#dominic alleluia

[ozkar-krapo]

V/A

"Slowscan vol.8 : Mouthworks"

(cassette. Slowscan. 1988)

[turangalila]

Johannes Brassart (c. 1400 - c. 1455) – Regina coeli [(no. 87-179. pp.197r-198r) MS 1374 [87] (Trent 87). Museo Provinciale d'Arte, Castello del Buonconsiglio, Trento, Italy]

Regina coeli, laetare, alleluia. / Quia quem meruisti portare, alleluia. / Resurrexit sicut dixit, alleluia. / Ora pro nobis Deum. // Alle Domine, nate matris Deus alme / nobis confer praestaque vivere. / Quoniam te decet laus honor Domine, / qui de morte surrexisti rex pie. / Fac nos post te surgere, alleluia.

– Ave Maria [(no. 87-036. p.51r) MS 1374 [87] (Trent 87). Museo Provinciale d'Arte, Castello del Buonconsiglio, Trento, Italy]

SUPERIUS I Ave Maria gratia plena Dominus tecum / Et tua gratia sit mecum / gloria mulierum, gemma virginum / stella sacerdotum, rosa martyrum / domina apostolorum, regina angelorum / Iocunditas celorum, Iesu dei mater. / Amen. 

SUPERIUS II Ave Maria gratia plena / ego peccator suspiro ad te / inclinans ad te intercede pro me / ad dilectissimum filium tuum / ut mundet me a peccatis, liberet me a poenis / ut salvet me in cælis, ut vivam cum beatis. / Benedicta tu in mulieribus / et benedictus Iesus / dulcissimus fructus ventris tui. / Amen

_ Arnold de Lantins:  Missa Verbum Incarnatum Capilla Flamenca. Dirk Snellings Psallentes. Hendrik Vanden Abeele Clari Cantuli. Ria Vanwing  (2002, Ricercar RIC207)

[grntaire]

in the midst of the earth: good omens-coded sacred choral music

below is the text and english translation for each piece :)

1. beati quorum via, charles villiers stanford

Beati quorum via integra est, qui ambulant in lege Domini. // Blessed are those whose way is blameless, who walk in the law of the Lord.

2. aus tiefer not schrei ich zu dir, felix mendelssohn

Aus tiefer Not schrei ich zu dir, Herr Gott, erhör mein Rufen; Dein gnädig Ohr neig her zu mir / Und meiner Bitt sie öffne! Denn so du willt das sehen an, was Sünd und Unrecht ist getan, wer kann, Herr, vor dir bleiben? // Out of deep anguish I call to you, Lord God, hear my cries; bow down your gracious ear to me and open it to my plea! Since you behold, according to your will, what sin and injustice is done, who can stand, Lord, before you?

3. agnus dei, josef rheinberger

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis. // Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.

4. vinea mea electa, francis poulenc

Vinea mea electa, ego te plantavi: quomodo conversa es in amaritudinem, ut me crucifigeres et Barrabam dimitteres. Sepivi te, et lapides elegi ex te, et ædificavi turrim. // O vineyard, my chosen one! I planted you: how are you changed from sweet to bitter, to have crucified me and released Barrabas? I protected you; I have removed stones that could bother you and built a tower for your defense.

5. lux aeterna, edward elgar

Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternum, quia pius es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis, quia pius es. // May eternal light shine on them, Lord, with your saints for ever, for you are good. Give them eternal rest, Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them, for you are good.

6. do not be afraid, philip stopford

Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by your name; you are mine. When you walk through the waters, I'll be with you; you will never sink beneath the waves. When the fire is burning all around you, you will never be consumed by the flames. When the fear of loneliness is looming, then remember I am at your side. When you dwell in the exile of a stranger, remember you are precious in my eyes. You are mine, O my child, I am your Father, and I love you with a perfect love.

7. spaséniye sodélal, pavel chesnokov

Cпасение coдeлaл еси посреде земли, Боже. Аллилуия. // Spaséniye sodélal yesí posredé ziemlí, Bózhe. Allilúiya. // Salvation is made in the midst of the earth, O God. Alleluia.

[coltermorning]

Dominating Love Pt. 2 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Arthur continues to agitate you to the best of his ability, putting not only you but the whole camp on edge. When you finally snap, the resulting punishment is to the detriment of you both, pushing the two of you to a rage that is unexpected in its clarity.

Author’s Notes: This is part two. Click here for part one, and if you want me to keep writing about these two let me know!

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, smut, low honor Arthur Morgan, rough sex, oral sex, name-calling

AO3 Link

~

Dominating Love

Word count: 7931

Part Two

After three long days of self-hatred and regret, Arthur Morgan tucked tail and returned to his gang’s camp at Horseshoe Overlook. He didn’t feel like showing his face, especially not to you. You had every right to be angry with him, but he couldn’t face that—didn’t want to. He wanted to be with you again, to feel your skin on his, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. He had screwed up enough to know that to be fact.

As he rode nearer and nearer to camp, his nerves set in. It was an unfamiliar feeling. He almost never got nervous after years in his line of work, but there they were: bundled nerves so deep in the pit of his stomach that he thought about turning around and riding in the other direction. He didn’t though, gritting his teeth and riding on. The camp needed him, and he wouldn’t abandon the people who relied on him for longer than necessary because of a foolish mistake he made. It was his fault, and he would have to deal with it.

It was a little after noon when Arthur rode into camp. He hitched his horse and scanned the overlook, the tree line, and everywhere else for the sight of you. You were nowhere to be found. The thought of you in trouble somewhere all alone panicked him, but he quickly pushed the feeling away. You were too much of a minx to get yourself into any real trouble. It would likely be the other way around—an unlucky group of bastards having your wrath unleashed on them. Arthur chuckled at the thought as he made to start his usual camp chores.

You didn’t show up for the rest of the day, and as night fell, despite the fact that he knew you were probably fine, Arthur began to worry. He shouldn’t have listened to you, shouldn’t have let you run off alone just because you had guilted him into agreeing to it. There wasn’t much he could do about it now, though. You could be anywhere. Riding off to look for you was useless, and that left him with only one option: to wait on you—something he despised.

~

This was the most well-rested you had been since birth. As the sun rose and you woke beside the warm fire you had built the night before, you realized it would be your fifth day away from camp. More importantly, it would be your fourth day away from Arthur. Alleluia.

You sat up and stretched, looking around for your mare. She stood a good ways away down by the river that fed into the Upper Montana. You smiled at her. She was one of the better horses you had ever come across. The sun glinted off of her blood bay coat, turning her back blazing red. You sighed, wishing you didn’t have to go back. The thought surprised you. You loved the gang and the camp. Both provided you more shelter than you had ever known. You only didn’t want to see everyone because they always picked on you and Arthur after your days away from camp. You mainly didn’t want to face Arthur, the smug bastard. You picked at the grass beside you and shredded a piece, anger boiling over again at the thought of the man. It just wouldn’t do to stay away, though. You loved the gang more than you hated Arthur, and you sure as shit weren’t going to let him keep you from camp because of a childish spat the pair of you had. You sighed again, throwing the grass down. It was decided, then. You were going back today.

After eating and smothering the remaining embers of the fire, you saddled and packed up your mare and swung onto her, ready for the small journey that would take you back to Horseshoe Overlook. It would be a few hours, a last few peaceful hours full of nothing but beauty and a horse and the lack of Arthur Morgan. The thought made you smile.

After a much too short ride, the camp came into view as you plodded along the familiar path. It was still morning, and everyone was busy with their regular chores. It was true that you normally got to shirk some responsibilities with Grimshaw due to your talented marksmanship that had you winning scores with the men, but she would still be angry with you. Especially if Arthur beat you back and it looked like you had taken your sweet time returning to camp. Sure enough, upon arrival, you spotted his horse in the wood line. The sight of it made you frown. Your familiar anger set in like an old friend, and you decided from that point on you weren’t going to say one word to him today. Even if work called for it, you would keep your mouth glued shut with spite.

You hitched your horse and dismounted, feeding her and giving her a loving pat before walking off to find Grimshaw. A familiar voice rang out from your left, and your shoulders scrunched up to your neck from the sound of it. “Bout time you graced us with your presence.” You set your jaw and didn’t grant Arthur a response, looking straight ahead and continuing to walk instead. You didn’t let the smile reach your lips at the thought of how angry he would get over being ignored, but the satisfaction remained just beneath the surface. “Hey, I’m talking to you,” he said, closing the gap between you and spinning you around to face him. You stood your ground, flashing a wicked smile at him before turning back around to continue walking. “Oh, I see. The silent treatment. Real mature.” You gave him a very vulgar gesture without turning, off to find Grimshaw.

Sure enough, the leading woman in camp was not pleased at all by your absence. She had assigned you enough work to last all day, and you had been working for hours catching up on things you knew she only designated out of spite. It was enough work for three people. Your body ached. Hell, even your bones ached by the time she declared your work done for the day. You were about to find your bedroll and fall into it when Karen asked you to join her near the campfire. It was still early, and the fire would feel nice on your tensed muscles, at least for a little while. So, you joined her for a drink.

Of course, after only fifteen minutes, this drew Arthur’s attention like a shark to blood. You felt his presence ambling nearer before you saw him by the way everyone around the fire seemed to look to you in unison. You heaved a big sigh, making your annoyance known. You still vowed not to speak a word to him even though it was currently making camp relations a bit strained. No one wanted to be around the two of you when you were at each other’s throats, much less when you were making him so angry that his only choice was to take it out on everyone else for the day. You didn’t care. You hated him enough to keep it up.

“What’re you looking at?” he spat at them. Javier and Bill mumbled curses under their breath.

“I can’t quite tell,” Uncle responded, chuckling at Arthur.

“Real funny,” Arthur said as he stopped to stand beside you. You tensed so badly that your muscles protested, reminding you that you should be in bed instead of dealing with this. You waited for him to bait you with some nasty quip.

Instead, Karen faced him down. “Why are you giving us so much grief? It ain’t like we have to put up with it.”

Arthur opened his mouth in response, but before he could get a word in, Dutch placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I need to speak to you two.” He looked at everyone else around the fire. “Find somewhere else to be.” As they all mumbled and slowly scattered, your brows knitted together. Dutch usually liked to make an example out of everyone, a lesson out of everything, and you hadn’t the slightest clue what he didn’t want to say in front of the others. It rattled you a little. “Sit, Arthur,” he said, motioning to the log you sat on. Arthur sat beside you, and you swore you could feel the wrath rolling off of him in waves at having to obey like that. Dutch circled in front of you, standing over you both a few seconds before speaking. You recognized the danger in his expression, the look making the hair at the back of your neck stand on end. “I heard about what happened with Hosea.”

Now you understood. The pair of you had almost gotten him killed. Dutch was a very protective man, and that wouldn’t easily be forgiven.

You sat in silence, waiting for Dutch to speak first. “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?”

“Ask her, it was her fault,” Arthur said. Where you usually would have given him a cutting response, you stayed as still and quiet as death.

Dutch gave Arthur a hateful look before locking those smoldering eyes on you. You made it clear you were speaking only to him, not Arthur, turning slightly. “We didn’t see the gun the farmer had until it was too late.”

Dutch closed his eyes and took a long breath like he was attempting to calm himself down with it. “That is precisely why you were there. To make sure something like that wouldn’t happen.”

Guilt riddled your gut and found a home there at his words. He was right. Arthur had been distracting you at the time, but Dutch was right. You should have been watching. “I know and I’m…it won’t happen again.”

“I am very close to saying there will be no ‘again.’” Dutch’s words surprised you, and the emotion found your face as you looked up at him open-mouthed. “And you,” Dutch said, turning his hard gaze on Arthur. “Don’t try and act innocent. I know she’s smart, and I know it wouldn’t have happened if anyone else had been with her.”

You had lost your voice, amazed that you had let your anger with Arthur cloud the fact that you had almost gotten Hosea killed. But Arthur hadn’t yet lost his will to argue. “Dutch, that ain’t fair-”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Dutch interrupted. He leaned forward toward the two of you, crouching down to your level. “Now, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, and believe me, I’m far from caring, but if you don’t find your heads and use them, you aren’t leaving this camp until you learn to put the safety of everyone else here before your own emotions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dutch,” you answered quickly.

You felt the hesitation from Arthur and knew what it meant—he would submit to Dutch’s wishes, but his reluctance proved how unwilling he truly was to do what he asked. “Sure,” he finally answered with his low drawl, like it killed him to say it.

“Good. Now stand up. Both of you.” Dutch stood back up, and you and Arthur reluctantly rose to your feet. “Shake hands.” Dutch crossed his arms, waiting, as you both turned to him with expressions of utter defiance. He held his hand up to silence you. “I don’t want to hear it. Shake hands so I know you’ll stop acting like children.”

You threw your hand out, and Arthur looked down at it a moment before reaching out his own with obvious discontent, shaking your hand in a too-tight grip. You let go quickly, turning and stomping off toward your bedroll before you were forced to be in his presence a second longer.

As morning came, your body ached from the work the day before had brought. You also pondered Dutch’s words with worry. You couldn’t afford to be screwing up jobs. It would only land you with Grimshaw permanently or worse: kicked out of the gang. That couldn’t happen. You wouldn’t let that happen. As much as you hated giving Arthur any sort of friendliness when he had caused all of this, it was your only option. You would have to at least try. You owed it to yourself.

When he attempted to get you to talk to him again, you answered him. It wasn’t the friendliest of responses, but it was at least something that would keep his anger at bay. He had said something about you finally deciding to help out this morning to which you responded with, “Mhm. Doing my part.” You didn’t think he caught the double-meaning, too upset with failing to rile you.

When he picked on you the second time, you again shot him down. “You know, you do work around camp well enough. I don’t blame Dutch for not wanting you out on jobs,” he said after Susan praised the hard work you were doing.

Before he could speak another word and dig himself into a deeper grave, you said “I don’t either, not after a messy score like that.” That one really stumped him, and as he grumbled and stalked off, you grinned.

The third time was different. He finally hit a nerve, and you couldn’t stop your anger from spilling out. You had finished your work for the day and stood near the cliff edge, pondering if this was how things would be from now on. Arthur sauntered over to you. You saw him out of the corner of your eye and braced yourself for whatever was making him so sure of himself. “So,” he said, coming to stand on the far side of you and resting his hands on his gun belt, looking out across the river. You didn’t immediately answer, so he continued. “I’ve been thinking.”

You thought about saying something along the lines of that being surprising, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. “Mhm.”

He moved in close, his bicep touching your shoulder, his head leaning down toward yours but remaining looking out as he whispered. “I think there’s something going on between you and Dutch.”

“Excuse me?” you asked, stepping away to look him in the eye. You were somewhat offended by the statement but mainly confused by it.

“That has to be it,” he said with a gleam in his eye. As he leaned in toward you, you knew whatever was about to come out of his mouth was going to be idiotic, but you certainly didn’t expect his next words: “How else would he get a little bitch like you to mind him so well?” Your face dropped. No feeling, no anger escaped it, but white-hot rage pooled in your stomach all the same. “I’ll have to ask him for some pointers-”

Before he could utter another word, you were on him like a hellcat, using his close proximity to your advantage as you punched, slapped, clawed, and kicked. He was on the ground in seconds, cowering. All he protected was his face and upper body, so you used that to your advantage and kicked him in the balls. Hard. He recoiled, his hands shooting downward to his crotch as he cried out in pain. You used the opportunity to reach down, yanking his head up by his hair to make him look you in the eyes. “You say shit like that again and I’ll gut you,” you growled. You shoved his head back down before looking up to see what a grand mistake you had made. A few of the gang members had run over to see what the commotion was, and Dutch hovered just beyond them, his smoldering gaze set on you.

After what felt like hours trapped within a moment, he pushed through the crowd and stalked toward you. Just as you began to find your words to apologize, he pushed past you and moved to Arthur’s side. He crouched down, asking him if he was all right. You felt ashamed, stupid for thinking you could handle your temper around Arthur, for thinking you meant nearly as much to this gang as Arthur did. You heard Dutch’s voice grow louder. “Good, then get up.”

He yanked Arthur to his feet and Arthur winced, walking curled in on himself with every step. Dutch yanked his arm along like a child in trouble, and when they made to pass you, Dutch sidestepped and grabbed you too. The sudden feeling of being manhandled along with your anger that hadn’t yet simmered down had you fighting him, yanking away with every step. “Let go of me!” you yelled, but his grip was iron. It was no use.

The whole gang watched as Dutch dragged the pair of you all the way across camp to the hitching posts. Once there, he let go and shoved you both, sending you shuffling a few steps past him. “I tried telling you, both of you. Now go on and leave,” Dutch said loud enough for everyone to hear as his voice cracked on the last word.

“Dutch?” Arthur pleaded, the hurt in his voice not a result of the pain in his body but rather for the threat of being told to leave for good.

Dutch held up his hand to silence him. “You may join us when you’ve sorted this out. Until then, even if it takes weeks, even if it takes months, I don’t want to see your faces in this camp again. Do I make myself clear?”

You just stared, open-mouthed. The coldness had reached your eyes, but you didn’t care to hide it, even if it was Dutch on the receiving end. This was your home, and Arthur had just taken it away from you. Dutch hadn’t given you a choice either, had grouped you in with the bastard. Tears began to form at the corners of your eyes, and before you let them show, you turned and stormed to your bedroll to pack your things and leave.

You made quick work of it and were on your mount headed out of camp when you heard Arthur behind you. “Hey, wait up a minute,” he yelled out, sounding out of breath, whether from trying to catch up to you or from shock you couldn’t tell.

You seethed, anger pouring out of every place it could find daylight. “Don’t you dare say a word to me,” you threatened once he had ridden to your side.

“Y/N-”

“Arthur, I swear to god,” you interrupted. You locked eyes with him, hate rushing out of you and toward him with so much force it was nearly a physical thing. That shut him up. Finally, you thought.

You didn’t know where you were going, just that it was habit that took you down the path toward Valentine. Arthur rode beside you in silence. You wanted him to be on the opposite side of the world but knew that his silence was better, a precious thing that you didn’t want him to waste on someone else. By the time you hitched in front of the saloon in town, your anger had subsided again, leaving a hollowness in its wake that made you feel dead inside. Alcohol would help. It would burn up the pain that was trying to eat you alive.

You stepped inside and up to the bar, not caring whether Arthur was there or not, blocking everything out in an attempt not to think about Dutch’s words. Weeks and months kept flashing across your mind. That was too damn long. “Whiskey,” you told the bartender, sliding your money across the bar.

You heard another coin scrape across the bar top beside you, but you ignored its owner. “Same here,” followed his gruff voice. You leaned over the bar, searching your hands like they would give you some sort of answer. They wouldn’t, and you knew the alcohol wouldn’t either, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t remember feeling this broken since the gang had found you and taken you in.

After too much whiskey and very little memory of the remaining day’s occurrences, you had fallen asleep in the hotel. You awoke the next morning with a pounding head and moaned in pain and regret before immediately tensing from the warmth of a body next to yours. You looked over to find Arthur, but he was clothed. You were clothed.

His eyes opened slowly from the sound you had made. He assessed the situation and ran a hand down his face, moaning with the same pain. “Shit. What the hell happened?”

“You tell me,” you said. Arthur had a tendency to get rowdy and violent when drunk, so you surmised that he remembered more than he was letting on, sentient enough the day before to get you both to the hotel in one piece.

He looked over at you and yawned, still waking up. “I remember…you wanting to come here. So I took you.”

You sat in silence a moment before laying back down. The room still spun slightly. Arthur shifted to rest on his side and looked at you, waiting. “Didn’t think to get two beds?” you hissed.

“They were all out.” So he did remember.

“Hmm,” you said. You weren’t really up for arguing with him but couldn’t resist saying it. “So, what was going through your filthy little mind last night when you crawled into this bed with me?”

“Nothing,” he responded, surprising you. “I wasn’t thinking at all.” You turned your head and met his gaze, those pretty eyes of his dangerously close, honest and searching yours.

You didn’t let your filter catch the question before it left your mouth. “Why haven’t you given up on me?”

“What?” he said on an exhale.

“Why haven’t you left me somewhere to fend for myself already? It’s not like I don’t deserve it.”

He pondered this a while, blue eyes shielded in thought. Then, “Why haven’t you dropped me?”

“Trust me, I’ve tried,” you quipped, turning your head to look at the ceiling. That earned you a low chuckle from him.

“Yeah, you ain’t kidding.” The pair of you sat in silence a few moments before he spoke. “Listen, I’m…sorry. For what I did up in the mountains. For acting a fool in camp.”

You didn’t move a muscle to look at him or speak. Deep down you appreciated it, but it made even more guilt build up inside your gut, knowing he had just been doing what he always did that day, and you had snapped at him over something minuscule, causing all of this. This was your fault. The pair of your were banned from camp because of your temper, not his. Given, he wasn’t completely innocent, but he wasn’t the cause either. You were. This was all you. And suddenly, your anger was hard to hold down any longer. It was all you knew. The one thing causing all your grief was the one tether you could hold onto, the one thing keeping you from drowning. So you let it out. “You should be. Sorry sack of shit.”

You knew your words cut him deep when he didn’t immediately answer. He was trying, really trying, to throw you a lifeline. Reaching out his hand. And you had chopped it clean through the bone. It riled him. “For god’s sake,” he breathed out.

“What,” you spat, a statement more than a question.

He turned, sitting up to look at you. “You’re really that wrong in the head, are you? Thinking you’re all alone, that you don’t deserve anything good.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” you spat, throwing the sheets off of you and getting up.

“I see it, Dutch and Hosea see it. Hell, everyone in that goddamn camp sees it. You’re broken. And you think pushing us all away and hating the world is gonna fix that? Trust me, it ain’t.”

His words were lined with honesty, like he had gone through the same thing. You turned on him. “Don’t act like you know me. Like you know what this feels like.” He had risen to sit on the edge of the bed and just stayed there, shaking his head. “You’re wrong, wrong about me. I don’t hate it all, I love it all, everyone, too much. And it just gets me hurt, crushes me over and over again. I’m clinging to that camp like a lifeline, knowing full well I just ruined what little bit of good I had there.”

He met your gaze. “You didn’t ruin it.”

“Yeah, I did. It’s what I do. You think they won’t remember me almost getting Hosea killed, me beating you to the ground, their golden boy?”

His eyes hardened. “I ain’t their golden boy. Far from it.” You rolled your eyes, and he went on. “I’ve pulled the same shit you have my whole life with them. They ain’t gonna abandon you. I won’t…abandon you.”

Realization dawned on you. This was about him. He was making it about him. He had been hurt the same way his whole life, and now that he saw it happening to someone else, he was protecting you for his own sake. “Leave me the hell alone,” you spat, getting up and grabbing your boots, stomping toward the door.

He was up in a heartbeat, slamming the door shut as you opened it. “Why can’t you see,” he said, grabbing your arms and spinning you, forcing your back into the door as you dropped your boots. “Why can’t I make you see,” he spoke through gritted teeth. You felt the anger coming off of him and matched it.

“Get off of me you piece of shit,” you muttered, trying to fight him off. To no avail. “This makes you feel big, doesn’t it? Trapping me? Saving me?” You spat the word in his face, and his gaze turned feral.

“This ain’t about me you little-”

“Oh, it sure as hell is. Tell me, does your dick get hard at night thinking of coming to my rescue?”

“Shut the hell up,” he growled.

“No, you know it’s true. You know I’m just a means to an end. I’m you, Arthur-”

He slammed you against the door. “No you ain’t!”

You winced but pushed on. “I am. I’m you, and I’m seeing it now, why you always want to fuck me so bad. It’s the closest thing to saving me, saving yourself. Isn’t that right?”

He pushed hard, and you began to lose your breath at the weight. “You’re wrong,” he growled.

“Am I?”

“You’re wrong,” he repeated.

“Tell me then. Enlighten me,” you said, almost at a whisper from how much force he was using to push you against the door. You worried your bones would crack.

“Fuck you,” he spat.

“Tell me, you bastard,” you said through gritted teeth.

The anger was swallowing him whole. You were glad it wasn’t you for once. “No.”

“Tell me.”

“No,” he repeated, his lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl.

“Tell me!” you screamed, and he let go with one hand, slamming it into the door beside your face.

“Because I fucking love you!”

It suddenly made sense. All of it. His refusing to let up on you for one damn second. You could see it all as clear as day. But that didn’t keep you from being floored by his words, from letting the weight of them hit you harder than any anger, than any pain.

The pair of you stood there, breathless, staring. “Prove it,” you whispered before you could stop yourself. His lips crashed into yours. The force of his strength against you let up, instead pushing into your mouth. He kissed you so hard you thought your head would break through the door. His tongue pushed past your teeth, running along the top of your mouth, your teeth, your tongue. It earned him a groan from you filled with frustration and lust that only spurred him on. He pushed harder and harder, devouring you, until he took your arms in his hands again and spun you, shoving himself against the door with you in front of him. You hesitated for less than a heartbeat before understanding—he wanted you in control. The thought ate you alive. You wanted him then and there.

You pushed forward and kissed him, the pair of you tearing at each other like animals. You pulled his suspenders off his shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt and his union suit, ripping them down to reveal that broad chest. He heaved in breaths, each one a holy sight for your devouring. You couldn’t resist and reached for his throat, shoving his head back into the door to hold him there as you ducked your head and latched your mouth onto one of his nipples. He growled at the contact, no doubt humiliated by it, but he let you continue. He let you. The thought fueled the fire that began to burn within you.

You flicked your tongue over the small nub enough to make him squirm before releasing him. You shoved him once against the door, backing off of him slightly. “Don’t move,” you said. He just looked at you with hardened eyes, trying very hard to listen. You could see it was killing him. You rushed forward again and untucked his shirt, yanking it up and throwing it behind you. You unbuttoned his pants and the remaining buttons on his union suit, sliding your hands around to cup his ass and slowly bringing his clothes down with them. You ran your hands around his hips and to his front, flicking your eyes up at him as you did. The gaze that looked down at you was damning. Your core tightened in response, flexing for those eyes. You looked back down so as to keep your patience, and just before you touched his length, you stopped. He let out a harsh breath of frustration. He was rock hard, and the sight made the corners of your mouth tug upward. You silently wondered if his arousal was from your touching him like this or from your obvious acceptance of his confession. You settled on both as you took his length in your hand.

He winced, his hips bucking forward slightly. “Easy,” you purred, grinning at his eagerness. You kept one hand on him and used the other to pull his pants and union suit all the way down. He stepped out of them, and you threw them both behind you as well, leaving him bare.

“What about you,” he breathed, motioning to your clothes with his eyes.

“Patience,” was all you uttered before using both of your hands on him. His body tightened, like a coil being forced downward only to inevitably spring back. His hands clenched and unclenched, wanting so badly to touch you, to make you his. But this time, he was yours. You put your mouth just below his belly button, sucking the skin and hardened muscle there while you hands worked his shaft just below. The noises that started to come out of him were sinful.

You teased him, flicking your tongue close enough to his length for him to imagine what you could do with your mouth on him, but just out of reach. You sucked his skin as you ran the pad of your thumb around his tip, spreading his precome along it. Your other hand barely brushed the underside of his cock, causing no friction but no release either. Just a tease. He began to squirm. You moved your hand to his balls and cupped them, making him groan. The sound sent more heat between your legs. You didn’t squeeze in the slightest, your small way of apologizing for being so rough with him last time, not to mention kicking him there yesterday. You ran your thumb from his tip slowly downward, all the way to his base. You heard a thump and released your mouth from his abdomen to look up. He had tilted his head back against the door with his eyes closed tight. You chuckled, unable to resist. His movement left you with no choice but to surprise him. Still cupping his balls and moving your hand back and forth very softly, you grasped his base and took him into your mouth.

“Christ,” he hissed, squirming in your grasp. You began to move, slow and erotic, using your tongue like you knew how. Only, when you considered it, you hadn’t gotten to do this to him before. He had fucked your mouth before, but this was very different. His arousal pooling in your hands, his body reacting to every flick of your tongue on his shaft so delightfully. It was a pleasure to watch, to do it to him. And you would get your due. That you were sure of.

You kept your movements light, your touch unfocused enough to keep him at bay and drive him mad all the same. After a few minutes, you took him out of your mouth with a loud pop and rose to your feet, meeting his eyes. He huffed out breaths like each one was precious. You could tell he was frustrated. Unfortunately for him, it was only going to get worse. You smirked at him before walking to the bed and sitting, leaving him staring after you. “Come undress me,” you taunted.

His gaze was blown wide with lust, his thoughts and judgement no doubt clouded as he moved to you quickly, starting with your shirt. He undid each button but didn’t peel the shirt away before he moved to your pants. You stood up. “Kneel.” He stopped and looked at you with surprise, like he was too distracted to understand your words. When they clicked, he grimaced but folded his lumbering form to the ground, kneeling before you to resume unbuttoning your pants. “Ah ah,” you tisked. He closed his eyes in frustration but moved his hands away, looking to you for what to do next. You made him watch as you took your shirt off, peeling each sleeve off your skin slowly. You weren’t wearing your usual short chemise and were instead bare. He swallowed, taking in the sight of your breasts just above him. “Now,” you said, motioning for him to resume. He did but lingered on the sight of your upper body, blue eyes brushing over the raised skin. He finished unbuttoning your pants and saw that you wore nothing under them as well. You thought you heard a small groan escape him. “Go ahead,” you told him. He pulled your pants down slowly, running his warm fingers down your sides, your skin lighting on fire with his touch. You wanted him so badly, his submission, his beautiful body, him. You were running out of patience.

You held your resolve nonetheless as you stepped out of your pants. He moved them for you and sat back, his eyes slowly moving upward until they stopped right between your thighs. “All yours,” you said through a wicked smile. “Come return the favor.” You sat on the bed, laying back, and he huffed in frustration. This teasing was getting to him.

He rose to his knees and ran those sinful hands along your legs anyway, moving up and up, tracing lazy circles as he did so. He pulled you slowly toward the edge of the bed, toward his face. You thought you would explode with wanting. When his thick fingers finally touched your folds, you let out a gasp. A sound rumbled through him in response. He began running one finger along you, nearing your entrance but continuing, making you squirm like you had done to him. Without warning, he slipped a finger inside of you, and you bit down to keep from moaning. “Want to hear you,” he said, the arousal in his voice making you clench around him.

It was a command but a reasonable one, so you allowed it. He began pumping in and out of you slowly. You thanked the heavens for giving him such broad fingers as he worked you over, inserting a second. Your body reacted to it, your muscles tightening with desire. He still moved slowly, building you up, but you knew you wouldn’t come like this. You were growing impatient. “Arthur-” you chided before he interrupted you by placing the pad of his thumb on your clit. You gasped. He hummed his pleased response. Then he began to move.

His thumb flicked circles, making you move into his touch. His two fingers from his other hand picked up their pace, and he curled them. It was pure bliss on your body that melted into every touch, every caress. He went faster and faster, his thumb erratic on that bundle of nerves. You climbed and climbed, wanting to clench around him and come for him, for how well he was doing.

You felt the sudden absence of his thumb and almost squealed in protest until his mouth replaced it, his tongue finding that rhythm instead, the heat of his mouth surrounding you. “Arthur,” you moaned, unable to stop yourself. For the first time, you didn’t care. He was yours and he knew it, and it didn’t matter that you were moaning his name. That erotic movement against your clit warranted it.

He hummed his approval, and the vibration sent a shock through your body. You were going to come. As if he knew it, he switched, moving his tongue down to your core and his hand to your clit. He began to devour you, rubbing such erratic patterns with his thumb that you huffed out each breath. His tongue lapped at your heat, pressing into you with a familiar warmth that you craved more of. He split you wide open, building and building and building you up until you were bound to crash. The constant pleasure from his thumb became faster, became urgent. Demanding. Your body finally submitted to it, and you came hard at the thought of the taste of your release in his mouth. You yelled your pleasure and didn’t care if the whole world heard it.

He was slow at stopping, taking his time to clean you up with his mouth. The feeling of it drove you mad as you came down. His tongue finally slipped out of you, and you looked down at him as he wiped his face and crawled up, bracing his arms around your head and smiling down with a shit-eating grin. “You wipe that grin right off your face before I do it for you,” you said with a matching one.

He had never done that to you before, had never had the patience or restraint to, but god had someone taught him well. You silently thanked whoever that was as he said “So good for me.” You flipped him off, still with a smile, and looked down at his length, thinking about how you wanted to take him. His cock was leaking, no doubt aching at this point. You loved him behind you, but you had gotten enough of that to last you a lifetime. This was different. This was special, even if you hated to admit it. His muscled form remained over you, waiting on your command. You relished the sight. You met his eyes and found fire there, surprising you. You were pure bliss, pure contentment. The desire within him rattled you. You moved, asking him to lay on the bed. He obliged, pressing his back down against the sheets and looking up at you as you moved over him. You had no idea where this sudden restraint was coming from, but you were more than grateful. He was more than proving his earlier statement.

You wrapped your hand around his length and lined yourself up with him. He hissed at your touch, at the anticipation, before you slid onto him, sitting down so that you were flush with his body, split to his hilt. He let out a loud sound, one that made you blush, but he continued to hold your gaze with that sinful mouth open in pleasure. Then you moved.

Whether it was from your previous climax or from his thickness inside you, you couldn’t be sure, but you clenched and sputtered around him mere seconds into moving on him, holding another orgasm back so as to build it up. He let out a weak groan as a result that made you speak up. “You come when I tell you.” A statement, not a request. He gritted his teeth as you ground down on him, his head tilting back and hitting the bed.

You were fairly unfamiliar with this as well, only doing it once before with him when getting the upper hand late one night. You remembered how he had begun to fight back before realizing how good it felt, fucking up into you while holding you down with a bruising grip. In the end, though, he had grown impatient and flipped you over and around, fucking you from behind until you were drooling into the blankets and screaming each other’s pleasure.

This time was becoming not much different as your pace picked up and his hands found your hips. You began to pant and he did too, his cock splitting you wide with pleasure over and over again. His fingers dug deep—you were sure of the marks that would form there. Marks that would make you smile and would make you wet with the thought of their origin. He lost some of his resolve, his restraint, as he began to match your rhythm and fuck up into your heat. He slammed your hips down on him with every thrust, and you snapped them forward to make him hit you deep each time. You were both grunting messes within seconds, and through the sweat and haze of pleasure, he found his words. “I think I like you riding me, little whore.”

He couldn’t resist the words, and you couldn’t resist the smile that reached you face when you said “Don’t come. My turn.” The most evil form of punishment. You slammed down on him one last time, spasming around his hard length as you came, yelling again. You stopped suddenly, utterly, leaving him sheathed inside you, and he lost it, growling in anger. “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten,” you said, a little bitterness in the last word for the last time the pair of you were together.

You sat a moment longer before turning on him, sitting back down on his cock with your back facing him. You peeked over your shoulder to find him exasperatedly staring at your ass, open-mouthed, hands frozen in the air like he didn’t know where to place his focus. You didn’t blame him, though. The angle really felt that good. Then you moved. After two orgasms, you were becoming a little overly sensitive. It was pleasure mixed with pain as his shaft pushed into you again and again, the angle touching that spot deep within you Arthur had discovered the last time you were together. It had you moaning, humming around him. “You don’t stop that and I’m gonna come,” he mumbled, his hands again finding your hips as he snapped his own into you. You smiled and bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop the pleasure from escaping your mouth. Instead, you reached for his balls. The second you touched them, you could feel his body writhe beneath you, and he rose behind you, wrapping a strong arm around you to keep you pinned down on his cock. He went impossibly deeper with the new angle, and you couldn’t stop yourself. “Arthur,” you sighed, uncaring that he had earned a kernel of control back, unconcerned about anything but the painful pleasure that rolled through you every time he fucked into you from below. His pace became erratic. You knew he wouldn’t last long.

He suddenly moved his fingers back to your clit with the arm he had wrapped around you, and you felt fire, actual fire, burning you from within. It was too much. “Wanna f-feel you,” he managed, grinding into you so harshly and running his finger around so ruthlessly that tears pricked your eyes from overuse.

Your body yielded to his request, and you came again, screaming his name this time. You didn’t think you would ever come down as he let out a pained whimper, wanting to come but remembering he had to have your permission. You relented quickly. “Come, Arthur.” He obeyed. His come painted your walls as he yelled out his pleasure.

After pure stillness for a few moments, he leaned back and hit the bed, and you followed, slipping off of him in the process.

“Fucking hellfire,” he murmured.

“You got that right,” you said as you both heaved in breath after breath. You looked over to him, his face inches from yours. His eyes were closed. “You love me,” you stated. His eyes opened and found yours.

He also found the grin waiting beneath them. “Shut up,” he said in his familiar drawl, pushing you off of him and moving to rest beside you.

You chuckled at him, high on something you were entirely unfamiliar with—contentment. “Hard not to,” you said, the grin pushing through into your words.

“Oh, god,” he sighed. “I’ve made a monster.”

You laughed out loud. The morning pushed in through the windows around you, the sounds of Valentine reaching your ears. Despite your sleep-filled night, you were tired. Your head still throbbed, whether from being hungover or being fucked relentlessly, you weren’t sure. You didn’t care. You turned on your side and curled into Arthur, leaving the sheets beneath you. The sheen of sweat on your body made it too hot for them anyway. Within minutes, you were asleep. 

That was what your day consisted of—sex and sleep. Arthur fell asleep beside you, but you were pleasantly awoken by his fingers exploring the space between your legs a few hours later. You couldn’t resist him—he was intoxicating before but downright overwhelming now that he was letting you have your way with him. For the second time that day, you had sex with him, but you let him fuck you from behind for good measure. He deserved it. You once again dozed after, but when you woke, the third time was different. The third time was caring. The third time consisted of him on top of you, tenderly pushing into you, holding your gaze. The third time, he made love to you. And it was all that you had been needing, all of the reassurance in the world that what he had spoken earlier was true—that he wouldn’t abandon you. And it wasn’t for his own conscience, but for you, for a love that he gave to you willingly, not expecting anything in return. But return it you did that very evening as the pair of you ate together in the saloon. As he looked to his plate oblivious to the world around him, you saw him for who he was and loved him for it, for not giving up on you. 

“Arthur,” you said, making him look up at you with those breathtaking eyes. “I love you too.” And he smiled. 

[cyberdragoninfinity]

so in case anyone was curious, this illustration is largely based on several stained glass portraits of St. Michael the Archangel slaying Lucifer (in kickass dragon form,) but especially this one (a 19th century window from Calvados, France)

A.) i Love angels in stained glass especially when the colors go crazy, this isnt the first time I've invoked them with art of Aporia and the Three Nobles, but more important B.) one day I will go off more about Aporia's angel symbolism in general but for now I gotta talk about Primo's, I gotta.

His Archangel Michael parallels make my brain spin around So fast--the Nobels are definitely supposed to effectively be robotic angels, messengers of the Apocalypse and God's (Z-one's) plan to fix the future. Primo sees himself as a loyal extension of Z-one's will, an agent of vicious justice, the 'commander' of his Ghost army. He's the android gijinka of Aporia's young adult war trauma. He's uhhh technically not alive! Meanwhile, Michael the angel is the leader of God's holy army, a military commander... and in Catholicism he's also the patron saint of death and soldiers. :^) (and. cops. cringe.) (though the Three Nobles were the heads of Sector Security for a While, huh.....) (it goes so deep it doesnt stop)

And there's the sword, of course, Michael is The angel most often depicted with a sword (sometimes a 'normal' blade, sometimes on fire, sometimes it's a spear, etc etc,) it's a spiritual weapon associated with him, created by God. And oh hey Primo what's that you got there....

Haha Ok Cool Man 👍 Sick Godsword

In the Bible it's Michael who leads the charge against Lucifer and his army of fallen angels in the battle of heaven and hell, and it's very specifically mentioned Lucifer takes on the form of a dragon during this epic clash. *the dog is, in fact, taking out the Book of Revelations*

so DEEPEST APOLOGIES TO STARDUST MY FRIEND STARDUST DRAGON for making her representative of the Literal Devil in that illustration; though, from Iliaster's point of view, perhaps of course Stardust WOULD be their draconic devil stand-in, the ace monster of Yusei, the dominant roadblock to their plans, the (you could perhaps argue) counterpart of their God's image. To Primo especially he has it Aggressively out for Stardust throughout his entire psychological obsession with Yusei. He Wants to Slay That Dragon So Bad, He Wants It as a Trophy On His Wall.

Michael also gets described and depicted very knight like in religious art and discussions, he is frequently armored; Primo also has a lot of knightly vibes imo, design and narrative wise. (And of course so does Sherry...interestingly, Sherry actually ALSO has a lot of parallels with St. Michael, including the fact she takes part in the fight against Primo's duel bot army (y'know...the Diablo :^) and a lot of her Joan of Arc invocations as a character) (that's a story for another post though) (Trey from Zexal ALSO has St. Michael parallels too imo) (but again, that's it's whole other post.) (yugioh LOVES religious symbolism like a bear loves salmon.)

it's just a very neat motif weaved throughout Primo's character!! His attitude is notoriously pretty shitty and difficult to put up with, but at his core he seems himself as a defender of sorts. God's sword. This is the path that will save the future. Tangentially, take this Alleluia verse about St. Michael:

"dreadful judgement," huh? Like... a Judgement Day? A world in peril and needing saving? Wonder who else has something to say about that and is very tunnel-vision obsessed with the notion of being the one alone to grant this safeguard...

ah :)

[apenitentialprayer]

There was once a priest who did not want to serve the liturgy because it was a cold winter day. The temperature was 10 degrees below zero and the priest knew that the only person who was likely to come to the service was the chanter. The priest had no idea about the Church’s teaching on the presence of the Triumphant Church and how the Divine Liturgy benefits the living and the departed. With difficulty he forced himself to go to church. On the way to church he kept wishing that the chanter would not come so that he would not have to serve and go home. However, the chanter did come. The priest did the Prothesis (or Proskomedia, the service of preparing the holy gifts) in a hurry and began the Divine Liturgy. Shortly after, some bishops, priests, monks and nuns and some lay people arrived. Most of them sat in the choir section and began to chant so beautifully that the priest forgot about how cold and lonely he was earlier. His whole body was warm and his whole being was all a flame…. When he did the small entrance he noticed that the church was full of people – most of them familiar – he did not pay much attention and just continued with the Divine Liturgy. When the time came for the Sanctification of the Holy Gifts he saw three bishops, brightly clothed and radiant entering the Holy Altar. They knelt with him and prayed. The priest then stood up very carefully with fear, took the censer and in a loud voice said,‘Especially our All Holy, Immaculate, Most Blessed and glorious Lady Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary…’. The soul of the priest was amazed and filled with divine joy. Peace and heavenly stillness, hesychia, dominated his inner self. When the time came for the elevation and dividing of the Host (Lamb) the whole church filled with the sweetest melodies. The whole multitude of people who were present along with the monks, priests and bishops chanted not only once but many times,‘One is Holy, One is Lord: Jesus Christ, to the glory of God the Father. Amen’. Next they chanted the Holy Communion hymn, ‘Taste and see that the Lord is good, Alleluia.’ The priest was wandering what to do. Should he partake of the Holy Communion first or step aside for the three bishops who were present. Just as he was thinking this, one of the bishops nodded to him indicating that he should receive Holy Communion and then to Unify and Place the remaining of the portions of the Lamb into the Chalice along with the portions in memory of the Holy Theotokos and the Saints. Having completed this the priest then opened the Beautiful Gate … and saw no one in the Church… he turned and looked back into the holy altar, he looked to the right, looked to the left, the bishops had disappeared, he stood there speechless, amazed. He slowly opened his mouth and chanted the next petition,‘With the fear of God and faith and love, draw near …,’ and the chanter slowly drew near to take Holy Communion. The priest was still amazed, still wondering! The whole Triumphant Church was present. All those present in the church were persons familiar to him, they were persons that had departed from this life and he would from time to time commemorate their names during each liturgy:‘that’s why they were present, that’s why they all seemed so familiar’, he thought. As for the bishops in the altar they were the Three Hierarchs: Saint John Chrysostom, Saint Basil the Great and Saint Gregory the Theologian. So many years of study at university, so much research and so many sleepless nights he spent studying and these efforts were not able to give him not even one drop of the sweetness and divine knowledge that this one Divine Liturgy gave him.

The Priest Who Did Not Want to Serve the Divine Liturgy

[married-to-a-redhead]

Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine,

cum sanctis tuis in aeternum,

quia pius es.

Requiem aeternum dona eis, Domine,

et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Alleluia. Amen.

May eternal light shine on them, Lord,

as with your saints in eternity,

because you are merciful.

Grant them eternal rest, Lord,

and let perpetual light shine on them,

Alleluia. Amen.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

21st May >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Feast of The Ascension of the Lord

(Liturgical Colour: White: A(1))

First Reading Acts of the Apostles 1:1-11 Jesus was lifted up while they looked on.

In my earlier work, Theophilus, I dealt with everything Jesus had done and taught from the beginning until the day he gave his instructions to the apostles he had chosen through the Holy Spirit, and was taken up to heaven. He had shown himself alive to them after his Passion by many demonstrations: for forty days he had continued to appear to them and tell them about the kingdom of God. When he had been at table with them, he had told them not to leave Jerusalem, but to wait there for what the Father had promised. ‘It is’ he had said ‘what you have heard me speak about: John baptised with water but you, not many days from now, will be baptised with the Holy Spirit.’

Now having met together, they asked him, ‘Lord, has the time come? Are you going to restore the kingdom to Israel?’ He replied, ‘It is not for you to know times or dates that the Father has decided by his own authority, but you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you, and then you will be my witnesses not only in Jerusalem but throughout Judaea and Samaria, and indeed to the ends of the earth.’

As he said this he was lifted up while they looked on, and a cloud took him from their sight. They were still staring into the sky when suddenly two men in white were standing near them and they said, ‘Why are you men from Galilee standing here looking into the sky? Jesus who has been taken up from you into heaven, this same Jesus will come back in the same way as you have seen him go there.’

The Word of the Lord R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 46(47):2-3,6-9

R/ God goes up with shouts of joy; the Lord goes up with trumpet blast. or R/ Alleluia!

All peoples, clap your hands, cry to God with shouts of joy! For the Lord, the Most High, we must fear, great king over all the earth.

R/ God goes up with shouts of joy; the Lord goes up with trumpet blast. or R/ Alleluia!

God goes up with shouts of joy; the Lord goes up with trumpet blast. Sing praise for God, sing praise, sing praise to our king, sing praise.

R/ God goes up with shouts of joy; the Lord goes up with trumpet blast. or R/ Alleluia!

God is king of all the earth, sing praise with all your skill. God is king over the nations; God reigns on his holy throne.

R/ God goes up with shouts of joy; the Lord goes up with trumpet blast. or R/ Alleluia!

Second Reading Ephesians 1:17-23 God made him sit at his right hand in heaven.

May the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, give you a spirit of wisdom and perception of what is revealed, to bring you to full knowledge of him. May he enlighten the eyes of your mind so that you can see what hope his call holds for you, what rich glories he has promised the saints will inherit and how infinitely great is the power that he has exercised for us believers. This you can tell from the strength of his power at work in Christ, when he used it to raise him from the dead and to make him sit at his right hand, in heaven, far above every Sovereignty, Authority, Power, or Domination, or any other name that can be named not only in this age but also in the age to come. He has put all things under his feet and made him, as the ruler of everything, the head of the Church; which is his body, the fullness of him who fills the whole creation.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Gospel Acclamation Matthew 28:19,20

Alleluia, alleluia! Go, make disciples of all the nations. I am with you always; yes, to the end of time. Alleluia!

Gospel Matthew 28:16-20 Go and make disciples of all nations.

The eleven disciples set out for Galilee, to the mountain where Jesus had arranged to meet them. When they saw him they fell down before him, though some hesitated. Jesus came up and spoke to them. He said, ‘All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go, therefore, make disciples of all the nations; baptise them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teach them to observe all the commands I gave you. And know that I am with you always; yes, to the end of time.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[martinbackhausen]

The World's First Music

Who discovered the first written music on a Sumerian clay tablet with musical notation and tunings. This cuneiform ode to the goddess Nikkal was composed and written in the 14th century B.C. and is widely regarded as the world's first form of musical notation.

Lament is a musical genre inherited from the Hebrew language that expresses a sorrowful condition of being. It frequently blends singing and musical accompaniment, relying on language's healing capabilities. However, the lyrics themselves are the dominating power in this style of music, which combines cognitive and expressive qualities. Music is a complement to the words, not an afterthought or gratuitous addition.

The force of sorrow makes it the world's first music. It helps us recall the past's grace and renew our faith in the present. Remembering also enables us to deepen our faith and optimism.

All Mortal Flesh Be Free Keep Silent is a French carol arrangement. It's written for SSA voices with optional percussion. It begins suspiciously and concludes with an alleluia chorus. It's a fantastic processional anthem.

The song is an ancient Christian hymn. It was derived from the Greek text of the Cherubic Hymn in the fourth century. It is a component of the St. James Liturgy and is commonly referred to as the St. James Liturgy. This hymn is sung in the previous Divine Liturgy and is performed during the Offertory in the Liturgy of St. James.

Edith Piaf was a French singer who grew up in Paris's red-light district. During WWII, her career went off like a rocket. Piaf, a feisty 4ft 10in diva, was a volcano of drama. Her songs frequently dealt with abandonment, murder, and prostitution. She penned around 100 of her songs and several co-written songs with other ladies.

Indian classical music is the world's oldest classical music tradition (marga). Musical instruments and dance are shown in ancient Indus Valley monuments. The Rigveda features components used in Indian music today, such as musical notation to denote chanting mode. Persian performance customs and the Afghan Mughals affected Indian music during the Middle Ages.

The original melody of the song is a French folk tune. It depicts Jesus' arrival on Earth beautifully. It also portrays the brilliance of Heaven's cherubim and seraphs.

Grace Jones recorded the song in 1977. It was the third single from her first album and the first song to be released by Island Records. A montage of Jones playing the song was featured on the cover of the compilation CD Island Life in 1978. Jones dances in the video, exposing her right breast while wearing skimpy gold and black underwear.

The oral tradition, through which musicians learned to play instruments and sing, was a significant input to the evolution of Indian classical music. This form of instruction allowed for improvisation and contributed to the Gharana's progress over time.

Both ragtime and jazz originated in America, although they are entirely distinct styles. Ragtime was popular before the invention of sound recordings in the nineteenth century. It spread via published sheet music and piano rolls, whereas jazz was a more contemporary genre that spread via recordings and live performances. Ragtime was popularized by Ernest Hogan, a ragtime composer who originated the word. It's also notorious for racist songs like "La Pas Ma La."

African-American music influenced the development of ragtime and jazz. The saxophone was initially used in ragtime and jazz music. They used improvisation and instruments such as cornet, clarinet, and trombone. Ragtime and jazz performers drew inspiration from various genres, such as traditional slave songs and pop tunes.

[christophe76460]

[Ésaïe, 9:5 - Car un enfant nous est né, un fils nous est donné, Et la domination reposera sur son épaule; On l`appellera Admirable, Conseiller, Dieu puissant, Père éternel, Prince de la paix.]

[Luc, 1:30,31 - L`ange lui dit: Ne crains point, Marie; car tu as trouvé grâce devant Dieu. Et voici, tu deviendras enceinte, et tu enfanteras un fils, et tu lui donneras le nom de Jésus.

Luc, 1:34,35 - Marie dit à l`ange: Comment cela se fera-t-il, puisque je ne connais point d`homme? L`ange lui répondit: Le Saint Esprit viendra sur toi, et la puissance du Très Haut te couvrira de son ombre. C`est pourquoi le saint enfant qui naîtra de toi sera appelé Fils de Dieu.]

[Matthieu, 1:21,23 - elle enfantera un fils, et tu lui donneras le nom de Jésus; c`est lui qui sauvera son peuple de ses péchés. Voici, la vierge sera enceinte, elle enfantera un fils, et on lui donnera le nom d`Emmanuel, ce qui signifie Dieu avec nous.]

Jésus-Christ le Sauveur de l'humanité, est mort et ressuscité, Il vit à jamais et son règne n'aura pas de fin. Alleluia Gloire à Dieu au plus haut des cieux ! Emmanuel DIEU avec nous chaque jour jusqu'à la fin des temps. Que son Amour inonde vos coeurs en cette fin d'année et que sa merveilleuse grâce vous accompagne également.🙏 SHALOM & Maranatha !

[wsfireballoon]

November is an odd month... the month of "poor souls." Victor Frankenstein brought his cursèd creature to life in this dark month. It exists as a time of falling temperatures and the indescribable smell of singed dust the night we first turn on the furnace... praying that trusted relic will last one more season. 

October's brilliance has faded and the dominant color now is gray... wet leaves pack the corners of the house. We sense that the loveliest birds have flown away south and the ones that remain to winter are reclusive and somber. They sit on frosty twigs and scowl... wondering why the sun shines each day so briefly... and the nights are long and cruel.

Inside we search for our musty sweaters, our heather-colored sweatshirts, and eat supper in diminished light planning how to fill the hours till bedtime. In the cheerless evening, cats are helpful, even if they seem more intent on seeking their own comfort than comforting you. We remember the dog we lost a few years back, whom we miss so much. His happiness was just to be near you... Good ol' Red!

Then one night a storm moves in and the wind whistles under the eaves with a sound like a chorus of ghostly voices... They do not sing "alleluia," but rather "dies irae." A chill settles into the corners of the room; we suspect it will squat there until March or even April.

God bless the house with children who have not lived long enough to know regret. Thanksgiving, our harvest festival is not far off, you remember... and then Christmas will rush upon us! In a moment's inspiration you think to light a candle... "better to light a candle than curse the darkness." Pouring a drink you wonder... where is that mystery novel I was planning to read? On the radio, the classical station is playing Fauré's "Requiem." Pie Jesu Domine, Pie Jesu...

[turangalila]

-Introitus: Ex ore infantium -Alleluia: Laudate pueri Proprium missae in festo SS. Innocentium martyrum

-Ex ore infantium, Deus, et lactentium perfecisti laudem propter inimicos tuos. / Domine, Dominus noster quam admirabile est nomen tuum in universa terra. / Quoniam videbo celos tuos opera digitorum tuorum, lunam et stellas quod tu fundasti. / Quid est homo quod memores eius aut filius hominis quoniam visitas eum?

-Alleluia. Laudate pueri Dominum, laudate nomen Domini. / Sit nomen domini benedictus ex hoc nunc et usque in seculum.

Eya Mater (Chant Grégorien, Polyphonies Des XIe-XIIe Siècles). Discantus, Brigitte Lesne. (1995, Opus 111 – OPS 30-143)

[eremosjournal]

welcome back // volume 19⁣

Alleluia! Alleluia! He is Risen! 

Lol

If you couldn’t yet tell, we here at Erēmos Journal like talking shit. 

Now it’s time to talk shit about Easter and all that surrounds it. 

We’re coming off of six weeks of Lent, which is a pretty intense time for some. Lent is a season that is centered around some of the more violent aspects of the Catholic faith: the Passion narrative, the internal battle of self-denial, the obsessive focus on guilt and shame… all on top of the regular exclusionary and dominating practices of the Church. 

We want to approach Easter from a place of Recovery instead. What does faith look like that is restorative– not rooted in violent language and imagery? How can we recover our faith, ourselves and our communities to become more whole and accepting? 

This volume we’re expressing our desire and gratitude for the things that make us feel real, safe, and most like ourselves. Because isn’t that how faith should make us feel?

Volume 19 is also going to be our first volume entirely comprised of AI generated art. We hope you enjoy the unsettling nature of artificial intelligence creating religious art.

Last update! You may have noticed that none of our posts have had the comments turned on. This was originally our way of encouraging our readers to reflect and, if they felt so inclined, take intentional time to share their thoughts with us more deliberately. “Respond, not react” is what our editorial team has often said. But starting with this volume, we’ve chosen to turn comments ON. We feel open to both response and reaction, and are excited to engage with you all a little more. But if you still want to write us fan letters or manifestos on how our content and contributors violate Catholic tradition, that’s still on the table!

[riverdamien]

Dust and Dirt

Here in Dust and Dirt!

In 2006, John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg published The Last Week. The book begins with an unforgettable image:

    “Two processions entered Jerusalem on a spring day in the year 30. . . One was a peasant procession, the other an imperial procession. From the east, Jesus rode a donkey down the Mouth of Olives, cheered by his followers. . . On the opposite side of the city, from the west, Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Idumea, Judea, and Samaria, entered Jerusalem at the head of a column of imperial calvary and soldiers.

    Jesus’s procession proclaimed the kingdom of God; Pilate’s proclaimed the power of empire.”

I’ve no idea how many thousands of sermons have been preached on this passage in the years since. In the last fifteen years, I’ve never not heard a Palm Sunday sermon allude to it, borrow the image, or quote it directly. The “two processions” have become nearly a commonplace in liturgical and liberal churches.

This year, I’ve wondered about the crowds watching the processions. Matthew depicts the throng cheering, waving branches, and singing hosanna. The author interlaced the Jesus procession with a prophecy from Zechariah. In the Hebrew scriptures, Zechariah envisioned a humble king who arrives in Jerusalem on a donkey and a colt. That king will end all war. No more chariots, warhorses, or battle-bows. This king commands peace.

Of course, Pontius Pilate wasn’t a king of peace. He commanded an army on behalf of Caesar. But he and that legion were there to keep the peace during the holy days of Passover — making sure the Jews caused no trouble for their Roman rulers. As his procession made its way to the city gate, most likely no one cheered him. The crowds hated and feared him.

Perhaps a few paid supporters were sent out to shout Ave Pilate — Hail Pilate — as he entered — to soothe his imperial ego. Maybe a few powerful people in Jerusalem actually approved of him, or wanted something from him, and shouted their praise. Chances are, however, the road to the west gate was relatively deserted as the Romans approached. The only sounds were the dreaded clomp, clomp of armored horses and chariot wheels traversing the cobblestones. Pilate, in regal splendor, probably wanted to be home in his seaside villa instead of here, with the unruly Jews.

Meanwhile, at the eastern gate, Jesus’ noisy supporters were crying out Hosanna! Save us! Please save us now! They weren’t asking for some sort of spiritual salvation, for a place in heaven, or for eternal life. They wanted to be saved from Pilate, from the legion entering the other gate, from Caesar, and that faux peace of Roman swords. They knew there was no Pax Romana, it was nothing but misery and death.

Hosanna Jesus! Free us, we pray you! Deliver us! Save us from Pilate and Caesar and the misery of Rome! Hosanna, hey sanna, sanna sanna ho! Now, Jesus, now!

There isn’t an ave or an alleluia to be heard. These branch-waving protesters were begging to be rescued from oppression and injustice, shouting for liberation from the forces of violence and death.

Palm Sunday has always confused me. When depicted as a jubilant crowd, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. But, if the crowd is understood as desperate subjects of a bloody empire, Palm Sunday comes into better focus. Why do they later turn on Jesus? Well, once the Roman soldiers enter the fray, and once their hoped-for savior is arrested, the reality of their situation sets in. No amount of hosannas can free Jesus from his Roman fate. But they could still save their own hides and hope for better when the next promising savior arrived. They didn’t really betray him. They did what fearful subjects of a brutal regime usually do — they capitulated to their overlords who had thousands of chariots, warhorses, and battle-bows at their command. The Romans essentially forced them into the imperial procession. By Friday, they weren’t begging Jesus for salvation; they were praying they could avoid being crucified with him.

We are frail people after all.

But Jesus will save them from violence and death — although not as anyone hoped or expected — by drinking Rome’s bloody cup. The journey to the anti-imperial kingdom will be marked by a cross. Palm Sunday is the first step along a way that will end with a stunning event in a cemetery garden.

And yet, even after the tomb: hosanna still sounds. In a week, we may shout our Easter Alleluias, but the truth is that our days cry out hosanna. Children and teachers die in pools of blood at school, homeless people lay in the dirt on the street, lies pervade and divide a desperate people, the rich steal everyone’s share, courts unwind decades of justice, and even a poisoned earth and sky rage against us. Pax Americana? We may have believed that once, subject to its deceptive promises. But the mask comes off and a faux peace makes itself known. A peace enforced by fear and violence, a peace of privilege and guns. Hosanna, Jesus, hosanna! Save us, NOW!

Honestly, I’m stricken by the bodies and blood, the price of empire. I’ve got no alleluias left. But I can wave my palm in protest, and I can still shout: Hosanna, hey hosanna, hosanna hosanna ho / Sanna, hey, sanna hosanna!

And that chorus is needed now more than ever. The road to the eastern gate beckons, opening to the commonwealth of God. Sing with me.

Two processions entered Jerusalem on that day. The same question, the same alternative, faces those who would be faithful to Jesus today.

"Which procession are we in? Which procession do we want to be in? This is the question of Palm Sunday and of the week that is about to unfold."

— John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg, The Last Week.

We all are in the dust and dirt! Shed Your Fears! Hosanna in the Highest! See your brothers or sisters before you in the dirt, remember the day is coming for each of us to be dirt!

Let us talk to God, or anything with which we find union! Let us let go, feel the pain and exhaustion and take a chance on being loved, and in so doing remember the words of Dorothy Day: "In each person I find the Christ." Deo Gratias! Thanks be to God!

.

Fr. River Damien Sims sfw, D.Min, D.S.T,

P.O. Box 642656

San Francisco, CA 94164

www.temenos.org

415-305-2124

The Twenty Second Annual Stations of the Cross

"Our Haunting!"

April 7, 2023

Civic Center

Noon-2 p.m.

Food Provided By:

AUNT BARBARA’S KITCHEN

GOOD FRIDAY IRISH SODA BREAD BLITZ ON POLK STREET

in alliance with Fr. River Damien Sims of Temenos

https://www.temenos.org/

Please help support a Good Friday initiative. Fr. River Sims aims to serve 200 folks with Irish Soda

Bread, the food that supported many Irish during hard times. It’s in the spirit of community and

nurturing.

There’s a legend that when a cross is made in each loaf before baking, all the good fairies are released. We like to believe in that.

$15/loaf payable through www.temenos.org , pay pal, or Aunt Barbara’s Kitchen/Temenos Catholic Worker, P.O. Box 642656, San Francisco, CA 94164

Aunt Barbara’s Kitchen is a Cottage Food Operation from a home kitchen in Marin County.

The business started with $10 and Aunt Barbara’s great grandfather iron skillet with the intention to build

a business model that feeds the hungry and revenue that goes to youth in college. The owner volunteers

her time to this endeavor and takes no revenue for herself, at this time. She hopes to reshape the model

of what businesses can create for communities, especially our youth, to cultivate and showcase the

power of human investment. 415 717 0151 https://barbaramcveigh.com/aunt-barbaras-kitchen/

[garadinervi]

Mouthworks by, «Slowscan» Vol. 8, (cardboard box with booklet and audiocassette), Compiled by Enzo Minarelli, Slowscan Editions, 's-Hertogenbosch, 1988 [Fondazione Bonotto, Molvena (VI)]. Feat.: Arrigo Lora-Totino, Adriano Spatola & Gian Paolo Roffi, Giovanni Fontana, Enzo Minarelli, Mario Marzidovsek, Vladan Radovanovic, Dominic Alleluia, Larry Wendt, Cas de Marez

[banffcentrelibraryandarchives]

Artists’ Book Display for the week of July 6th, 2019

Sound of flight by Tom Marioni- San Francisco : M.H. DeYoung, 1977

Soundsphere by Akio Suzuki- Eindhoven : Het Apollohuis

Sound poetry by Dominic Alleluia- San Francisco : La Mamelle Inc, 1977

environ 27 ans Published by Geneva: Societe Des Arts De Geneve: Class des Beaux- Arts, 1997

Art & Language by Art & Language- Eindhoven: Municipal Van Abbermuseum, 1980