology, anthropology....I’ve studied it all more in-depth than you could ever dream of.

Supplemented heavily by astrophysics, metaphysics, theology, history, archaeology, and bushcraft, of course. For well over a decade, ever since preschool, I’ve felt a mysterious drive to study all these things. Why? Well that’s the mystery! But I suppose I should use my knowledge to help people.

I’m a semi-nomadic hunter-gatherer. I walk everywhere, squat to pee, eat wild plants and meat, build simple shelters to sleep in, crawl and climb through the woods, and don’t drink alcohol or use any manmade medication, Do I suggest you live the same way? Yes. That’s how humans evolved to live, not as an overpopulated petrochemical-eating virus. We are animals.

Sure it sounds like a dirty, bloody, painful, difficult life. It can be at times, but so can modern “western” life. Are terrorist attacks, hate crimes, environmental pollution, and disease outbreaks not dirty or painful? If the human population was smaller again, just another animal in the ecosystem, we wouldn’t have those problems. Think about it.

Mammals with brains our size can socially track 50-150 individuals. Extended family and close friends. Healthy well-fed hunter-gatherer bands have usually numbered in that range, with 25-200 miles of forest or savanna between communities. A far cry from the cities and highways of today.

Why is there racism, sexism, starvation, sickness? Because our personal territory is being invaded! Human life is considered so valuable, more than the trees and bees we rely on, and every measure is taken to preserve human life and promote population growth. But the quality of all life has been lost.

When a human suffers an injury or illness that silences their heart, they are resuscitated, drugged, butchered, and often left disabled or disfigured anyway. If an athlete breaks his neck and stops breathing, if a child receives a 3rd degree burn over 75% of her body, they should be led peacefully into a merciful death. Not kept alive in misery for the corporations and politicians to continue cultivating the masses for their own profit.

Likewise, infertile people are aided in conception. Disadvantageous genes that would otherwise die out are then perpetuated in the population. The resulting children often have a higher rate of preterm birth and congenital abnormality, entering this life requiring drugs or surgery as newborns. Helpless babies being butchered, just because their parents needed someone to love.

Many mental illnesses are also affected by genetics, including susceptibility to suicidal ideation. If you are dissatisfied with your personal life, depressed by the state of the world, or simply curious about the afterlife, you have no right to die. Your body is owned by the government, and it is a crime to vandalize government property. The pharmaceutical corporations that fund their campaigns make a lot of money from psychotropic medications.

Children are raised as livestock, all to turn a profit. We’re all livestock. Thanks to human overpopulation, dozens of other species go extinct each day, but still we suffer the most from our own mistakes. No other animal struggles so much with disease. If there were less humans, sure there would be less of us, but there would be so much more for everyone!

Without providing the infertile a chance to have triplets through in vitro fertilization, there might be less congenital birth defects and less overpopulation overall. A smaller population, thus more isolated communities, limits the spread of infectious disease. And less humans but more nature means more natural resources.

Like clean water, space to move around, and fresh food that isn’t loaded with dyes or preservatives. You know, all those basic human needs we wage wars for. Yes, politics and religion might be part of it too, but violence is mostly science. Psychology. Biology. Our food, water, and space is being threatened by human overpopulation, so we have the inexplicable urge to kill each other off. As we should.

Our global ecosystem, the biosphere, is imbalanced and infected. By us. Like us. Earth is running a fever and shaking with the chills, fighting the virus that is our species. We can either go with the flow of Mother Nature, or we can continue trying to fight her. But this is a war we cannot win, because if the trees and bees die, so do we. They feed us with the breath of life.

Demcocrats, Republicans, everyone between and beyond....Folks of all creed, color, sex, gender, ethnicity, and/or philosophy....You are ALL being LIED to! The hatred you feel toward each other is sorely misplaced and misunderstood. Women against men, black against white, liberals against conservatives, youths against elders....You are ALL wrong!

More government-mandated social programs are NOT the answer. Neither LED lightbulbs, nuclear energy, vegetarianism, nor flying to Mars will save this society or this planet. We’ve been running toward the edge of a cliff for several thousand years, and we may or may not have jumped to our deaths within the past decade. It is time to “get back to basics”.

Humanity did fine for hundreds of thousands of years as just another animal in the food web, even millions if you count all the Homos before us Sapiens. And Earth did fine without us for BILLIONS of years. Learn to live as our ancient Paleolithic ancestors did, how to build, hunt, forage, cook, pee, and sleep like the cavemen. Heal and protect yourself and your family like we all know you can.

In a nutshell, this blog will contain wilderness survival tips, natural health hints, fun facts about science and history, as well as sociopolitical commentary. There might also be occasional references to the liberal arts, mostly pre-2000 music, psychoactive herb use, and erotica/porn. I have a major hurt/comfort fetish, like a shamanic Florence Nightingale, and the medical experience to back it up. TRIGGER WARNING!

[wendyimmiller]

Gardening with Diminishing Returns

  Rose unleashes the Louisville garden.

I am 68 years old and have been gardening for almost 50 years. For more than a third of this long garden row—18 years—I have been planting and weeding accompanied by Multiple Sclerosis. As a consequence of disease and age, my gardens—and my ambition—are slowly unwinding.

Life is still generous.

Gardening has soothed my soul for as long as I have gripped the handle of a hoe. Weeding can transport me to a loving and peaceful dimension—at least, until an army of noisy neighborhood weed eaters and leaf blowers brings me back to the overheated earth I love.

Science Source image

I cannot be without a garden.

M.S. is a chronic autoimmune disease. It’s not going away anytime soon. The disease works in mysterious ways. The immune system, in overdrive, attacks the protective myelin sheath that surrounds the spinal cord.  The brain may be targeted, also. The result: Short-circuited, neurologic functions go catawampus. M.S. has not dulled all my senses.

I am okay. My balance is a little wobbly but manageable, but heat, stress and fatigue are my constant foes. Cognition, in my case, has always been a little suspect, even before my diagnosis, but doesn’t seem to be worse because of M.S.

I am lucky.

I am more patient and observant —not nearly as self-critical of imperfections as I once was. I move through garden beds now at a slower pace, often on my hands and knees. I enjoy finding bits of old labels that memorialize plants long dead; I often uncover camouflaged weeds just about to unleash a gazillion seeds.

Rose, Rufus, the white swan and a daylily with the best name ever—’Ground Control to Major Tom’. Salvisa, Kentucky.

Two years ago I turned over our Louisville garden to Rose. She was game. I couldn’t find the time or energy to love and fuss over two gardens. The country now holds my heart.

The Louisville garden now has a much wilder appearance. It’s more daring and less controlled. Rose has allowed the tougher perennials and shrubs to flourish. No more messing around with hard-to-please plants. Amsonia hubrichtii, baptisias, Packera area, Northern sea oats, epimediums, hellebores, Solomon’s seals and Japanese roof iris, ironweed, Lilium superbum, American beak grass and Joe-Pye-weeds have been allowed to spread their wings. Oak-leaf hydrangeas, sweetshrubs, paw paws, viburnums a golden larch and flowering magnolias attract attention in the woody sector. There’s a lot packed into our one-third-acre city lot.

It’s hard to see the forest for the ironweeds.

Up the road, an hour from Louisville, I have planted hundreds of little trees on our Salvisa farm, over the last few years, with help from Rose and friends. Twenty-seven acres are leased and planted with organic soybeans.  My neighbors don’t understand why I am taking out a couple of acres of good cropland to plant a small forest of oaks, yellowwoods, red buds, spicebushes and Norway spruce. Bird habitat, I answer. Part of me worries I might be channeling Don Quixote, but I don’t think so, even if hobby farms—and ours is a hobby farm—are often non-productive, and impractical = quixotic.

Maybe, one day, a few of of our gingkoes will look like this 150-year old beauty in Louisville’s Cave Hill Cemetery.

I pretend I know what I am doing.

Gardening is quixotic.

A planned grove of male Gingko ‘Autumn Gold’—not the stinky seed-bearing sort—may raise more eyebrows. I have 20 four-foot whips in a nursery bed that I will plant next year. One day, I can imagine a huge autumn carpet of golden leaves covering the ground. I will be long gone, but I am enchanted with the idea.

The young gingko whips are doing better than the cabbages that were eaten by worms; indigo buntings got the blackberries.

The meadow stormchasers. My nephew Robbie Cooper and his girlfriend Callie Allison.

The meadow is flourishing.

Tomato blight is right around the corner, but Rose’s wonderful, dopey zinnias, giant sunflowers and salad-plate-sized dahlias have never looked better.

I am full of gratitude.

Gardening with Diminishing Returns originally appeared on GardenRant on July 10, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/07/gardening-with-diminishing-returns.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

Gardening with Diminishing Returns

  Rose unleashes the Louisville garden.

I am 68 years old and have been gardening for almost 50 years. For more than a third of this long garden row—18 years—I have been planting and weeding accompanied by Multiple Sclerosis. As a consequence of disease and age, my gardens—and my ambition—are slowly unwinding.

Life is still generous.

Gardening has soothed my soul for as long as I have gripped the handle of a hoe. Weeding can transport me to a loving and peaceful dimension—at least, until an army of noisy neighborhood weed eaters and leaf blowers brings me back to the overheated earth I love.

Science Source image

I cannot be without a garden.

M.S. is a chronic autoimmune disease. It’s not going away anytime soon. The disease works in mysterious ways. The immune system, in overdrive, attacks the protective myelin sheath that surrounds the spinal cord.  The brain may be targeted, also. The result: Short-circuited, neurologic functions go catawampus. M.S. has not dulled all my senses.

I am okay. My balance is a little wobbly but manageable, but heat, stress and fatigue are my constant foes. Cognition, in my case, has always been a little suspect, even before my diagnosis, but doesn’t seem to be worse because of M.S.

I am lucky.

I am more patient and observant —not nearly as self-critical of imperfections as I once was. I move through garden beds now at a slower pace, often on my hands and knees. I enjoy finding bits of old labels that memorialize plants long dead; I often uncover camouflaged weeds just about to unleash a gazillion seeds.

Rose, Rufus, the white swan and a daylily with the best name ever—’Ground Control to Major Tom’. Salvisa, Kentucky.

Two years ago I turned over our Louisville garden to Rose. She was game. I couldn’t find the time or energy to love and fuss over two gardens. The country now holds my heart.

The Louisville garden now has a much wilder appearance. It’s more daring and less controlled. Rose has allowed the tougher perennials and shrubs to flourish. No more messing around with hard-to-please plants. Amsonia hubrichtii, baptisias, Packera area, Northern sea oats, epimediums, hellebores, Solomon’s seals and Japanese roof iris, ironweed, Lilium superbum, American beak grass and Joe-Pye-weeds have been allowed to spread their wings. Oak-leaf hydrangeas, sweetshrubs, paw paws, viburnums a golden larch and flowering magnolias attract attention in the woody sector. There’s a lot packed into our one-third-acre city lot.

It’s hard to see the forest for the ironweeds.

Up the road, an hour from Louisville, I have planted hundreds of little trees on our Salvisa farm, over the last few years, with help from Rose and friends. Twenty-seven acres are leased and planted with organic soybeans.  My neighbors don’t understand why I am taking out a couple of acres of good cropland to plant a small forest of oaks, yellowwoods, red buds, spicebushes and Norway spruce. Bird habitat, I answer. Part of me worries I might be channeling Don Quixote, but I don’t think so, even if hobby farms—and ours is a hobby farm—are often non-productive, and impractical = quixotic.

Maybe, one day, a few of of our gingkoes will look like this 150-year old beauty in Louisville’s Cave Hill Cemetery.

I pretend I know what I am doing.

Gardening is quixotic.

A planned grove of male Gingko ‘Autumn Gold’—not the stinky seed-bearing sort—may raise more eyebrows. I have 20 four-foot whips in a nursery bed that I will plant next year. One day, I can imagine a huge autumn carpet of golden leaves covering the ground. I will be long gone, but I am enchanted with the idea.

The young gingko whips are doing better than the cabbages that were eaten by worms; indigo buntings got the blackberries.

The meadow stormchasers. My nephew Robbie Cooper and his girlfriend Callie Allison.

The meadow is flourishing.

Tomato blight is right around the corner, but Rose’s wonderful, dopey zinnias, giant sunflowers and salad-plate-sized dahlias have never looked better.

I am full of gratitude.

Gardening with Diminishing Returns originally appeared on GardenRant on July 10, 2019.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/2YJYHsg

[kayawagner]

Deadly Gardens Collection Bundle [BUNDLE]

Publisher: Rusted Iron Games

This special bundle product contains the following titles.

This bundle is intended to give a discount to our customers who have aleady purchased some or all of the Deadly Gardens products.

Deadly Gardens Collection Regular price: $14.99 Bundle price: $8.74 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens Collection Authors: Russ Brown, Matthew Carroll, Kim Frandsen, Jeff Gomez, Chris Hunt, Sam Kaplan, Joe Kondrak, Jacob W. Michaels, Stephen Stack, Andrew Umphrey, Isaac Volynskiy and Mike Welham. Artists: Becca Bean, Jeremy Corff, Liz Courts, Graeme Cunningham, Christian Dragos, J.H. Martin, Keith Wood Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 76 The Deadly Gardens Collection Gathers the material from the original 25 volumes of the Deadly Gardens Series into one convenient source. This book contains the following material: 4 new Feats 1 New Spell 5 Natural Hazards 9 Terrain Types 5 Alchemical Items 8 Herbal Remedies 136 Natural Items Natural Poisons List 4 Natural Power Components A New Special Material 40 Magic Items Over 25 new plant mo... Deadly Gardens: Blood Root Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Blood Root Authors: Russ Brown, Joe Kondrak, Andrew Umphrey Artist: Alexandra Petruk Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Blood Root CR 7 New Magic Item: Hideaway Log 9 New Natural Items: Blindhiem Eye, Blood Root Vitae, Green Hag Wig, Lamia Matriarch Scale, Shantak Suit, Stirge Powder, Twigjack Shaft, Yeth Hound Fangs, Xacarba Runes ... Deadly Gardens: Blood Rose Swarm Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Blood Rose Swarm Author: Russ Brown Artist: Becca Bean Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Blood Rose Swarm CR 2 2 Magic Items: Cloak of Fallen Leaves and Quickgrow Beans 4 Alchemical Items: Calming Pollen, Clearwater Drops, Tough-husk Oil and Vita-Grow 2 Natural Hazards: Rockslide and Sinkhole 5 Terrain Types: Kudzu, Scree, Steep Scree, Thicket and Dense Thicket 1 Natural Poison: Blood Rose Oil ... Deadly Gardens: Catchweed Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Catchweed Authors: Russ Brown, Matthew Carroll Artist: Becca Bean Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Catchweed CR 10 New Magic Item: Twigman Fetish New Terrain Types: Razor Shale, Shifting Dunes 7 New Natural Items: Assassin Vine Bitterberries, Catchweed Thorns, Leucrotta Mandible, Thunderbird Pinion, Viper Vine Essence, Wyvern Adrenal Gland, Xtabay Spores ... Deadly Gardens: Cinder-Heart Treant Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Cinder-Heart Treant Authors: Russ Brown, Kim Frandsen Artist: Graeme Cunningham Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5  Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Cinder-Heart Treant CR 10 2 New Magic Items: Gullet Stone, Spring Totem 8 New Natural Items: Giant Amoeba Protoplasm, Brain Ooze Grey Matter, Cinderheart, Dire Corby Femur, Hippocampus Swim Bladder, Deep Sea Serpent Jawbone, Jotund Troll Cranial Fluid, Wolf-in-Sheep’s-Clothing Tendrils ... Deadly Gardens: Deathcap Fungus Regular price: $1.49 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Deathcap Fungus Author: Russ Brown Artist: Graeme Cunningham Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 7 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Deathcap Creature Template Three Deathcap Creatures: Deathcap Crypt Thing CR 6, Deathcap Ghoul CR 4, Deathcap Zombie CR 1 Two Natural Hazards: Cave-in, Patch of Deathcaps A new alchemical item: Salt Bomb 10 New Natural Items: Black Pudding Acid, Darkmantle Eggs, Gelatinous Slime Bladder, Gibbering Mouther Spittle, Gray Ooze Acid, Neothelid Bile, Ochre Je... Deadly Gardens: Dream Weed Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Dream Weed Authors: Jacob W. Michaels, Kim Frandsen, Joe Kondrak Artist: Keith Wood Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5  Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Dream Weed CR 10 2 New Magic Items: Accursed Thorns, Silvered Apple 7 New Natural Items: Androsphinx Voice Box, Disenchanter Trunk, Dream Weed Snuff, Giant Gar Scales, Giant Gecko Glue, Shadow Mastiff Eyes, Tatzlwyrm Glands ... Deadly Gardens: Faerie Circle Stalker Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Faerie Circle Stalker Authors: Jacob W. Michaels, Isaac Volynskiy, and Mike Welham Artist: Becca Bean Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Faerie Circle Stalker CR 14 2 New Magic Items: Stranglewhip, Vest of the Seasons 7 Natural Item: Couatl Headdress, Dragonfly Wing, Mandragora Essence Tea, Owlbear Beak, Peryton Shadowpelt, Quickwood Root Stake, Shocker Horn Trap ... Deadly Gardens: Ghost Spore Swarm Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Ghost Spore Swarm Authors: Mike Welham, Joe Kondrak, Andrew Umphrey Artist: Jeremy Corff Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5  Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Ghost Spore Swarm CR 11 2 New Magic Items: Angry Hornet, Festering Angry Hornet 6 New Natural Items: Ghost Ale, Glacier Toad Hide, Leng Spider Eye, Salamander Tonic, Slurk Grease, Tenebrous Worm Paint Brush ... Deadly Gardens: Green Man Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Green Man Author: Jacob W. Michaels Artist: Valentina Photos Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Green Man CR 8 Possessed Tree CR 7 2 New Magic Items: Foliate Mask, Green Man Ornament New rules for Herbal Remedies ... Deadly Gardens: Greenscream Trumpet Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Greenscream Trumpet Authors: Sam Kaplan, Matthew Carroll and Mike Welham Artist: Liz Courts Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Greenscream Trumpet CR 4 2 New Magic Items: Nettle Net, Rod of the Winds 7 Natural Item: Bulette Musk Pod, Gloomwing Pattern, Greenscream Blossom, Grey Render’s Devotion, Slime Mold Salad, Tendriculos Burl, Yrthak Tears ... Deadly Gardens: Grovemaker Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Grovemaker Author: Mike Welham Artist: Becca Bean Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Grovemaker CR 10 7 New Magic Items: Burrowcorn, Fungus Shield, Gloves of the Wombat, Petrified Wood Club, Treantseed, Wild Charm, Wood Mask 1 Armor Special Ability: Woodland 1 Natural Item: Grovemaker Sap ... Deadly Gardens: Hungry Pit Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Hungry Pit Authors: Russ Brown, Kim Frandsen, Joe Kondrak Artist: Jeremy Croff Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5  Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Hungry Pit CR 6 2 New Magic Items: Garland of Sweet Scents, Pungent Onion 7 New Natural Items: Adherer Tendril, Great Cyclops Eye, Giant Slug Tongue, Heiracosphinx Dewclaw, Hippogriff Feathers, Hungry Pit Nectar, Hungry Pit Toxin ... Deadly Gardens: Hydra Vine Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Hydra Vine Authors: Russ Brown, Joe Kondrak, Isaac Volynskiy Artist: Graeme Cunningham Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Hydra Vine CR 15 New Magic Item: Vermin Bait Flask 6 New Natural Items: Cyclops Eye Soup, Gug Wishbone, Moonflower Blossom, Mothman Powder, Purple Worm Dye, Sard Sap ... Deadly Gardens: Hypno-Lotus Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Hypno-Lotus Authors: Stephen Stack Artist: Becca Bean Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Hypno-Lotus Trumpet CR 10 7 Natural Item: Accuser Devil Eye, Blink Dog Fur, Bunyip Shriek Ball, Chupacabra Tongue, Hypno-Lotus Petal, Necrophidius Bone Meal, Powdered Forlarren Horn 2 Natural Power Components: Blink Dog Fur, Hypno-Lotus Petal ... Deadly Gardens: Mulch Stalker Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Mulch Stalker Author: Stephen Stack, Russ Brown Artist: Keith Wood Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Mulch Stalker CR 3 2 New Magic Items: Frog’s Eye Ioun Stone, Manticore Tail Flail 7 New Natural Items: Froghemoth Eye, Hydra Blood, Intellect Devourer Jerky, Manticore Tail, Medusa’s Head, Mulch Rot Powder, Rust Monster Antennae ... Deadly Gardens: Ophidian Vine Regular price: $1.49 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Ophidian Vine Author: Russ Brown Artist: Becca Bean Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 7 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: 4 New Feats: Deadly Gardener, Poison Resistant, Toxin Wrangler and Venom Doctor Rules for Natural Poisons Complete list of Natural Poisons from the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game Bestiary creatures: Ant to Wyvern Lesser Ophidian Vine CR 1/2 Ophidian Vine CR 4 Greater Ophidian Vine CR 7 New Natural Item: Ophian Vine Sap ... Deadly Gardens: Petrified Plants Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Petrified Plants Author: Joe Kondrak Artist: Pushkin Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Petrified Plants Template Petrified Treant CR 11 Petrified Ophidan Vine CR 9 New Terrain Type Stonebriar New Special Material: Woodstone ... Deadly Gardens: Phoenix Lily Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Phoenix Lily Author: Russ Brown Artist: Becca Bean Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Phoenix Lily CR 4 2 Magic Items; Specimen Jar and Fecund Totem Rules for Natural Items and how to harvest them 4 Natural Items: Basilisk Blood, Fire Beetle Gand, Phoenix Blossom and Shambler Wafer Rules for using Basilisk Blood and Phoenix Blossom as magical power components ... Deadly Gardens: Razorleaf Swarm Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Razorleaf Swarm Authors: Chris Hunt, Jeff Gomez, Mike Welham Artist: Liz Courts Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Razorleaf Swarm CR 5 2 New Magic Items: Garland of Plant Friendship, Wasp Dart 8 New Natural Items: Charda Bile, Chimera Manymind, Destrachan Harmonic Flask, Fly Eyes, Girallon Gunk, Griffon Clothes, Phase Netting, Razorleaf Shuriken ... Deadly Gardens: Scorpion Cactus Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Scorpion Cactus Author: Russ Brown Artist: Christian Dragos Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Scorpion Cactus CR 3 Expanded Rules for Natural Items and how to harvest them 9 Natural Items: Ankheg Saliva, Basidirond Tea, Cave Fisher Rope, Chuul Slime, Cockatrice Tongue, Powdered Gorgon Horn, Gorgon Steaks, Scorpion Cactus Nectar and Scorpion Cactus Resin. 1 Natural Hazard: Quagmire 1 Terrain Type: Salt Flats ... Deadly Gardens: Star Blossom Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Star Blossom Authors: Mike Welham, Joe Kondrak, Andrew Umphrey Artist: NextMars Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Star Blossom CR 9 2 New Magic Items: Ambusher’s Cape, Urchin Star 6 New Natural Items: Achaierai Oil, Behir Horn Powder, Decapus Tentacle, Harpy Feather Fletching, Seugathi Skin Gloves, Star Blossom Pendant ... Deadly Gardens: Stiletto Palm Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Stiletto Palm Authors: Joe Kondrak, Matthew Carroll, Mike Welham Artist: Liz Courts Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5 Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Stiletto Palm CR 9 2 New Magic Items: Alluring Rawhide and Daisy Bandolier 7 New Natural Items: Aranea Brain, Catoplebas Musk Gland, Choker Tentacle, Death Worm Bile, Giant Bee Saliva, Otyugh Liver, and Stiletto Palm Seed-Spike ... Deadly Gardens: Swarmhive Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Swarmhive Author: Russ Brown Artists: Grame Cunningham, Christian Dragos Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 6  Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Swarmhive Template Swarmhive Sargassum Fiend CR 10, Swarmhive Shambing Mound CR 7 3 New Natural Items: Boggard Tongue Bungee, Sargassum Fiend Pheromones, Swarmheart ... Deadly Gardens: Verdaxag, King of Trees Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Verdaxag, King of Trees Author: Mike Whelham Artist: J.H. Martin Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5  Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume we present the mighty Verdaxag, King of Trees! Verdaxag, is a colossal plant kaiju that embodies the will of the living forest itself. When civilization encroaches too far and despoils the natural order, vengeful druids may call upon the King of Trees to put things right!... Deadly Gardens: Wandering Sundew Regular price: $0.99 Bundle price: $0.25 Format: Watermarked PDF Deadly Gardens: Wandering Sundew Authors: Russ Brown, Kim Frandsen, Joe Kondrak Artist: Jeremy Corff Game System: Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL Pages: 5  Deadly Gardens is a series of short PDF documents that each feature a brand new plant monster to use in your Pathfinder Roleplaying Game or OGL campaigns. In addition to a new monster, each volume will also feature supplemental material based around the natural wilderness theme. In this volume: Wandering Sundew CR 18 Plant Companion: Wandering Sundew 2 New Magic Items: Blackthorn Gloves, Sturdy Walnut 6 New Natural Items: Axe Beak Adrenal Gland, Lammasu Claw Powder, Criosphinx Horn Powder, Giant Sea Anemone Tentacles, Trollhound Heart, Wandering Sundew Seedpod ...

Total value: $40.74 Special bundle price: $14.99 Savings of: $25.75 (63%)

Price: $40.74 Deadly Gardens Collection Bundle [BUNDLE] published first on https://supergalaxyrom.tumblr.com

[wifiwulf04]

I feel like as kids, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe would have been indistinguishable to the point that if they swapped paints and did a bit of acting, no one would know.

Plot twist, they switched identities so much as kids that even they don’t know if they are who they were created as or if they were upgraded as each other

Double plot twist, Ratchet helps them figure out who’s who via spark readings compared against long lost and accidentally refound spark readings from when they were kids. Over time, their spark readings got less similar so it’s easier to spot the subtle differences from when they were sparklings

Whether or not they actually are who they think they are, y’all feel free to guess :)

[wanderlust-journal]

Fempotential.com magazine published this story today, January 2017, on the anniversary of Mum’s passing.

Here is a copy of article following more photographs that didn’t make it into the magazine.

  The phone call came late in the afternoon, my brother’s name popped up on the screen.

“Either you’ve been drinking or something happened!” I joked.

Pause. “Both. Mum, she’s in ICU. She fell. Brain injury. We don’t know how bad.”

In the local pub where I sat clutching a beer and huddled in front of the open fire, a friend came up. Sharon worked in the ER in Santa Fe, NM where I live. I told her the news. “How long was she unconscious?”

“She still is.” “Oh, I’m sorry.” She patted my shoulder and said nothing else. I knew then.

  Nine months later, I strode across the cliffs along the Gower Coast in Wales. Behind me, my extended family stretched out in the twilight, chatting, laughing, and telling each other stories of my mum. Rhossilli Bay is a mile long, a broad wide and sandy beach with low rising hills to the east. My brother, Pete, came to check on me. At that moment, my cousins and their families released all those sky lanterns. Dozens of white balloons floated over the ocean and out towards Ireland to the west, the dark sky was calm and they drifted slowly out to sea. Silhouettes against a waning moon. Peaceful.

It would have been Mum’s 70th birthday. Sallie had planned for us all to get together to celebrate her birthday; she’d made us all promise the summer before, but then she died of a brain injury in January. We came here for her. Four cottages were rented, and the fridges filled with her favorite foods and not forgetting plenty of white wine in her honor. Sallie loved family gatherings more than anything. And for this, I am heartbroken because I didn’t understand. I kept my distance, even moving to the States in my twenties and yet there I was in my early forties suddenly appreciating the depth and expanse of family and her magic of bringing us together. My mum taught me, finally, the worth of family.

  In the seventies, our old Land Rover was packed with a tall orange and green canvas tent, a folding table, cooking gear, and the clothes and toys needed for two young kids. After four hours driving along winding back roads, Mum called out, “I can see the sea! I can see the sea! I win!” She’d squeal in delight. The Welsh coast opened up in front us as Dad drove down the small highway heading out to Rhossilli. We’d stop at the store for ice, sodas and those last-minute odds and ends, like a plastic shovel and bucket for me, and a kite for Pete. Then off to Middleton, a small village before the peninsula, where we’d set up camp. Well, Mum and Dad would. I’d be off wandering around the campground, meeting other kids and their parents, inviting them back to meet my mum and dad. In the middle of trying to settle in, I’d show up with a small group behind me. Dad would stop what he was doing and pour out drinks and begin to chat. Mum and I’d pass out some snacks. The tent finally got put up with the help of my new friends. It worked out each time.

That night in August though, Pete and I took time alone, time to watch those lanterns float westward. Memories and Memorials.

“Are you okay? Do you really want to go?” “Yep, I need time alone. You know how I am; this is too much for me. It’s okay, I’ll be back in a week or so.”

He hugged me and let me go. We walked back to the family and then we all wandered in the dark back to the cottages in Middleton. Cousins Tony, Paul and Nanette cooked up a feast and my brother’s kids made a campfire. We sat around late into the night, all of us full of stories and steaks.

Aunty Viv talked of growing up there in Wales. “During the summers after the Second World War, our dad would bring Sallie and I here for a week’s camping. Your gran would bring Les and Andy a week later. They couldn’t leave the farm alone so we split it between us. They chose this place in part because of the name; their own farm was Middleton, but far away in Worcester. The two farming families became close, and Old Mrs. Button still remembers your grandparents. You should ask her sometime. But don’t believe what she says about me and Sallie!”

The next morning, Viv hugged me tightly. The Honda motorbike was packed with gear, and it was time to leave her. My sweet aunt. Sallie and Viv spoke every day on the phone, saw each other often, they were incredibly close. I’d come across Viv down the alley that night before, sobbing her heart out, devastated at losing her big sister. I’d grabbed her to me and let her cry. “But I should be helping you,” she insisted.

“You are.”

Time to leave then, with most of my cousins and families all gone, I’d already said bye to Pete. Saying bye to Viv was the hardest. I didn’t know that it would be the last time. Cancer got her before the year was out.

“How long?”

“Four hours, Miss. The ferry takes four hours; it could be longer if the wind builds up like yesterday. But in good time, there’s no rush is there? We’ll be there by mid-day. Ireland’s only a hundred miles from Fishguard.” He took my ticket and showed me where to tie up the motorcycle on the left side of the ferry’s underbelly.

“Take everything with you, just for safety’s sake. Enjoy the trip!”

The ferry left for Rosslare at the crack of dawn, the sun barely visible on a cloudy overcast day. We’d been lucky in Wales, the sun shone plenty enough for hikes along the hills, and down to the beaches for the kids to play in the waves. Now though, the weather was turning and how appropriate it felt. I hugged Mum’s sweater to me and stood at the railings with the wind slashing slamming and fighting me for my every choked breath.

The Blarney Castle in County Cork was my first destination. The ride across N5 took me through Dungarvan and Youghal, cleansing me inside and out as rain belted down briefly, soaking deep into my boots. The highways were pretty empty and in no time I pulled up outside the Muskerry Arms on the town square. The pub and restaurant downstairs were packed on that Sunday afternoon yet the rooms upstairs were calm and peaceful. I couldn’t face people yet. I couldn’t face the inevitable question about where in the States did I come from. With twenty years in New Mexico, I’d lost much of my English accent. My wet clothes hung on the radiators and I’d emptied out the backpack, looking for John, my teddy bear, who now sat on the pillow of the king-sized bed under the windows. I stared out on the busy village below before falling asleep. With both parents gone, and a mixture of nightmares, grief, and simply being an adult kid alone in the world, no, I didn’t sleep well.

Blarney Castle is famous for the Stone Of Eloquence. The story isn’t clear, some say the stone came from Scotland and that it was a Coronation Stone, others that it dates back to the Crusades, but these days it’s the gift of the gab that it bestows upon the smoochers that is important. As a writer, it seemed like a good idea, right? I walked through the park that is set around the castle, one full of wilderness, gardens and winding paths. On average, some 300,000 visitors come here but in September I was one of a dozen if that. Admittedly, it was early in the morning as I’d had a simple hotel breakfast and walked over to explore more. I climbed the 127 steps in a narrow stone tower and came up onto an empty parapet. The Blarney Stone is set in the wall below the battlements. To get to it, I had to lean backwards, hold onto the railings, and trusting the guide, who grabbed my hips, fall backwards off the wall. The grass was some ninety feet below and I tried not to faint but to make a wish and kiss the stone. A click of a camera above me caught the moment.

Was this a mid-life crisis? To hit the road alone in my forties? To strap my belongings onto the back of an orange 650 cc motorcycle and ride into an unknown country? Yes, apparently, it is. The Huffington Post described it with an image of a grey-haired woman on a motorbike heading into the horizon. That sounds about right although at the time my hair was still brown and the horizon here was tree-lined while driving south through County Cork. With a map from Viv in the tank bag, I followed the R600 from Kinsale and then onto the smallest most winding roads along the coast. I rode through southern Ireland noting town names, Courtmacsherry, Rosscarberry, Donegal, the Beacon, but talked to no one. My mind was firmly focused on my mum and dad. The roads blurred into a list of numbers, R591, the R592, and back onto R600. Open desolate meadows dropped into the North Sea. The wind slashed across us, the bike and I, as we rode for an hour or so each morning before setting up next to a beach or a stonewall. I’d grab sandwiches and a flask of tea before wandering along rocky shorelines that reminded me of Wales. There I would sit and remember my parents.

After my dad died, Mum and I’d become closer, with my renting a car to take us back to Worms Head Hotel in Rhossilli whenever I was back in the country. We’d stay in the hotel on the peninsula, in a shared room, walking along the beaches, sitting in the hotel pub and staring across the shore towards Ireland. We didn’t talk much, it didn’t come easily, but we relaxed into each other’s company, sharing soft jokes over a coffee in the mornings or a wine in the evenings. We’d neither of us been to Ireland, I don’t know why. Dad and Mum took us in that old Land Rover to France, Spain, and Holland instead. I’d been in Guatemala when Dad died suddenly, and it had taken my brother a few days to locate me and another week for me to get back to the UK. Mum had grabbed me close and held onto me. I’d stayed longer than I’d done for over a decade. Mum and I learnt the rhythms of living together as adults but didn’t talk, not really. We didn’t know how.

Mizen Head, the signal station, the various lighthouses, all those places, as far along the many small narrow peninsulas, that’s where you could find me, alone on a cliff edge. No suicidal urges but an absence of people, of demands, or pity, I needed to surround myself with water. With memories.

As Mum lay in the hospital, in the ICU, plugged into too many machines to count, I held her hand for weeks and talked to her. I reminded her of times we’d been camping in Wales and how we’d leave Dad to carry nearly everything because we couldn’t wait to run to the beaches and how she was just as bad as us kids. Of the beach in Santander, Spain and all those hundreds of steps down to reach it. Of the days on the canal at Gran’s farm learning the names of all the flowers and trees. Running in the fields until the gong called us cousins to dinner. I described my home in Madrid, New Mexico, and the plans for making it into a cottage, a home to be proud of. I’d just finished my first novel and a publisher had written to me about taking me on and so I told Mum. I talked all afternoon long until Pete came after work and took me away. Every day for weeks I sat with Mum. Christmas Day. Boxing Day. New Year’s Day. I emptied myself of all the words I’d held back. Too late? No, she heard me. In that coma, Mum heard me and forgave me. “I know, Sarah, I know you. It’s all right. I know you.”

In Kenmare, I settled in for a few days. Time had been dragging in the sense that each day was full of silence, huge ocean vistas, and quiet evenings alone watching locals chatting in the pubs I’d stay at. I had no words for strangers. On Henry Street though, the main street in Kenmare, I parked the orange bike outside an orange building and wandered off one afternoon. The sun shone, it was a glorious September week and striding downhill towards a church, my heart softened. A one-way narrow road leads the eye to the spire, the grassy hill behind, and a craggier forest beyond that. The buildings were white, yellow, orange, burgundy, the wooden trim all colors and baskets of flowering bright annuals hung from the balconies above. The locals talked to me about the weather, asking about my trip so far, and suggesting that I stay at Foley’s Pub with the rooms above. I responded, chatting happily and easily with them. Along the main street, the Pantry sold organic foods and I stocked up on some quality cheeses, tomatoes, and good picnic food. A bottle of red wine to finish up. (Sorry, Mum, I still don’t like white wine)

After exploring the area on the bike in the mornings, and wandering in and out of the bookstores and galleries in Kenmare, I found a beachside park for a picnic. I spread out the cheeses; the Brie was for my dad and the Gorgonzola for Mum. Toms, cukes, French bread and a glass of wine. The sun shone on us, the photos of my family were held in place with pebbles, and I toasted them. I thanked them for all that they had given me. The love of travel. The courage to explore. The stories. And the love of a good picnic.

Riding back across N5 towards Rosslare a few days later, a heavy incessant rain didn’t deter me. I’d found peace in my grief. A hotel above the ferry terminal offered a room with a television, a bath and not much else but it didn’t matter. I’d spent a week emptying myself of the painful nightmares and found the memories to refill me, to reassure me. I hadn’t been such a terrible daughter after all. I’m very much the child of my parents. The wanderings, the pubs, and telling the stories later on. Yes, thank you both. You would’ve like Ireland. Now though, it was time to go back to my brother’s home. Family matters after all.

  Sallie Leamy August 1940 – January 2010

Thanks Alex T for publishing this travel essay.

    Ireland 2010 Fempotential.com magazine published this story today, January 2017, on the anniversary of Mum's passing. Here is a copy of article following more photographs that didn't make it into the magazine.

[wifiwulf04]

Broken Binaries (DCA SR AU)

Sun hated days like this. Don’t get him wrong, he loved their little ranch out in the Celestial Forest, where they were the caretakers of all the sun and moon slimes of the Far, Far Range, but there were days when he hated being a caretaker. Well, that wasn’t fair to their little Binaries either. He loved them, almost as much as he loved his own twin, but… 

Sun hated having to deal with broken Binaries. He loved them as much as he hated that they were broken, and that there was nothing he nor Moony could do to fix it, except put one of the slimes in their care out of their misery. 

They agreed that they couldn’t give up yet though, not if there was even the slimmest chance they could fix things. Sun watched the furious Solar slam into the reinforced corral walls, their distorted wails muffled but never fully muted. Even without hearing it, he knew that across the ranch, a lonely Lunar quietly cried. 

No, they couldn’t give up on them, not yet.

[wifiwulf04]

Slime rancher AU flashforward (I think)

So uh, the response to the compilation of slime rancher AU thoughts was,, huge.

Here’s a brief snapshot of Moon bringing a pair of slimey babies home :p

The Superstar Ranch

Moon stared out at the Celestial Forest, his trusty herder’s cane in hand as Sun cheerfully greeted each pair of slimes in their care, Moon silently counting them in his head. 18, 19… “Oh, I hope they’re just a little late coming home.” He could hear the quiet rasp of Sun wringing his hands behind him as his twin came to stand beside him, the two looking over the land. Moon vented a quiet sigh, pulling his hood up in a fluid motion. “Which pair?” “The Centauri.” He had a feeling it was them again, the Centauri pair were among the Binaries most drawn to Starlight Strand despite the ranchers that frequented the area. 

“Be careful, Moony.”

“Always am, any message for the ranchers?”

Moon knew without looking that his brother was pouting from the force of his sigh. “Tell them to be nice to the Binaries, and stop feeding them junk food!”

~~~

Even though the twins were far from the human rancher community, with how often Moon had to venture into the areas accessible to them to retrieve supplies they couldn’t get in the Celestial Forest or round up too-curious Binaries, he knew the land well, sticking to the shadows where his moon slime-blessed cloak kept him hidden. Getting in and out of the ranches was hardly an issue, even the technology of the savvy Ms Miles or Mr Humphries ignored his presence. If it didn’t, well, Moon had his own tricks under his cloak. No, it was avoiding the ranchers themselves which was where the fun lay.

Leaving Mr Ortiz’s farm (though not without stealing some of the ‘junk food’ Sun detested so much, the spicy tofu that Ortiz created proved quite useful whenever Moon ran into the feral slimes that seemed to surround his property), Moon wondered where the Centauri Binary could have possibly ended up this time. He had checked the ranchers in order of suspicion, with Mr Humphries at the top of the list and Ms Miles in second, was there a fourth rancher who had taken an interest in the wandering pair? 

The sound of a Vacpack in the Rainbow Fields had Moon slip into the darkness, curiously peeking out from behind a rock formation at the source of the sound. It was a new rancher, one he had never seen around here before now. He needed to check their ranch while they were still out here, but he had no idea where that could possibly b—

A glint of what was undoubtedly glass reflecting moonlight caught his attention from just over the ridge. As he crept closer, it looked more and more like… a massive observatory. That had to be it. Throwing a last glance over his shoulder at the busy little bee sucking up food and plorts in the fields, Moon darted towards the building, intent on bringing the Centauri home, wherever they may have ended up.

~~~

The Centauri sun squeaked gleefully at the sight of him, their adorable face squished up against the forcefield keeping the Binary corralled. Their other half was just behind them, the Centauri moon smiling up at him sheepishly. “There you are.” Moon couldn’t help the relief flooding his tone despite trying to appear stern, his cane hooking under the corral wall and lifting it out of the way. The little sun slime hopped right into his legs, tiny nubby limbs demanding to be picked up. “Spoiled brat.” Moon tutted, though he crouched down to comply anyway, safely tucking the critter into a pouch in his cloak. 

The moon slime was a little less enthusiastic, no doubt dreading the scolding they were going to get. “Come on, we should go home before the rancher comes back.” Moon beckoned the little one closer, comfortably situating them next to their sunny counterpart who immediately cuddled close, their quiet chirrs making Moon smile in the shadow of his hood. “Alright, quiet down. Sunny is going to have words for you two, you know.” He reminded them, the feeling of them snuggling closer to his chest the only indication that they had heard him. 

Pulling out a slip of paper from a zipped pocket in his cloak, Moon swept his herder’s cane around him in an arc, raising an eye ridge at the silence. So the rancher didn’t have surveillance technology, at least, none that his cane had picked up on. Curious. Well, if they were going to make his getaway that easy, then it was on them if he were to say… take a few crops with him. “ ‘Better luck next time, maybe if you give us better snacks, we’ll stick around longer than your shopping trip.’ What do you two think?” Moon grinned mischievously, letting the Centauri read his little note. The Centauri sun squealed, little nubbins flapping as their moon purred, quietly wiggling in the pouch. “Alright, alright. I’ll be more specific.” Moon chuckled, flipping the small sheet of paper over.

By the time the rancher returned, the only trace of them left in the corral was a note that read ‘Better luck next time, surrender your honey and hens or expect more escapes :3’

[wifiwulf04]

Sketching my triad lads from Endowed With Gifts and Curses

From left to right: Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto

When we have the time, we will be fully lining and colouring them as well as adding the sixth Celestial, Saturn. Her sketch will be done hopefully by tomorrow