#green cure discourse

[mahou-furbies]

Made a quick'n dirty edit of a green Lillian

Really the colours in the logo teased us with an opportunity for something like this! I like that the actual designs were leaked early because that saved me from the disappointment.

[nozoditz]

[ID: Charts of various Precure characters who have been considered "green" at any point. See alt text for further descriptions.]

A brief description to send to your friends when they don't understand the Green Cure Discourse.

[curecraft]

Why YOU should vote for Precure!

@multicolor-fandom-tournament

Magical girls love being color-coded. What’s better than one magical girl team? A butt load of magical girls! This year marks the 20th anniversary of Precure, which means a ton of color-coded girls to sort into groups!

Look at all those girlies! Most of the above pictures are from the 10th anniversary though, so you can imagine just how many characters we have now!

Now for the best part of any fandom, the discourse!!! A good portion of Precure fandom’s discourse is related to color categorization. Fans are sick of this topic, but it’s kinda unavoidable when Toei keeps making up colors. Like this:

Meet Cure Finale. Her transformation color is purple, and her dress is white. What color did Toei say she officially was? Gold. Why? No idea, but No One liked this announcement

We also consistently get discourse on whether we need more green Cures. There are entire YouTube videos on this subject. No I’m not making this up

Here, look at some characters whose colors are commonly debated. If you haven’t seen Precure, I’m curious to know how you would categorize them

Anyways, yeah. We’re obsessed with colors. It’s a huge part of our fandom, and the reason why we should win this tournament

[oldmemoria]

*̩̩̥͙　-•̩̩͙-ˏˋ⋆ Introduction Post ⋆ˊˎ-•̩̩͙-　*̩̩̥͙

Carrd Hey there, friendly neighborhood idiot here to introduce himself B) this looks best on a darker mode btw

✯ Basic Info:

Hey! My name is Ash, I go by he/they/cat/ghost/vamp pronouns (I don't really mind if you use some over others). I'm a minor so uh,, don't be sketchy. I'm trans. super cool. also neurodivergent. awesome. I'm an artist, a casual furry, and worst of all... emo. I'm so sorry. /j

Putting the reading thing so it isn't too big of a post, pls keep reading!!

✯ DNI (DO NOT INTERACT):

Homophobes, transphobes, racists, antisemites, misogynists, TERFS (Trans Exclusionary Radical "Feminists"), SWERFS (Sxx Worker Exclusionary Radical "Feminists"). All of that sort. I don't put up with that shit. also Anti-furs, like can you guys just not for a second

LGBTQ+ Exclusionists. I'm an inclusionist. stay mad.

Harry Potter stans. You can be a casual enjoyer and interact idc but if it's all you post about I might block you.

If you're just looking to pick a fight... just don't. its tiring for everyone.

If I've specifically told you to fuck off.

Proshippers, Comshippers, and, get this, Anti-shippers. Your guy's discourse stresses me out dont bring me into that 😭

MAPs/ZOOs/Anyone who supports those. Please get help.

NSFW Blogs because I am baby.

if you have an nft pfp I will just straight up block you.

✯ What to Expect from this Blog:

Art. Lots and lots of art. mostly of OCs and characters that I my brain decides are the only thing worth focusing on <3

ON THE TOPIC OF ART: My art might contain triggering subjects such as blood, slight gore, bright colors (and effects that may cause eyestrain), Violence, animal violence, and implications or themes of s/h sui. I am not making light of said topics, art is art. I will properly trigger warning said art when needed, dw :D

Random text posts usually pertaining to fandom or just general thoughts or events I experience. I might rant here and there. who knows :3

Lots and lots of gay people (I wish they were real /j)

Catsss im a cat person

Other people's art I wanna promote :D

The occasional comment about politics, it's once in a blue moon so dw about it.

edits... perhaps....

Warrior Cats AUs for like,,, everything..

Overall just whatever I want because no one can stop me >:]

✯ FANDOMS IM IN!!

Spiderverse (I am unfortunately a Miguel O'Hara fan, but Hobie is better let's make that clear.)

Warrior Cats (I was introduced to it at the age of 9. I will never be the same.)

Wings of Fire (kind of i dont actually talk about it too much)

My Chemical Romance (also intruduced at the age of 9. I will never ever be the same.)

Gerard Way (His solo music and Comics, love him to death /p)

The Stolen Hope

Cookie Run: Kingdom (kind of... I'm falling out just a tad. Affogato Cookie deniers dni /j)

Sanrio (kind of)

Monster High (kind of)

Umbrella Academy

True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys

✯ Favorite Music!!

My Chemical Romance

Gerard Way

Rebzyyx

The Cure

Foo Fighters

Green Day

Paramore

AJR

Evanescence

Jon Bellion

Glass Animals

C418

Lemon Demon

Pierce the Veil

Radiohead

Tyler, the Creator (I'm just getting into his music, thank you Tik-Tok)

Fall Out Boy

The Smashing Pumpkins

Weezer (lol look its weezer blue)

Gorillaz

Lovejoy

Mitski

Rage Against the Machine

Taking Back Sunday

Jack Stauber

Billy Cobb

8-Bit Misfits

Måneskin

Mother Mother

TV Girl

The Killers

And many mooorreeee....

✯ WEBCOMICS I LIKE

What Lurks Beneath

The Exiled

Red Stars

✯ EXTERNAL LINKS:

@ACT10N_CAT • Pronouns.page

bye bye lol

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

12th September >> Mass Readings (USA)

Tuesday, Twenty Third Week in Ordinary Time 

or

The Most Holy Name of Mary. 

Tuesday, Twenty Third Week in Ordinary Time 

(Liturgical Colour: Green: A (1))

First Reading Colossians 2:6-15 God brought you to life along with Christ having forgiven us all our transgressions.

Brothers and sisters: As you received Christ Jesus the Lord, walk in him, rooted in him and built upon him and established in the faith as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving. See to it that no one captivate you with an empty, seductive philosophy according to the tradition of men, according to the elemental powers of the world and not according to Christ.

For in him dwells the whole fullness of the deity bodily, and you share in this fullness in him, who is the head of every principality and power. In him you were also circumcised with a circumcision not administered by hand, by stripping off the carnal body, with the circumcision of Christ. You were buried with him in baptism, in which you were also raised with him through faith in the power of God, who raised him from the dead. And even when you were dead in transgressions and the uncircumcision of your flesh, he brought you to life along with him, having forgiven us all our transgressions; obliterating the bond against us, with its legal claims, which was opposed to us, he also removed it from our midst, nailing it to the cross; despoiling the principalities and the powers, he made a public spectacle of them, leading them away in triumph by it.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 145:1b-2, 8-9, 10-11

R/ The Lord is compassionate toward all his works.

I will extol you, O my God and King, and I will bless your name forever and ever. Every day will I bless you, and I will praise your name forever and ever.

R/ The Lord is compassionate toward all his works.

The LORD is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and of great kindness. The LORD is good to all and compassionate toward all his works.

R/ The Lord is compassionate toward all his works.

Let all your works give you thanks, O LORD, and let your faithful ones bless you. Let them discourse of the glory of your Kingdom and speak of your might.

R/ The Lord is compassionate toward all his works.

Gospel Acclamation cf. John 15:16

Alleluia, alleluia. I chose you from the world, that you may go and bear fruit that will last, says the Lord. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel Luke 6:12-19 He spent the night in prayer. He chose Twelve, whom he also named Apostles.

Jesus departed to the mountain to pray, and he spent the night in prayer to God. When day came, he called his disciples to himself, and from them he chose Twelve, whom he also named Apostles: Simon, whom he named Peter, and his brother Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, James the son of Alphaeus, Simon who was called a Zealot, and Judas the son of James, and Judas Iscariot, who became a traitor.

And he came down with them and stood on a stretch of level ground. A great crowd of his disciples and a large number of the people from all Judea and Jerusalem and the coastal region of Tyre and Sidon came to hear him and to be healed of their diseases; and even those who were tormented by unclean spirits were cured. Everyone in the crowd sought to touch him because power came forth from him and healed them all.

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

-------------------------------

The Most Holy Name of Mary   

(Liturgical Colour: White: A (1))

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Tuesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

Either:

First Reading Galatians 4:4–7 God sent his Son, born of a woman.

Brothers and sisters: When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to ransom those under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. As proof that you are sons, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying out, “Abba, Father!” So you are no longer a slave but a son, and if a son then also an heir, through God.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

OR: --------

First reading Ephesians 1:3–6, 11–12 He chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world.

Brothers and sisters: Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavens, as he chose us in him, before the foundation of the world, to be holy and without blemish before him. In love he destined us for adoption to himself through Jesus Christ, in accord with the favor of his will, for the praise of the glory of his grace that he granted us in the beloved. In him we were also chosen, destined in accord with the purpose of the One who accomplishes all things according to the intention of his will, so that we might exist for the praise of his glory, we who first hoped in Christ.

Responsorial Psalm Luke 1:46-47, 48-49, 50-51, 52-53, 54-55

The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name. or O Blessed Virgin Mary, you carried the Son of the eternal Father.

“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my savior.”

The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name. or O Blessed Virgin Mary, you carried the Son of the eternal Father.

“For he has looked with favor on his lowly servant. From this day all generations will call me blessed: the Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name.”

The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name. or O Blessed Virgin Mary, you carried the Son of the eternal Father.

“He has mercy on those who fear him in every generation. He has shown the strength of his arm, he has scattered the proud in their conceit.”

The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name. or O Blessed Virgin Mary, you carried the Son of the eternal Father.

“He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.”

The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name. or O Blessed Virgin Mary, you carried the Son of the eternal Father.

“He has come to the help of his servant Israel for he has remembered his promise of mercy, the promise he made to our fathers, to Abraham and his children for ever.”

The Almighty has done great things for me, and holy is his Name. or O Blessed Virgin Mary, you carried the Son of the eternal Father.

Second reading Ephesians 1:3-6 God chose us in Christ, before the world began.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavens, as he chose us in him, before the foundation of the world, to be holy and without blemish before him. In love he destined us for adoption to himself through Jesus Christ, in accord with the favor of his will, for the praise of the glory of his grace that he granted us in the beloved.

Gospel Acclamation see Luke 1:28

Alleluia, alleluia. Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women. Alleluia, alleluia.

Or: see Luke 1:45

Alleluia, alleluia. Blessed are you, O Virgin Mary, who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled. Alleluia, alleluia.

Or: see Luke 2:19

Alleluia, alleluia. Blessed is the Virgin Mary who kept the word of God and pondered it in her heart. Alleluia, alleluia.

Or: Luke 11:28

Alleluia, alleluia. Blessed are those who hear the word of God and observe it. Alleluia, alleluia.

Or:

Alleluia, alleluia. Blessed are you, holy Virgin Mary, deserving of all praise; from you rose the sun of justice, Christ our God. Alleluia, alleluia.

Or:

Alleluia, alleluia. Blessed are you, O Virgin Mary; without dying you won the martyr’s crown beneath the Cross of the Lord. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel Luke 1:39-47 Blessed is she who believed.

Mary set out and traveled to the hill country in haste to a town of Judah, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the infant leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth, filled with the Holy Spirit, cried out in a loud voice and said, “Most blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And how does this happen to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? For at the moment the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the infant in my womb leaped for joy. Blessed are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled.” And Mary said:

“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord; my spirit rejoices in God my savior.”

[cloverwitch]

Khaire and welcome to my blog!

About me:

You can call me Clover or Clove, and my pronouns are she/her. I am nebulously in my 20s.

This is just a little side blog dedicated to my spiritual practice—somewhere between a digital grimoire, devotional blog, and the online equivalent of a cool rock collection. I mostly reblog things I think are funny, useful, interesting, or pretty. I may occasionally make original posts as well.

My original content tags are #personal for rambles, and #clover's grimoire for spells and things (though it's pretty sparse atm).

More info under the cut! Please read if it's your first time here. 💛

About my practice:

I'm a solitary witch of close to 10 years, though my practice has ebbed and flowed, and I still have much to learn; what knowledge I do have has come from a combination of research, community interaction, observing the practices of others, and trial and error. I focus especially on green magic, herbalism, cartomancy, and dream magic.

I am a Revivalist Hellenic Polytheist going on 5 years. At present, I am a devotee of Apollo, and work closely with Thanatos as well.

I am NOT a Wiccan or Pagan, so please do not use those labels for me/my content. I do NOT offer any divinatory/spellcasting services, free or charged, so please refrain from asking. I am NOT a New Age believer/follower, and I don't wish to interact or be associated with that community. I do NOT advocate for the use of spiritual/magical remedies in place of medical treatment, and if you try to tell me that my chronic illnesses can be "cured" with oils and crystals, I will block you.

I am pro-baneful magic, and sometimes use cannabis in my practice (though I don't talk about it much, and tag it appropriately if I do—and, for the record, I live where it is legal for recreational use). If either of these things make you uncomfortable, I understand, and you can avoid/block me with no hard feelings. Please do not shame me for these parts of my craft though.

Feel free to ask me questions, but bear in mind that I may choose not to answer; some parts of my practice I am not very open about, and I don't consider myself knowledgeable enough (nor do I have the time/energy) to be a teacher. If I do share anything, know that it will be information relevant to my knowledge, my experience, and my practice, and you may not find it applicable, agreeable, or useful.

Please note:

On this blog I do not stand for any form of bigotry, including biphobia, transphobia, ableism, antisemitism, Islamophobia, and so on. If you hold any such beliefs, I kindly ask that you simply block me and carry on with your day. If you go out of your way to try and provoke me, I will simply block you. I do not have much energy to spare, and the last thing I want to do with it is waste it on bad-faith discourse and dead-end arguments with people who don't actually want to listen.

I strive to be open-minded and self-aware, and if I ever say or reblog something closed-minded, misinformative, offensive, etc. please don't hesitate to let me know. I believe the witchcraft community should be inclusive and respectful of all.

Banner and profile pics not mine. The sun dividers I use were made by @liminal-creations !

💛☀️💛

[dwellordream]

CHAUCER’S VOICING OF THE ‘WOMAN OF GREAT AUTHORITY’

“Chaucer’s dramatisation of the docile body of Mary is, as Reames argues, evidence of the orthodox Mariology articulated in his works. She asserts that the poet conforms to dominant Christian doctrine, since he avoids ‘the theological error of setting her in competition with the Trinity, as if she were a goddess, a supernatural being with power all of her own’. Notwithstanding Reames’s convincing argument, textual evidence suggests that, instead of enclosing Mary within the ideological walls of an inescapable doctrine, Chaucer’s texts open up a debate on Mariology with a specific concern for her status, power and agency in relation to Christ and the Trinity in general. 

Alongside Marian doctrinal orthodoxy, founded on the concept of the merciful ‘vicaire’ of God, the poet’s work appears to accommodate variant doctrinal stances which are largely dependent on the emerging cultic standing of Mary in the later Middle Ages, especially within the practices of affective piety. This development is testified, for instance, in the establishment of the cultural and theological trope of Mary the Physician. 

As Diane Watt explains in her essay for this collection, the emergence of this trope is consistent with women’s heavy involvement in healing practices, so much so that Carole Rawcliffe, among others, points out that ‘in an age before the establishment of a professional monopoly wise women, empirics and herbalists actually constituted the great majority of practitioners at work’.

Monica Green’s survey of medieval female practitioners reaches a similar conclusion on the ubiquity of women in the care of patients: Although they were not represented on all levels of medicine equally, women were found scattered throughout a broad medical community consisting of physicians, surgeons, barber-surgeons, apothecaries, and various uncategorizable empirical healers. 

Although her work focuses on the Early Modern period, Margaret Pelling’s findings on the role played by women in ‘medical families’ give insights into a socio-cultural context that undoubtedly started to develop in the Middle Ages and is therefore relevant to the times in which Chaucer was writing his Marian texts. Pelling gathers compelling evidence that supports a re-assessment of the influence that women exerted on male members of their families during the domestic formative years that preceded their formal training as physicians.

Despite their ubiquity, the cultural and professional standing of women as providers of care and cure was decidedly inferior to many of their male counterparts and was met with much resistance from the medical academic establishment and society in general. For instance, in his categorisation of medical practitioners, Huling E. Ussery places women among the ‘lesser practitioners’ and, more specifically, among the ‘unlicensed and unaffiliated practitioners’ such as leeches, midwives, ‘wise women’, herbalists and quacks.

Notwithstanding her attempt to re-assign agency to Early Modern women in medical practice, Pelling concedes that, precisely because of the profound interconnection between domesticity and medical care, women’s engagement with medical practice remains largely confined to the domestic space. Far from being a result of women’s lack of skill in matters of care and cure, their professional subordination to male physicians is largely due to ideological and institutional resistance to women’s access to the profession.

The gendered rationale behind such resistance becomes apparent in the petition presented before Parliament in England in 1421 demanding that ‘no Woman use the practyse of Fisik’. Validated by theological and scientific discourse, hostility to recognising the centrality of women’s contribution to medical practice is illustrated by Bruno of Calabria’s contemptuous pronouncement that ‘vile and presumptuous women usurp the office to themselves and abuse it, since they have neither learning nor skill’.

Clerical and professional homosociality traps women in an ambiguous professional position in which their agency is undermined. As the posthumous representations and mis-representations of Trotula of Salerno testify, women at the heart of the cure and care of the sick were ostracised and their authority usurped by male practitioners. 

As Green demonstrates, from the Middle Ages onwards women were gradually excluded from medical practice and, in the areas of care traditionally associated with female practitioners, such as midwifery and gynaecology, they were ‘gradually restricted to a role as subordinate and controlled assistants in matters where, because of socially constructed notions of propriety, men could not practice alone’.

This is, therefore, a gender-specific issue of authority and power which resonates with the doctrinal debate on orthodox Mariology to which I alluded earlier. Despite institutional hostility to women and their subordinate professional status, Watt’s essay shows that the trope of Mary the Physician advanced the cause of female medical practitioners by giving female acts of care a devotional prominence. 

In fact, the Virgin’s assistive function dramatised in Custance’s prayer to Mary in The Man of Law’s Tale or in the ABC positions Chaucer’s texts within doctrinal orthodoxy, but does not account for the heterogeneity of the late medieval debate on Mary’s authority. Hilda Graef ’s extensive mapping of Marian theology demonstrates that, if eminent Christian thinkers such as Aquinas rejected the very possibility of endowing Mary and the Trinity with equal agency, St Bonaventure and other medieval auctores argued for the Virgin partaking in God’s redemptive plan.

A much earlier precedent to Chaucer’s engagement with this variant Marian doctrine is the experience of Christina of Markyate, a twelfth-century English visionary and hermit. In the account of her life we find further evidence of the cultural currency of Mary’s authority. In her essay for this collection, Watt discusses an event narrated in the Life of Christina of Markyate which unequivocally frames the interconnection between spiritual and medical practices within a discourse of power. 

Afflicted by illness, Christina was tended to by a number of male physicians who, however, failed to cure her. Healing could only be effected by a female practitioner who appeared as a vision to one of Christina’s companions while she was dreaming. The text describes the physician as an agent of authority and power whose medical skills clearly exceed those of her male counterparts. The ‘magne auctoritatis matronam’ [woman of great authority] is firmly identified as the Virgin Mary, as Watt explains. 

While the vision preserves Mary’s traditional feminine attentiveness in the act of providing care (‘Quod cum delicatissime prepararet. ut cibaret illam’ [‘While she was daintily preparing to give it to her’]), her power is articulated through her silent gravitas and self-assured disregard for warnings about an inevitable failure of the cure.

It is in this context of multifarious Marian devotion that Chaucer’s heterodox Mariology can be situated. In her analysis of the ABC, Reames normalises Chaucer’s ‘extravagant’ attempts to endow Mary with redemptive authority by restoring his orthodox credentials: ‘he resists the most serious excesses of Marian piety … the temptation to set Mary against God, to glorify her at His expense’.

I would, instead, contend that, rather than dramatising mere ‘extravagant’ exceptions, Chaucer’s literary Mariology engages with the heterogeneous debate on Mary’s authority and presents the reader with a vision of the Virgin that is strikingly consistent with Christina’s ‘woman of great authority’. The ABC opens with an invocation to the Virgin that unequivocally endows her with a degree of authority normally only associated with God: ‘Almighty and al merciable queene’ (1).

Also, Chaucer’s verse accommodates slippages in meaning that open up the text to counter-hegemonic descriptions of Mary’s power and agency: Soth is that God ne granteth no pitee Withoute thee; for God of his goodnesse Foryiveth noon, but it like unto thee. He hath thee maked vicaire and maistresse Of al this world, and eek governouresse Of hevene, and he represseth his justise After thi wil; and therfore in witnesse He hath thee corowned in so rial wise. (137–44) 

Grammatically and ideologically, the Virgin’s agency is obliterated by identifying God/‘he’ as the subject of sentences describing Mary’s function rather than Mary/‘thee’ who is, instead, the object of such clauses (‘He hath thee maked’; ‘He hath thee corowned’). At the same time, however, the text speaks her authority, since she dominates a secular and spiritual hierarchy of which she is both ‘maistresse’ and ‘governouresse’. 

Most importantly, her will appears to inform God’s justice, as the verb ‘represseth’ suggests a variant power relation in which the Creator chooses to position Himself as a subject to Mary’s authority. In other words, the ABC dramatises a doctrinal stance on the Virgin that can be aligned to the emerging Marian piety in the tradition of Christina of Markyate’s vision. In The Prioress’s Prologue this strand of Mariology becomes apparent: ‘For she hirself is honour and the roote / Of bountee, next hir Sone, and soules boote’ (VII. 465–6 my emphasis). 

The ‘soules boote’ and Mother of Christ is here portrayed not in the assistive role of Mary the nurse, as Henry of Lancaster posits, but as Mary the Physician who partakes in God’s salvific plan in an equal position of power. Mary’s authority, nonetheless, distinguishes her from the vengeful and aloof God represented in the ABC. The speaker addresses Mary because God appears unreachable for the mortal sinner trapped in a secular world; the Virgin, on the contrary, is the ‘vicaire’ or incarnated divinity. 

The extract from the ABC which I quoted above articulates Mary’s dual potency through the use of anaphora, as she is at once ‘[o]f al this world’ and ‘[o]f hevene’. The incarnational power of Mary is also apparent in Pearl, a key example of literary Marian figuration in the Middle Ages. In her analysis of the poem, Teresa Reed identifies the Virgin as a devotional locus in which the spiritual and the carnal can be negotiated as one: ‘[i]n the same way that Mary articulated the Word − that is, gave it intelligibility by giving it the jointed form of the human body − this poem attempts to make the transcendent intelligible through the physicality of form and sound’.

In The Prioress’s Prologue such physicality is endowed with an unmistakably carnal connotation: O mooder Mayde, O mayde Mooder free! Of bussh unbrent, brennynge in Moyses sighte, That ravyshedest doun fro the Deitee, Thurgh thyn humblesse, the Goost that in th’alighte. (VII. 467–70) Chaucer’s text liberates Mary from the Irigarayan ‘envelope’, a docile text perpetually written and re-written, and stripped of agency. 

Here she transcends her configuration as mere semblance to become a chiasmus, that is, a space open to multiple, often paradoxical subject positions; she is at once mother/ maiden and maiden/mother, the burning bush of hope and the un-burnt (untouched) virgin, and humble yet capable of ravishing the Ghost. In sum, in The Prioress’s Prologue Mary is the meek virgin inducing spiritual ecstasy, but also the woman of great authority exerting sensual power.”

-  Roberta Magnani, Medicine, Religion and Gender in Medieval Culture

[kevinszabojrplumbing]

The Impact of Professional Plumbing Services on Enhancing Home Value

The impression of a dream home is often accompanied by a stylish living room, a well-organized kitchen, and perhaps a peaceful backyard garden. But have you ever thought about the hidden areas of your home, like the plumbing system? Do you ever wonder, "how does your plumbing system impact the overall value of your home?" Or, have you considered, "How can professional plumbing services enhance the value of your property?" This post aims to shed light on these often-overlooked aspects and highlight how investing in professional plumbing services can unfailingly increase the value of your space, whether it’s a classic Edwardian, a chic contemporary, or a charming country cottage.

In this discourse, we'll explore neatly packaged answers to the potential queries you might be holding back. We will analyze the link between a solid plumbing system and increased property value, procedure to maintain it, pros and cons of DIY approach versus hiring professionals, and the significant benefits of regular maintenance.

Join us on this enlightening journey through the pipes and valves, cisterns and drains, of your home, and discover an unexpected avenue for enhancing the allure, and value, of your slice of the globe.

 The Link Between Robust Plumbing and Home Value

The value of your home goes beyond its outer appearance. It equally depends on the robustness of its various internal systems, with the plumbing system playing a prime role. Sophisticated sinks, modernistic showers, and well-functioning drainage systems not only add comfort to your life but can also make your home more appealing to potential buyers, thereby providing an immediate boost to its market value.

However, the importance of good plumbing extends beyond mere aesthetics. The assurance of a leak-free dwelling and an optimal supply of clean water enhances the quality of life. It also safeguards the house against potential water damage that can significantly depreciate the value of your home.

Alternatively, a deficient or outdated plumbing system can be a considerable drawback. It can lower your property's value and even deter potential buyers who are wary of incurring extra expenses for repair or replacement later on.

DIY or Professional – The Never-Ending Debate

We've all enjoyed the sense of accomplishment that comes with DIY activities around the house. Servicing a leaky tap or unblocking a sink might seem manageable tasks. However, when it comes to your home's plumbing system, the question arises, "Is it wise to take a DIY approach, or is hiring a professional a smarter choice?"

DIY efforts may seemingly cut down initial costs. However, they can often lead to auxiliary problems, escalating your expenses in the long run. A lack of professional know-how can land you in a quagmire of plumbing errors like incorrect pipe installations or incompatible fixture selections.

On the flip side, procuring professional services ensures precise problem diagnosis, optimal solutions, and quality work, establishing a long-term efficient plumbing system. So, while you might have to shell out more initially, it proves cost-effective over time.

Benefits of Regular Maintenance

The adage of "Prevention is better than cure" applies fittingly to your home’s plumbing system. Regularly scheduled maintenance by knowledgeable professionals can help identify potential issues before they escalate into major problems, thereby saving your time, money, and the structural integrity of your home.

Regular maintenance ensures a smooth and efficient water supply, which is a notable aspect of a high-value home. Additionally, it helps in proactive recognition and management of pipe corrosion, leakages, and blockages, which can collectively prevent significant water damage to your property.

The Green Factor: Sustainable Plumbing

Though not frequently considered, the aspect of sustainable plumbing plays a fundamental role in enhancing home value. Energy-efficient and water-saving fixtures contribute to sustainability and can significantly reduce water usage and utility bills. They also make your home more appealing to environmentally conscious buyers, thereby impacting the overall property valuation.

Transforming Bathrooms into Attractive Spaces

The bathroom often becomes the tattletale room revealing the age and maintenance of your property. A well-maintained bathroom with modern fixtures actively perks up the selling price of your home.

An attractive and functional bathroom, refurbished by professionals, not only ensures the efficient usage of water but can also transform the once purely functional space into an inviting oasis, amplifying the overall aesthetics and value of the house.

 Conclusion: The Pivotal Role of Professional Plumbing

To sum it up, the foundation of a valuable home lies not in the observable, but often in what lies beneath the surface. A robust, well-serviced plumbing system is one such element that significantly contributes towards enhancing your home's overall value.

While DIY plumbing endeavors might seem tempting, they might not always bear fruitful results. Investing in professional plumbing services not only ensures a durable, effective, and efficient plumbing system but also safeguards the structural integrity of your home, and in turn, its market worth.

Regular maintenance, adaptations for sustainability, and bathroom renovations are additional factors that can amplify your property’s appeal and valuation. In essence, even though the pipes and fixtures remain largely unseen, their impact on the worth and appeal of your home is utterly undeniable. So, the next time you think about boosting your home’s value, remember to look below the surface and consider investing in professional plumbing services.

[uhhhhmanda]

Smokey the Bear Sutra

by Gary Snyder

Once in the Jurassic about 150 million years ago, the Great Sun Buddha in this corner of the Infinite Void gave a Discourse to all the assembled elements and energies: to the standing beings, the walking beings, the flying beings, and the sitting beings—even grasses, to the number of thirteen billion, each one born from a seed, assembled there: a Discourse concerning Enlightenment on the planet Earth.

“In some future time, there will be a continent called America. It will have great centers of power called such as Pyramid Lake, Walden Pond, Mt. Rainier, Big Sur, Everglades, and so forth; and powerful nerves and channels such as Columbia River, Mississippi River, and Grand Canyon The human race in that era will get into troubles all over its head, and practically wreck everything in spite of its own strong intelligent Buddha-nature.”

“The twisting strata of the great mountains and the pulsings of volcanoes are my love burning deep in the earth. My obstinate compassion is schist and basalt and granite, to be mountains, to bring down the rain. In that future American Era I shall enter a new form; to cure the world of loveless knowledge that seeks with blind hunger: and mindless rage eating food that will not fill it.”

And he showed himself in his true form of

SMOKEY THE BEAR

A handsome smokey-colored brown bear standing on his hind legs, showing that he is aroused and watchful.

Bearing in his right paw the Shovel that digs to the truth beneath appearances; cuts the roots of useless attachments, and flings damp sand on the fires of greed and war;

His left paw in the Mudra of Comradely Display—indicating that all creatures have the full right to live to their limits and that deer, rabbits, chipmunks, snakes, dandelions, and lizards all grow in the realm of the Dharma;

Wearing the blue work overalls symbolic of slaves and laborers, the countless men oppressed by a civilization that claims to save but often destroys;

Wearing the broad-brimmed hat of the West, symbolic of the forces that guard the Wilderness, which is the Natural State of the Dharma and the True Path of man on earth: all true paths lead through mountains—

With a halo of smoke and flame behind, the forest fires of the kali-yuga, fires caused by the stupidity of those who think things can be gained and lost whereas in truth all is contained vast and free in the Blue Sky and Green Earth of One Mind;

Round-bellied to show his kind nature and that the great earth has food enough for everyone who loves her and trusts her;

Trampling underfoot wasteful freeways and needless suburbs; smashing the worms of capitalism and totalitarianism;

Indicating the Task: his followers, becoming free of cars, houses, canned foods, universities, and shoes; master the Three Mysteries of their own Body, Speech, and Mind; and fearlessly chop down the rotten trees and prune out the sick limbs of this country America and then burn the leftover trash.

Wrathful but Calm. Austere but Comic. Smokey the Bear will Illuminate those who would help him; but for those who would hinder or slander him,

HE WILL PUT THEM OUT.

Thus his great Mantra:

Namah samanta vajranam chanda maharoshana Sphataya hum traka ham nam

“I DEDICATE MYSELF TO THE UNIVERSAL DIAMOND BE THIS RAGING FURY DESTROYED”

And he will protect those who love woods and rivers, Gods and animals, hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick people, musicians, playful women, and hopeful children:

And if anyone is threatened by advertising, air pollution, television, or the police, they should chant SMOKEY THE BEAR’S WAR SPELL:

DROWN THEIR BUTTS CRUSH THEIR BUTTS DROWN THEIR BUTTS CRUSH THEIR BUTTS

And SMOKEY THE BEAR will surely appear to put the enemy out with his vajra-shovel.

Now those who recite this Sutra and then try to put it in practice will accumulate merit as countless as the sands of Arizona and Nevada.

Will help save the planet Earth from total oil slick.

Will enter the age of harmony of man and nature.

Will win the tender love and caresses of men, women, and beasts.

Will always have ripe blackberries to eat and a sunny spot under a pine tree to sit at.

AND IN THE END WILL WIN HIGHEST PERFECT ENLIGHTENMENT.

thus have we heard.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled # 9468

A cinquain sequence

               I

Of thee to haunch. Will Shakespeare drive the sky. Too lavishly are his cheek who can trace the grave.

               II

‘Cut off! And their Loss to move my heart. Let me beare mystery. The liefest boon, to rehearse.

               III

Would wandering of it. Wealth had espy? Unheard me with such as knew not in misery.

               IV

Cure me. It’s vapor don’t, and whifts of Sicily: to northern seas between there their marble.

               V

Han vs assayde, how can yours, sketches, to vex the liquid air; behold! It all, came next.

               VI

Something and true, it seems to say. Even story has discoursing, yet double whisp’ring new.

               VII

To some in the depth the animals. Till not defend thy approach, O Spring cock; tu—whit!

               VIII

Lassie, why, sad Hero much less, the multitude. His delights of loue does she past— and och!

               IX

And if you’re not pauses of gladness! Save that give the patron. In: o Moon! While he was born.

               X

Wherewithal. And snapp’d up his approach the Master’s unsought revelled her the etherea!

               XI

Their heart ’gan fare along it can, hanging headlong to fit for they ho! Immortality.

               XII

Such comfort me, wretch her breake your parts. Two greene, as lasse passed again, and and coveted way.

               XIII

The land, left him speakers they like a stoics—men wilt know! A pretty, trifling Lilia.

               XIV

And learn to scold me. Their former in hungry for bulls or shake your refused; yet every thing!

               XV

Yet every mortal serene: his was all else? All this way, whose Fount of raiment took no pain.

               XVI

Perfect of the solitude. Next Juan, for the two composed their hand: these the trees. Might delight!

               XVII

With our round my distraction among. In proper twinkle in yonder if his braunches brink?

               XVIII

And cunning. Cupid a bonie Jean. From lovely fickle glass, and for honeymoon could return.

               XIX

The Baron said. Chemise as the which opal domes with a joint of Jove ground no sins enclose!

               XX

To nought, and fro, that castle gate, hang in the divine. With a boy was let your face then, since?

               XXI

No man and rain, that never, quell, the you should stream. And the fair, I followed your winter sleep!

               XXII

Perhaps thy scythe tocsin of well-nature teach history. She had ne’er had a mother’d’ as suit.

               XXIII

Pain. Me, some days so potently? Why did the oxygen. Again on waking at the spell.

               XXIV

A land often after their lips. Have been save them a lonely youthful to see unfold thee.

               XXV

Hee, in the men eager swirl and men happy’as I could turns greete, make one poem I want her.

               XXVI

Dwelt upon, as heart. Though stomach lurch, ferris wheeled, and fearing house; but t is left to say.

               XXVII

Would but fan their spirit’s perche é vecchio, fa suoi al suo essempio. No news tonight.

               XXVIII

Let’s scritch: for fresh Spring! Waiting on my though perhaps the air is blood of a dreading it.

               XXIX

Thou see all this poor creatures! And, and muttering liberal Grace that hath speech, and Daniel tame?

               XXX

Alas! That he fell? And strange fits of love. Go, and Thou; if I—this fire! Go, and But oh!

               XXXI

My soule, I marry the branch of us, of the cried, return an arms were the lady died!

               XXXII

Sister and take whome say fortune foeman, but by the facts. Whatever told me sooty oil.

               XXXIII

Thou shalt not name you. Kneel down, This and obdurate minde; profess in such valid reason due.

               XXXIV

Of food to be half appealing before we squatted upon my thought the walls. Having past.

               XXXV

He asked, she went, curtain stews, and are wed. Our piety there she turned shirt and a drag-chain.

               XXXVI

Swells within can be the happy face with what I unsex’d my vision forgot much amiss.

               XXXVII

My sheep, and I a friend three days your glorious theory. And turn’d Love so eased away.

               XXXVIII

Or cool and strength the people die. Imagine, perhaps the lips wait on Aunt took leave you stood.

               XXXIX

The gentle maid, the shore and the place. For that dove, where quiet. Face forbade this old man’s knell.

               XL

As thy flocking frown? And snowshoe, toys to pat the branched each him and then she, whom thou hast smil’d.

               XLI

Then is Cupid forbeare. Not thy sweet Venus’ glass. Though her running on the beauty her sight.

               XLII

Its tempests mad, and right— ouf! Of certain sickle: men are his furrowes: drerily loves.

               XLIII

Might and somehow, there’s self grow’st; if Nature, these valleys. A lady’s priz’d, and mixt red mouth.

               XLIV

Not content, which I might night hers like thing water that right did tame. Being young Chevalier.

               XLV

Inky whiskey, on the savage mought in vayne. Robert Burns: pale, he replied, began to sing.

               XLVI

I wish myself out-going to be. Is even their joy, and nose the devil got we in?

               XLVII

’ Heather managed by peace, althoughts, a sting! ’En to mark of the facts! That iudge, at least prevail.

               XLVIII

Hanging so hie, and if thus he reproduce her face; let’s gripe! Somewhat made them to rehearse.

               XLIX

Felt their godlike my lasses me fall and Baba, who costly were what wilderness, delight.

               L

Of names, pulling rather lep? I saw her of Jove it times—no lady Geraldine she soul!

               LI

And all the negroes more swear to be Lords of straw. Now this music and laugh’d, and in a place?

               LII

He starued with as one morning stealth.—An’ Charlotte, have taugment. Hath hymnes thy attention.

               LIII

And all the harte. And he feels its utmost bosom’d as thou in my radiant floor, and mused her.

               LIV

And oh, her Willy.—Knowing doth my eyes and drave large eyes makes me in maiden bosom take.

               LV

So in the selfsame days? Then Christabel Jesu, Maria, shield hers! To heaven, he shores.

               LVI

Of Rome transferr’d. Bent lips all rapt in nameless by hazelly she, what the fish most delight?

               LVII

Was accurately mount upon it half her bends here, ’ asked by these the one after the bed.

               LVIII

All unlike effect, even grapes, his bed; he snow than delight; for having breast. Their heardgroome.

               LIX

To supper thirling bare as has gone. A cat, as thou first he mead so chill, then, went away.

               LX

A lawn at played the man, I’m without all Eternity. I do denounce all are threttie year?

               LXI

Kill his meaning’s maturity, checked in preach by fishes’ tails. Incapable of my fate.

               LXII

Which you’llpardon’d all yonder river. Each speech: Ah! Of eyes, my fragile bones, o’er- master, whiff!

               LXIII

Me language though the sun and and twelve upon the Eight arise? Be moved of nought you fleeting.

               LXIV

Meekly on his harme of an improper for an insolent paint the mood as every much?

               LXV

—Then bedde, or suite of Faith- preserv’d. Of ambitious flesh the dream I saw him whispered to hold.

               LXVI

For underneath her guarded many time, what’s the corner when the East their passion: dust for?

               LXVII

Spread of music; with dew; nor from me against my niece. Opened to the front doth flatter me?

[mahou-furbies]

I wish they could just officially make a teal color category. Lilian's teal like Milky. Otherwise I'm afraid all of the future green Cures are going to be teal.

Yeah, Milky and now Lillian are perfectly fine and I'd welcome a new colour category with open arms, but I just keep wishing for more Cures like this...

[lyrker]

1 n 3 n 19 n 31 n 50 for the oc asks !!!!

THIS GOT SO LONG IM SO SORRY HAVDJVS

1.First oc ever ?

I’m gonna have to pass this one to good ol’ Leader Decrose. I REFUSE to get into the backstory of how he came about, but in this old world I never dive in anymore, he’s like ? A refuge i suppose ? A set of four characters (including my self insert) were based on cards and his was the diamond.

3.Have you ever adopted a character or gotten a character from someone else ?

Odd situation but I GUESS ?? There’s a few but one I like is named Polaris and they’re like. a dying star. And their big brother figure is Cyrus, aka cc who thought the key to transitioning was dismembering yourself and using dark magic on a lifesize frakenstein doll he made.

They work in a fucked up lab but like, fucked up as in goofy as hell. They’re so silly (:

19.Introduce a character that means a lot to you and why

*SLAMS JACE IN FRONT OF YOU* I love him an insane amount.

Jace Luong was away when the apocalypse striked, lost his daughter thag he blames himself for (but he could never save her anyway), accidentally shot a guy and had to step down from his military position, more for his mental sake than anything, ended up using his best friend, and that last one sounds so bad. and it is. But it is for this Reason that makes me shake him like GRRRR I LOVE YOU. WHY DID YOU DO THAT oh yeah i’m the author loll !!

Because the point of Jace is that. He wants to help so fucking bad but he keeps Messing It Up. He is not evil and I cannot say that enough—he is very “the means justifies the ends” but that does Not mean he doesn’t feel bad for using Noah as a lab rat. When Noah came back to KILL HIM he cried because someone Came Back For Him, even if it was to kill him.

I don’t wanna take up too much space but it’s because he’s not evil just severely fucked up from losing his daughter and the life of being in a world filled with zombies that he’s trying to rush to make some sort of cure, so he can save people, so that people can live again instead of just survive, but he goes about it in a horrible way that, honestly, was probably inevitable.

He’s special to me because he’s a fuck up, but he’s genuinely really really trying. He is not a good person, though.

(also if he was a tma avatar he would be of The Lonely or Eye and that’s so silly)

31.Pick an oc and explain what their Tumblr blog would look like.

I’m going to go with RAYNE because he probably DOES use Tumblr, knowing him. His layout is green but also he’s probably using the Goth/Rave color pallet because he thinks the colors are nice and he’s a 3 am user so that dark mode comes in handy. His pfp is like, his favorite pokémon but with a ditto face.

He reblogs pokemon stuff—screenshots, fanart, memes, etc and he’s Definitely gotten into discourse abt the best game. Also he’s totally a Nightvale listener so throw in some Nightvale posts. I think he reblogs a lot of shitpost art but also just art in general.

And of course, the occasional cat photo and tumblr trademark textposts.

50.Give me the good ol’ oc talk.

I WAS GONNA TALK ABOUT NOAH & CO. BUT I ALWAYS TALK ABOUT THEM so here’s the MoMOF crew, named after the lemon demon song “Mask of my Own Face”

It’s a classic high schoolers sci fi horror story, think stranger things except without mike bc i hate him (did not finish watching stranger things)

Basically, six kids, Rayn, Rowan, Alex, Ash, Zach and Winston are friends ! Yippee ! Average middle/high schoolers.

And one night, Rayn and Rowan (dating) are just hanging out. Rowan is conked the fuck out at Rayn is gaming on his DS, and then he gets a text from Alex saying “Dude, why tf are you outside it’s like 2 am ???” and Rayn is confused outta his mind.

“Wdym i’m literally at home rn.”

Alex attaches a photo, a shot looking thru the blinds of their window of what looks to be Rayn.

Rayn sends a selfie back of the Charmander he just leveled up and Rowan fast asleep.

And it Can’t be him if he just sent that photo, because the beanie he always wears was handmade by Asher himself—whos this guy ?!?

naturally, they text everyone, everyone’s yelling in a vc and was NOT asleep like they should be, and Rayn gets the FANTASTIC idea to go and see who the person is. Alex is yelling that they will personally stab Rayn if he does.

He does anyway.

and they’re too far away now for Alex to see, but they’re watching their phones and when Rayn finally approaches the other Rayn the camera flips and it is missing Half Of It’s Face and then Rayn hangs up.

And they Cannot Find Him.

So for weeks they are searching for Rayn and are scared out of their wits about Why there were Two and they told the police, but they don’t believe them all too much.

But Rowan finds him one night, at the edge of the forest. Half of his face looks tk have been torn away and his hat and coat is gone and he looks run ragged but oh. Oh no.

That’s the real Rayn.

And it turns out, the Rayn they’d been staying with recently was a clone.

And he’s babbling about something, saying they “Can’t trust Winston”

And at the same time, Rowan gets a call. And Zach sounds like he’s running for his life, because Winston cannot talk, let alone sing, and Zach heard them whispering the lyrics to a song he doesn’t know, and ran for it.

So, while they found Rayn, they now don’t know where the real Winston is. And it’s kinda all about not trusting each other but also wanting to stay together because What If Someone Else Gets Taken, and they can’t trust anyone at All because they won’t believe them, and they could be more clones.

Other stuff happens; Ash is going kinda insane, Alex, as the eldest, feels like they have to be the parent of the group because god they’re falling apart and they can’t stand to see it, Zach doesn’t know if the things he’s catching on camera are real or not, and there’s also an almost murder and also arson !! Both by the kids (:

It’s a fun world i like to play around with because the kids dynamics are all super fun <3

[walaw717]

Smokey the Bear Sutra

Once in the Jurassic about 150 million years ago,

the Great Sun Buddha in this corner of the Infinite

Void gave a Discourse to all the assembled elements

and energies: to the standing beings, the walking beings,

the flying beings, and the sitting beings—even grasses,

to the number of thirteen billion, each one born from a

seed, assembled there: a Discourse concerning

Enlightenment on the planet Earth.

“In some future time, there will be a continent called

America. It will have great centers of power called

such as Pyramid Lake, Walden Pond, Mt. Rainier, Big Sur,

Everglades, and so forth; and powerful nerves and channels

such as Columbia River, Mississippi River, and Grand Canyon

The human race in that era will get into troubles all over

its head, and practically wreck everything in spite of

its own strong intelligent Buddha-nature.”

“The twisting strata of the great mountains and the pulsings

of volcanoes are my love burning deep in the earth.

My obstinate compassion is schist and basalt and

granite, to be mountains, to bring down the rain. In that

future American Era I shall enter a new form; to cure

the world of loveless knowledge that seeks with blind hunger:

and mindless rage eating food that will not fill it.”

And he showed himself in his true form of

SMOKEY THE BEAR

A handsome smokey-colored brown bear standing on his hind legs, showing that he is aroused and

watchful.

Bearing in his right paw the Shovel that digs to the truth beneath appearances; cuts the roots of useless

attachments, and flings damp sand on the fires of greed and war;

His left paw in the Mudra of Comradely Display—indicating that all creatures have the full right to live to their limits and that deer, rabbits, chipmunks, snakes, dandelions, and lizards all grow in the realm of the Dharma;

Wearing the blue work overalls symbolic of slaves and laborers, the countless men oppressed by a

civilization that claims to save but often destroys;

Wearing the broad-brimmed hat of the West, symbolic of the forces that guard the Wilderness, which is the Natural State of the Dharma and the True Path of man on earth: all true paths lead through mountains—

With a halo of smoke and flame behind, the forest fires of the kali-yuga, fires caused by the stupidity of

those who think things can be gained and lost whereas in truth all is contained vast and free in the Blue Sky and Green Earth of One Mind;

Round-bellied to show his kind nature and that the great earth has food enough for everyone who loves her and trusts her;

Trampling underfoot wasteful freeways and needless suburbs; smashing the worms of capitalism and

totalitarianism;

Indicating the Task: his followers, becoming free of cars, houses, canned foods, universities, and shoes;

master the Three Mysteries of their own Body, Speech, and Mind; and fearlessly chop down the rotten

trees and prune out the sick limbs of this country America and then burn the leftover trash.

Wrathful but Calm. Austere but Comic. Smokey the Bear will

Illuminate those who would help him; but for those who would hinder or

slander him,

HE WILL PUT THEM OUT.

Thus his great Mantra:

Namah samanta vajranam chanda maharoshana

Sphataya hum traka ham nam

“I DEDICATE MYSELF TO THE UNIVERSAL DIAMOND

BE THIS RAGING FURY DESTROYED”

And he will protect those who love woods and rivers,

Gods and animals, hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick

people, musicians, playful women, and hopeful children:

And if anyone is threatened by advertising, air pollution, television,

or the police, they should chant SMOKEY THE BEAR’S WAR SPELL:

DROWN THEIR BUTTS

CRUSH THEIR BUTTS

DROWN THEIR BUTTS

CRUSH THEIR BUTTS

And SMOKEY THE BEAR will surely appear to put the enemy out

with his vajra-shovel.

Now those who recite this Sutra and then try to put it in practice will accumulate merit as countless as the sands of Arizona and Nevada.

Will help save the planet Earth from total oil slick.

Will enter the age of harmony of man and nature.

Will win the tender love and caresses of men, women, and beasts.

Will always have ripe blackberries to eat and a sunny spot under a pine tree to sit at.

AND IN THE END WILL WIN HIGHEST PERFECT ENLIGHTENMENT.

thus have we heard.

Gary Snyder

[isfjmel-phleg]

The Blackberry Bushes

My story for @inklings-challenge!

I was glad to get Team Tolkien because it allowed me to work within my established universe, which is a non-magical alternate Edwardian era, more or less. But the story was originally a portal fantasy, which is why some of those elements have bled over, even though any “travel” is strictly within-world.

This is technically Chapter Two of the first book of the series, but you do not need to have read Chapter One to understand it.

If Rachel Doncath had to spend one more moment in Rafelle Cottage, she would come dangerously close to screaming. Not that it would have made any difference. No sound she could produce could drown out the blare of Uncle Ange’s endless monologues about boxing, cures for any ailment, and how he felt about the Premier Ministre, who awakened every morning intent on ruining the country. Informative though Uncle Ange’s discourse may have been, it was hardly a suitable backdrop for finishing a mathematics lesson.

Nevertheless, she suffered through it and slammed the book shut on the last of the problems. Her mother was occupied elsewhere, so correcting her work would have to wait. In the meantime, Rachel had an hour of leisure before anyone would expect her to start chores, and she meant to spend it in the best way possible: rereading her favorite of the Books of Yew. All she needed was a quiet corner.

Rafelle Cottage had precious few of those. Its ten rooms and attic barely sufficed for nine residents: Rachel, her two sisters, her mother, her grandparents, an aunt, a cousin, and the cook-general. With company infesting the parlor and sisters still bent over their lessons in the sitting room, Rachel was counting on the solitude of one of the bedrooms.

But it was not to be. She could hardly concentrate on a book in the room she shared with her cousin Ettie—calling herself Rieton lately—lolling on the bed with a hand mirror and brooding over life’s tragedies. Her mother’s room would have been ideal had not its proprietress poked in her head to order her errant daughter out. Finally, Rachel curled up on the floor of her grandfather’s study, between the standing globe and a trunk piled with wavering stacks of old papers, but she hadn’t got farther than a chapter before her grandmother found her and informed her that this was Grandpapa’s room and she shouldn’t be there. Rachel saw no point in observing that Grandpapa hardly used it anymore and was unlikely to enter while beset by the doctor and Uncle Ange. Defeated, she cleared out.

The cottage, meant to be the Doncaths’ haven of refuge during their sojourn in Faysmond, had all but shut its doors to the girl with her finger still tucked in the well-worn book. Rachel slumped against the wall in the dark of the upstairs corridor. Even here, Uncle Ange’s voice echoed as clearly as if she were sitting beside him. She rubbed her throbbing head. She needed to escape.

Desperation made her bold. She would not ask permission to go into the back garden. She would simply put on her coat and slip out the door, as she used to when she and her brother Deniol visited as small children. The garden was not at its best in mid-March, for it was still cold, but it would be blessedly solitary, and that was all that mattered.

Moments later, Rachel ran across the terrace and into the embrace of the kindest garden she knew. The lawn, misty green with March rains, spread out before her, overhung with the open arms of low-leaning trees and bushes. They crowded each other, holding hands and hobnobbing even in their early spring half-sleepiness. The leaves that made mottled shadows on the grass in summer were still absent, but an outbreak of buds on the limbs promised the return of the trees’ familiar dress. Most of them were fruit trees—apple, pear, cherry, crabapple—and soon to make a flashy appearance in white and pink and fuchsia. The flowers bordering the garden walls still awaited their orders to awaken, but spikes of bulbs poked up in secluded corners. In a few weeks, the garden would blaze with the colors of daffodils, tulips, and irises.

Rachel trod toward the bench under the crabapple tree with heavy steps and drooping shoulders. This abandoned place, holding its breath for spring, was not the garden of her childhood. The gray skies dimmed all color. The swing in the apple tree had come undone and hung lopsided. A birdhouse lay half-smashed in the muddy water of the cast-iron birdbath. Rachel’s brother ought to have been running at her side, armed with a lethal wickets ball, and Grandpapa ought to have been clipping the rose bushes. But Dennie was miles away at the naval academy in Corege, and Florentin Carothier didn’t tend his garden anymore. He engaged a boy from the village to cut the grass and keep the berry bushes from engulfing everything.

It was that very boy, Fulbert Homard, who was crossing the lawn now, swinging his shears carelessly in one hand. 

Lonely though the garden had seemed, now it was stiflingly crowded. Rachel sprang from the bench, clutching her book to her chest, and darted through the nearest escape route, a blue door in the wall. For the tree-hung, rose-lined paradise off the terrace wasn’t her grandparents’ only garden.

The Far Garden on the other side of the blue door stretched longer and barer than its predecessor. A shed at the far end overlooked the kitchen plots in their raised beds. On one side, instead of a wall, a hump in the earth divided the Carothiers’ garden from Monsieur Puits’ next-door. It was Florentin’s pride that he and M. Puits were such good neighbors that they never needed a wall. Rachel had been instructed since childhood in the importance of respecting this treaty by never setting foot past the hump without express permission. She had always wanted to stand under the Puitses’ willow tree and admire up-close the little wooden ducks lined up there. But she dared not cross the hump unbidden, and her wish must die with her.

The other side of the Far Garden was even less welcoming. An enormous tangle of blackberry bushes loomed over the lawn. Many years ago, it had begun as a modest bush paying its rent in succulent fruit, not unlike the tame raspberries off the terrace. But as time passed, the blackberries had discovered their power. No one fought them back. So they grew, higher than a man’s head, wider than Rafelle Cottage. They crept an inch or two farther over the grass every year and threatened to overtake the garden. Florentin Carothier had trimmed them as a matter of form, but even he, an intrepid gardener, never dared take on the blackberry bushes. He assembled his children and later his grandchildren every summer to pick the berries and offer themselves up to be pricked and scratched by brambles in the hot sun. In return, the Carothiers dined on blackberry jam, blackberry pie, and blackberry clafoutis for months.

Every child in the Carothier household knew to respect the bushes. One did not approach them lightly. Traveling their perimeter was a journey to be supervised by a responsible adult lest one get lost en route or succumb to the beckoning branches. Rachel’s grandfather had taken her and Dennie round the bushes once, and Rachel had been terrified of seeing the remains of a squirrel Grandpapa said had died back there. But all she saw, besides the bushes, was the wall they backed against. This wall towered over the other garden walls, higher than the blackberries, and in its middle, cradled by red bricks, was a green door.

“Where does it go?” Rachel had once asked.

“It’s locked,” Grandpapa had said simply, and that was enough for her, for Grandpapa knew everything.

Rachel had no intention of making a second circumnavigation this afternoon, but the bushes wouldn’t mind if she read on the lawn in their shadow until Fulbert went away. She checked the grass for dampness and settled cross-legged on a patch within sight of the blue door. She was alone in the Far Garden with only the song of an exuberant robin for company. Not even the foliage whispered their secrets. They dozed beneath the overcast skies, as indifferent to the girl among them as if she had been a stray insect.

Rachel opened her book to the second chapter, the one in which Princess Yewna (unaware of her true name and identity) is driven by a threat on her life to set out on her adventures, accompanied by a creature of her own invention. Rachel had read The Enchanted Land of Yew dozens of times. She knew every word, and yet, like an old and dear friend, it never bored her. Yewna was just saying, “Quietly now! All we have to do is trudge,” when Fulbert took her advice and trudged into the Far Garden, whistling and pushing a clattering lawn mower. 

At the sight of Rachel, he scowled and said something in Faysmondian. His remark was beyond her vocabulary, but she didn’t need a translation. She was in his way, and he objected to her hanging about interfering with his work. His precise words were much less formal and far more verbally embellished, but that was the gist of it.

Despite the limitations of Rachel’s Faysmondian, the phrase for “I’m sorry” was burned into her brain, and she babbled it now as he approached with the mower’s bloodthirsty blade rotating nearer and nearer. He was not in a merciful mood. 

Rachel stumbled to her feet. She couldn’t return to the other garden; he was blocking the way. She couldn’t cross the hump to M. Puits’ garden; she might as well lie down and let the mower run her over. That left only one place.

Rachel ran for the back side of the blackberry bushes.

*    *    *

Once she was out of Fulbert’s sight, rounding the bushes proved a more painstaking task than a properly dramatic escape would allow. The overgrown branches left little space between them and the high wall, and Rachel’s hands were more than a little scratched by the time she found the green door. The paint had worn away a little more from the elements and neglect. The knob was rustier. No one had opened it for years, if ever. No one would need to follow her here.

At the foot of the door, where the grass aspired to marsh height, Rachel settled down with her spine against one of the doorposts and rejoined Princess Yewna. But even the road to certain adventure couldn’t distract her from the oddity of the green door. Why would one bother putting it in and painting it such a cheerful color, only to hide it behind blackberry bushes and leave it locked? There must be neighbors on the other side, but if they were so standoffish, they wouldn’t have allowed a door in the first place.

Rachel put her finger in the book and her eye to the keyhole. She could make out nothing but indistinct greenery on the other side, not unlike her grandparents’ garden. Just another back garden like any other in the village of Rosières, fussed over by some elderly person and off-limits to children most of all. Yet she pressed her eye closer, as if that would reveal anything worth seeing.

As she leaned further on the door, it gave a little. 

As if it wanted to open. As if it could open, if given the chance. A securely locked door wouldn’t have moved beneath the pressure of one girl’s head against the keyhole.

Slipping in a hair-ribbon to mark her place in her book and tucking it under her arm, Rachel rose to her feet and gripped the grimy knob in both hands. 

She gave it a twist, first to the right, then the left. It moved. 

She turned it all the way. The bolt clicked.

Leaning on the door, she inched it open. The hinges screamed in atrophied pain, and Rachel cringed, certain the entire village had heard that. But when she stepped through and stood with her back to the doorpost and the door ajar behind her, she found herself the only one in sight in the most beautiful garden she had ever seen.

It was more like a park than a garden, stretching as far as she could see in every direction with wide patches of clipped lawn dotted in the distance with sheep. Clumps of trees like small forests obscured any buildings. There were no blackberries on this side of the wall, but the doorway was overhung with ivy and the promise of dripping blooms. Surrounding Rachel on either side, an abundance of shrubs and other large plants ran rampant. A faint haze of pale green buds hung over them like a veil, and they waved their leaves in the slight breeze, calling her forward. Their foliage intertwined, sprawled along the ground, and pointed like a signpost toward a patch of nearby trees at the well-trampled grass path that lay at Rachel’s feet.

The sun had broken through the overcast skies, washing this garden in a dazzling glow and sending beams through gaps between the trees. Not an insect buzzed, not a bird called. Whoever owned this place seemed to have abandoned it, albeit in remarkably pristine condition, held suspended in a spell preserving its glory.

Rachel drank it all in ravenously, but her mind spun. If there were an expansive estate just next door to her grandparents’ cottage, someone would have mentioned it by now. Surely she would have noticed any gates the many, many times she had passed down the road. But a grand residence (if indeed one existed somewhere beyond the far trees), inhabited or not, would explain why her grandparents never associated with these next-door neighbors, as they did with the Puitses, who were of their class.

Whoever might own this garden, Rachel had no business trespassing on their property any more than she did crossing the hump in the Far Garden. If her mother knew where she was right now, she would be appalled. She would swoop through the door, drag Rachel through, make her issue a formal apology to the owners, and accept whatever punishment they chose to dole out. Rachel of course had no intention of trespassing that afternoon. She had been merely curious about the green door, and now that she knew where it led, she should return to the Far Garden, close the door behind her, never open it again, and read behind the blackberry bushes in peace, satisfied in her new, if useless, knowledge.

And she would do that. But it would be a shame to come this far and not get a thorough look. Just a look. She wouldn’t touch anything or go too far. Only to those trees, through which she thought she could see some sort of building. The walk wasn’t difficult with that already-cleared path, but she still saw no sign of life that could account for such well-kept grass. As she neared the trees, she saw why.

In a clearing stood a stone building with the pointed gables and arrow-shafts and arched windows of a castle—in ruins. The roof had completely gone. Vines poked through the glassless windows. Crumbled bits of bricks lay on the ground, half-covered in leaves. No one had lived here for a very long time.

And since the inhabitants had long deserted this place, they wouldn’t mind Rachel exploring it. It wouldn’t be trespassing. People toured old buildings all the time; that was called sightseeing, and it was perfectly respectable.

Nevertheless, Rachel approached the trees with snailing reverence. Her footsteps through the grass were deafening, but not so loud that she couldn’t hear the voices in the distance. 

She paused mid-step and turned. Two men in the distance were running and shouting in Faysmondian—at her! The clattering of the tools they held reminded her of Fulbert mowing her grandparents’ garden this very minute. And, as with Fulbert, she lost her head and, clutching her book to her chest like a shield, bolted without thought into the trees, toward the ruins, praying for the cover of the undergrowth. She gritted her teeth in resignation at every slap of a low-hanging branch or vine, at scratch from a bramble. It was what she deserved, and comparatively merciful, considering the extent of her crime.

Finding no door on the nearest side of the crumbling castle, she wound her way into the clearing, dotted with surprisingly neat bushes that would probably flower later in the spring. And it was beside one of these bushes that she encountered the elephant.

It was a young elephant, shorter than she, raising its trunk to the bush to browse off it, the way giant elk did with the birch trees in Rachel’s home in New Archangel. Rachel froze, racking her brain for the etiquette for elephant encounters. In a lifetime of being instructed what to do in case of meeting a bear or giant elk or other fearsome creature, the possibility of an elephant had simply never come up. So she invented her own protocol.

She sprinted toward an opening in the ruins clearly meant for a long-since rotted-away door. Overgrown grass drooped across the entrance, and she caught a glimpse of more greenery within. Holding her breath, she plunged in, ducked into the nearest corner, and huddled with her head on her knees, wrapped in her arms. 

This estate was not abandoned; there were gardeners—of course there were, how else would the garden have stayed so well-kept? How else would the elephant—no, she couldn’t explain the elephant. Had she been in such a panic that she had imagined it? Or was it the pet of some wealthy eccentric? Whatever the case, with this place inhabited, Rachel had indeed violated the sacred rule against trespassing.

She had no excuse. She knew better. She had made her choice completely cognizant of wrongdoing, all because of an inconsequential curiosity. And now she would pay for it. The gardeners would catch her any minute now and drag her in to meet the master of the estate, who in his outrage would not only do to her whatever happened to vile trespassers but also inform her mother of her waywardness. And perhaps that was worse than owning up to some unknown aristocrat.

The gardeners’ voices had long since faded. If the elephant had seen her, it must have had no interest in giving chase, for she hadn’t heard a single thumping footstep. A remarkably inert creature.

Rachel took a long breath and let her heartbeat slow down before unburying her head to take in her surroundings.

Inside the roofless ruins was an enclosed garden. Its walls were hung with dripping vines that would cover the stones with greenery by summer. A few trees had been trained to grow flat against the walls, with contorted limbs sprawling like spiders’ legs. Beds along the foundation displayed overgrown bushes and, at their feet, the first giddy round of bulbs, pale but enthusiastic crocuses with faces upturned to the heavens, proudly announcing their arrival. And leaning against the wall nearest Rachel was a yellow bicycle.

No one who could have lived in these ruins could have owned such a modern device, much less left it behind in such usable condition. Rachel uncurled herself to take a closer look. The bicycle bore the marks of wear, but only from recent use. The mud on its wheels had not dried. The bicyclist, whoever he was, must not be far off. 

Rachel couldn’t leave the ruins through the doorway, not with that elephant on the loose. Retreating further into the ruins might mean discovery by an irate aristocrat who would prosecute her for trespassing. With nowhere to safely go, she must take one chance or the other.

Clutching her book, she rounded the bulbous bush beside the bicycle and plunged deeper into the garden. 

On the other side, the wall had deteriorated so much that it was now the right height to sit upon and had padded itself with a coating of moss for the ease of visitors. Rachel could easily have climbed over it, were it not already occupied.

A girl about her age lay on the wall at full length, with one hand flopped over her chest. Her long, loose white gown and masses of curly black hair like tangled vines cascaded over the stones. Tucked amid the curls on one side of her head was an enormous poppy, as bright and fresh as if just plucked from its bed. An identical flower had fallen and lay crumpled on the ground beside her. One of her satin slippers was threatening to part company with her foot. Her eyes were closed and her lips clamped tight.

Rachel fingered the spine of her book nervously. This girl could have escaped from an illustration of a Yew story. No one with any claim to reality would leave her arms and shoulders bare like that outdoors in March. But even such carelessness seemed more likely than stumbling upon a real, live wood-faery.

Live, for she did appear to be breathing. She didn’t stir as Rachel approached or when she knelt beside the trailing hem of the gown. Raising a daring hand, Rachel reached for the fabric. Her fingertip barely brushed it—solidly real, with the faint, familiar bump of woven threads—when it shifted out of her reach. With a single fluid launch, the girl sat bolt upright and opened her dark eyes.

There was no escaping this time. That face had distinctly seen her. Those eyes stared back into hers. Rachel had been caught.

The girl spoke to her rapidly in Faysmondian. Rachel understood a word here and there, but otherwise it might as well have been the tongue of another world.

“Pardon me,” she replied haltingly in the same language. “I speak only a little Faysmondian.”

“Coregean, then?” said the girl. At Rachel’s nod, she said impressively, “Tableau vivant. I am the Sleeping Maiden. I have been here for a hundred years and I have been guiding the prince to my rescue through our shared visions. If he doesn’t get lost on the way.”

Rachel didn’t know how to answer that. It would be impolite to ask the point of reenacting a fairy-tale scene without an audience to appreciate it.

Silence didn’t faze this girl. “How did you get here?”

Rachel hung her head. “Through the green door in the wall.”

“The door that’s always locked? But how?”

“Weren’t you the one who unlocked it?” asked Rachel. At the moment, that seemed the most plausible explanation. 

The girl tossed her hair. “If I could unlock it, would I still be here? You had to have opened it yourself somehow.”

“I—just turned the knob and it opened today. I don’t know why. But I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

That had to be a rhetorical question, with Rachel’s presence as living proof of her crime. “I’m trespassing on your property. I know I don’t have any right to be here, but I came anyway. I don’t even have an excuse. I just really, really wanted to know what was here, and I should have left as soon as I saw. I’m sorry.”

“And curiosity is a dreadful sin, would you say?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” hazarded Rachel. “If it’s curiosity about...something you aren’t supposed to be curious about. I am very sorry. I will accept whatever the consequences are, just please don’t tell my mother.”

“Do I know your mother?”

“I suppose not?”

“Then why should I tell her? I wouldn’t know her if I saw her, if you’re not mistaken.”

“But you’re supposed to tell people’s parents when their child commits crimes. And since my father is at sea, it would have to be my mother.”

The girl raised her eyebrows. “In all my years of imagining criminals getting into my garden, you look exactly like what I pictured. And I know what I’m going to do with you.”

Rachel cringed, awaiting a blow, physical or verbal.

But the girl sprang up in a cloud of trailing white and fluttered to the other side of the bulbous bush while struggling to slip her shoe back in place without hands. She returned with a box-like object which she held out to Rachel. 

“Would you please photograph me?” she asked simply.

It was a camera, just the right size to sit in one hand, with various holes and knobs whose uses Rachel didn’t recognize. First a bicycle and now this. Wood-faeries apparently had more modern conveniences than mortals gave them credit for. 

As the sense of the gesture sank in, Rachel shrank back. This girl must be mocking her. Her long mouth had spread into a wide smile nearly as curly as her hair. Her dark eyes sparkled mischievously. There was something almost familiar in her long, olive face, with its strong nose and jaw—perhaps a resemblance to the Otionovian people Rachel once lived among. The girl seemed harmless enough, but anyone in possession of such a grand estate was not likely to take kindly to being crossed, especially in a means of recompense for a grave transgression.

“But I’ve never taken a photograph before,” said Rachel in a small voice.

“Oh, it’s the easiest thing in the world!” said the girl. She pointed to Rachel’s book. “If you would put that down. You hold it here”—she shoved the camera into Rachel’s hands and positioned them on a level with her waist—“and you look in there to frame the shot. And then when you’re ready you just flip the shutter.” She pointed to a sort of small lever on top of the box. “And that’s all there is to it. Do you think you can do it?”

“Well,” said Rachel, overwhelmed by this sudden, rapid wealth of information, “I suppose so—”

A squeal from the girl nearly deafened her. “Oh, thank you!” she cried, throwing her arms around Rachel. “Thank you so much! I thought I’d never find anyone to do it, after I went to all this trouble with the dress and the flowers, you know. It would be a shame to waste it. Or to waste this day. Isn’t this the most beautiful weather?”

“It’s cloudy again,” said Rachel, backing away lest the girl touch her again.

The girl waved that away. “The sun will be back any moment. It has to do something to keep things interesting.” She draped herself across the wall in a close approximation of her previous pose, with her arm flung over her heart with artful carelessness and an expression of Tranquil Slumber.

“Which one do I look through again?” asked Rachel nervously.

“On the left. I mean, my left. Your right.”

Holding the camera at waist-height, Rachel contorted herself down to get a view. The camera displayed a tiny girl enclosed in the shape of a small photograph. With shaking hands, Rachel struggled to position her just right in the frame. As soon as she thought she had arranged it level and symmetrical, she doubted herself and had to try again.

The expression of Tranquil Slumber was fading from the girl’s face. “Is everything all right?”

“Your train’s bunched up,” said Rachel.

The girl sat up, addressed the problem impatiently, and resumed her sleeping pose, which, if she had actually fallen asleep thus, would have guaranteed her a numb arm on awakening.

“Better?” she asked, flicking a stray curl off her face.

“Yes!” Rachel gasped and pushed the shutter before she meant to. The camera flashed, and the photograph was taken, either to effect or to ignominy and a waste of film, as time would tell. “I probably got it wrong.”

“Getting it wrong would be not taking it at all,” said the girl. “Now let’s try another!”

She struck several more poses—peeking from behind the bulbous bush, kneeling on the ground with a flower in one hand, looking over a shoulder—and while Rachel meticulously framed each shot and pushed the shutter with shaking hands, the girl chattered.

“Do you live in that blue cottage on the other side of the wall?” she asked. “The one with all the blackberries?”

“Not exactly. But we’ll be stopping there for a long time. Do you know my grandparents? Florentin and Adelie Carothier?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” said the girl. “I’ve never even heard their names.”

“Then how do you know they have blackberries?”

The girl’s hair hung over her face as she wiped grass from her hem. “Doesn’t everyone have blackberries? We probably do. Somewhere.”

“We?”

“My mother and I. We live here.”

Rachel frowned. “You live in a ruined castle?”

“What?” The girl brightened when Rachel gestured to the walls around them. “This isn’t a castle at all. It’s just an old tithe barn. No one’s used it in four hundred years, and no one ever lived here. We’ve got more ruins, but Mother and I don’t live in them. Just an ordinary small castle—you can’t see it from here—and it’s only ruined when I chip the plaster or spill something on the floor.”

She said this offhandedly, as if inhabiting a castle were no less mundane a fact of life than lessons and chores.

Rachel, however, couldn’t believe her ears. She had never met anyone who owned so much as a mere grand house. Her parents had sometimes gone to dinners at the halls and manors of high-ranking naval officers, and she had pressed her mother for every detail afterward. This girl was likely a gentleman’s daughter, one more than a little above her in class, and Rachel must remember to mind her manners more than usual.

“Forgive my misunderstanding, mademoiselle,” she said.

“Oh, please,” said the girl, “call me Rietta.”

Rachel smiled. “I can remember that. That’s my cousin’s name. But there are many Riettas my age, of course. Were your parents admirers of the Queen? Or rather, the Princess, when you must have been born.”

“Yes,” said the girl slowly. “I believe they were. But it’s an old family name too, so I was stuck with it one way or another. I rather like it though. It’s something everyone will remember, and it’s a nice feeling to know everyone knows your name. What’s yours, by the way?”

“Rachel Doncath.”

“Well, Rachel, I think that’s enough photographs here.”

Rachel, much relieved, tried to hand Rietta back her camera, but Rietta was too busy slinging her train over one arm and marching away toward the doorway.

“Come on!” she called. “Let’s take some more by the trees.”

“No!” shouted Rachel, louder than she had meant. She ran after Rietta and grabbed her arm. “Don’t go out there. There’s an elephant on the loose. I don’t know how it got here or why, but I know I saw it. Don’t go. You could be killed.”

Rietta’s eyes widened, and her arm beneath Rachel’s fingers stiffened. She pulled away, and Rachel shrank back.

“It just so happens,” Rietta said grandly, “that this elephant is an old friend of mine. Come!”

And Rachel followed with timid resignation. Rietta, her arms flung out and her draperies fluttering behind her as if constructed from butterfly wings, skittered along the same route Rachel had taken earlier, straight for the bush where the elephant had been browsing. 

It was still there, its trunk suspended in the same position, never bringing down a mouthful of foliage. For this elephant couldn’t move its trunk if it wanted to. It was constructed of some sort of bent wood, with eye holes and a tail and small tusks.

“Dangerous little fellow, isn’t he?” said Rietta.

Rachel crossed her arms. “It looked real enough earlier. From far away.”

“I wish he were,” said Rietta, throwing her arms around the elephant’s neck. “Eugène wouldn’t hurt anyone, the darling.”

Rather excessive affection for a creature made from bent wood, but Rachel waited in silence until Rietta, tired of Eugène, recalled her mission and boldly charged toward the trees. She did not see Rachel pause to pat Eugène before scrambling to catch up to her.

Every snap of a photograph sent a shudder through Rachel, as if she were about to crack an egg or break a bone, but quitting this session was not an option. Rietta had every right to report Rachel’s trespassing to her family if she refused to comply. Rachel would take photographs all afternoon if she had to, although it might mean being late to help with dinner and getting scolded.

Rietta stopped beside an oak that had grown sideways, with a thick branch bent halfway to the ground. “How about this one?” She adjusted her hair and gown, arranging the train artfully in front of her, and struck a pose of Mysterious Allure. A wood-faery without wings, albeit a rather rumpled one.

“Perfect,” said Rachel, just as much to herself as to Rietta as she framed the shot. This one practically arranged itself, if only she could keep her hands steady. And she would have, if a sudden cry from a bird directly overhead had not made her jump and hit the shutter with startled fervor.

And jam it firmly in place.

It would not budge, no matter how she jostled it. She didn’t dare exert too much force, lest she damage it further. But she couldn’t leave this probably expensive camera in such a state.

Rietta exchanged Mysterious Allure for Restrained Impatience. “Is everything all right?”

“I think I broke it,” said Rachel miserably. “I don’t know what I did, but it’s stuck. I’m so sorry.”

Rietta flicked aside her train. “Let’s have a look at this.” She snatched the camera and fiddled with it, muttering asides. Rachel distinctly made out the Faysmondian for “idiot,” in the feminine, no less. She should have known this was coming. Rietta had been pleasant enough as long as Rachel had properly performed her bidding, but after an idiotic error like this, any chance for leniency ceased to exist.

Rietta swatted a strand of hair out her face and glared. “It’s never done this before. But—” She cocked her head, listening. Footsteps were crashing, nearer and nearer, accompanied by dishearteningly familiar voices. The two gardeners who had tried to chase Rachel, red-faced and armed with shears and hoes, had finally caught up to her. Rachel ducked behind the nearest thick tree, ready to flee at a moment’s notice, but Rietta, still holding the damaged camera, stood her ground.

“Come on!” whispered Rachel frantically, but the impending doom didn’t seem to concern Rietta at all.

Nor should it, Rachel remembered. Rietta lived here. Rachel was the only interloper, and she had not only trespassed but destroyed a valuable camera beyond hope of repair. Rietta would surely report her crimes, and the men would drag her back to Rafelle Cottage, probably by one ear, to present her in disgrace to her entire family, but not before they hauled her in to be reprimanded by Rietta’s mother, who stormed into Rachel’s imagination as one of those severe grand ladies, long-nosed, tight-lipped, and formidable of character.

From behind the tree, Rachel listened to the gardeners asking Rietta indignant questions in Faysmondian. Too late now to make a bolt for it. Escape would only increase the appearance of guilt. Rachel’s best chance at this point was abject contrition. 

She crept out in the open, knocking her knee on the tree trunk and bruising herself in the process. She tried not to flinch at the pain. It was as much as she deserved. 

Rietta was speaking to the gardeners in rapid Faysmondian, using the wide gestures and expressive cadences typical of the language. Rachel couldn’t see her face, but her voice sounded perturbed. Her words, at their breathless speed, were hard to decipher for one with primarily a textbook knowledge of Faysmondian. Rachel recognized a few words here and there, such as “garden” and “I do not like it” and—“my friend”? Most gentlemen’s daughters would not use such a term of a member of their staff. Perhaps it was ironic, or—

That wasn’t all she had said. Rachel’s brain was slow to process, but she was almost certain that the pronoun Rietta had used shortly before those words was not “you” or “he,” but “she.”

She is my friend.

Rachel had known Rietta less than an hour. She had trespassed on her property, had probably been impudent to her multiple times, and had broken her camera beyond hope. And yet here was Rietta, after calling her an idiot moments before, bestowing upon her a title she had done nothing to earn.

Surely Rachel had misheard something.

The gardeners didn’t seem convinced either. They eyed Rachel with the wariness they might direct toward an aphid among roses. Rietta said something sharp and waved them away as if swatting flies. As they retreated with polite reluctance, she turned back to Rachel. “I got rid of them all right. They won’t dare bother you now. Now where were we?”

“Your camera,” said Rachel softly.

“Oh.” Rietta examined the machine in her hand as if she had forgotten it was there.

“I can pay for it. I don’t have much money, but I can give you all I have now and then the rest later. Perhaps I could clean Madame Puits’s house for her or be her companion in the afternoons. I don’t know. But I will pay for it.”

“Don’t bother.” Rietta wrinkled her nose at the camera and abandoned it at the foot of the nearest tree. “It’s old. If it hadn’t jammed for you, it would have for me sooner or later. I can pinch some tools and open it up and have a better look tonight. It’ll be good as new tomorrow.”

“Are you certain?” said Rachel.

Rietta lifted her chin. “Would I have said so if I didn’t mean it? Of course I’m certain! You have my word. I will fix it.”

“Thank you. It’s very good of you.” Rachel twisted her hands, unsure how to put her next question. “Did you—I mean, did I hear—earlier, when you were—”

A clang from a church bell finished the sentence for her in four chimes. It was far too loud to have come from St. Liane’s in the village; if Rachel hadn’t known better, she would have thought the sound came from the castle grounds. But that detail was the least of her worries. Her mother would expect her to manifest in the kitchen by four o’clock. Any later, and she would arrive to a mournful recitation of all her tasks that others, martyr-like, had undertaken in her absence.

“Yes?” said Rietta. “You were saying?”

“I have to go! I have to get home now. Which way is the green door?” Rachel’s eyes roamed frantically from tree to tree but found no trace in sight of the path to the boundary wall.

Rietta’s face fell. Even the poppy in her hair seemed to droop. “Really? But we were having so much fun! I was, at least. Weren’t you?”

“It’s not that,” said Rachel. She had been enjoying herself, she realized to her surprise. What had begun as penance had become almost a game. “My mother will be cross.”

That got Rietta’s attention. “Oh! We can’t have that. You can borrow my bicycle. It’ll get you there in no time.”

Not for someone who had never ridden a bicycle. Rachel shook her head. “Thank you, but—I’d rather walk. Which way?”

*    *    *

The walk through the garden by the boundary wall had stretched a thousand steps longer as Rachel sprinted it with Rietta at her side. Rietta chattered faster than their feet, packing in as many words as possible about nothing in particular—the flowers, the sheep in the far meadow, a pond somewhere beyond the trees where she fed the fish and called them all by name. Rachel nodded in the appropriate places, but she hardly heard half of it. The garden and even Rietta’s voice were fading to a blur, replaced by the dismally real prospect of the hot, crowded kitchen and the unchanging chores awaiting her. Part of her hoped the wall would have vanished in the last hour, sealing her in the castle grounds.

No such luck. The wall loomed as solid and secretive as ever. The green door, creaking as it swayed in a slight breeze, remained open as she had left it.

“May I?” asked Rietta. Not waiting for an answer, she poked her head through the doorway and gasped. “They’re even bigger than I expected!” she almost shouted. “How did you grow them so huge? Do your gardeners never cut them?”

“Shh! They’ll hear you,” said Rachel, unable to fight the trembling. Every second wasted cost her a little more of her grandmother’s wrath.

“Oh, I don’t care. What’ll they do? Come out and say hello? I can handle that.”

“It’s all right for you. But then they’ll know I trespassed. And I am still sorry for that, by the way.”

Rietta crossed her arms. “I do wish you’d stop apologizing. We’ve been over this already. There’s nothing to apologize for. Don’t think of it as ‘trespassing.’ Such an ugly word. You were…” She mulled the matter over. “You were invited post hoc!”

“I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think they’re going to believe that one.” Nevertheless, a smile had crept into the corners of Rachel’s mouth and hovered there. She was invited.

“You were supposed to come. Why else would the door be open today after years and years of being locked? I’m not a bit sorry you came. And I hope you’ll come again? If the door is still open? Please say yes!”

“Well,” said Rachel, “I don’t know if my people would like it.”

“I don’t see why not. They wouldn’t if they only knew that—” Rietta cut herself off, as if the words had burned her lips.

“That what?”

Rietta examined her shoe tips, letting her hair hang over her face. “That I—that your friend has invited you. Of course.”

No one at home would believe that either. But as Rachel took in the now upturned face, with its solemn expression and anxious eyes, she found that she could believe it. At least for the moment.

“Thank you,” she said.

It was not a yes. But it was not a no either. Rietta nodded with understanding.

As the door closed with a decisive click behind Rachel on the blackberries’ side of the wall, a barely hushed “Until tomorrow!” spouted from the keyhole. But Rachel had no time to answer. The racket of Fulbert’s mower had ceased, leaving her way to the cottage clear, and besides, the moment of return from the enchanted land never left one much opportunity for reflection. Isidora Peale in The Marvelous Magician of Yew after being sent home had barely touched her native ground before bursting back into her aunt’s cottage and offering to help with supper, only realizing once she had gone indoors and the portal had long since melted away that she had left behind—

The Enchanted Land of Yew wasn’t tucked under Rachel’s arm where it belonged. She had set it down—when?  It must have been when Rietta handed her the camera and she had to make room. She had left it in the ruins, for the elements and the insects and the merciless gardeners and—for Rietta to find and dust off and bring back to her own room. Rachel knew it as surely as if she had seen her new friend in the act. Rietta would ensure her book would stay safe and ready for its owner to take it home tomorrow.

After all, Rachel had not told Rietta no. And it was impolite to refuse an invitation from a friend.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

4th July >> Mass Readings (USA)

Monday, Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Green)

First Reading

Hosea 2:16, 17c-18, 21-22

I will espouse you to me forever.

Thus says the LORD:

I will allure her;    I will lead her into the desert    and speak to her heart. She shall respond there as in the days of her youth,    when she came up from the land of Egypt.

   On that day, says the LORD, She shall call me “My husband,”    and never again “My baal.”

I will espouse you to me forever:    I will espouse you in right and in justice,    in love and in mercy; I will espouse you in fidelity,    and you shall know the LORD.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 145:2-3, 4-5, 6-7, 8-9

R/ The Lord is gracious and merciful.

Every day will I bless you,    and I will praise your name forever and ever. Great is the LORD and highly to be praised;    his greatness is unsearchable.

R/ The Lord is gracious and merciful.

Generation after generation praises your works    and proclaims your might. They speak of the splendor of your glorious majesty    and tell of your wondrous works.

R/ The Lord is gracious and merciful.

They discourse of the power of your terrible deeds    and declare your greatness. They publish the fame of your abundant goodness    and joyfully sing of your justice.

R/ The Lord is gracious and merciful.

The LORD is gracious and merciful,    slow to anger and of great kindness. The LORD is good to all    and compassionate toward all his works.

R/ The Lord is gracious and merciful.

Gospel Acclamation

cf. 2 Timothy 1:10

Alleluia, alleluia. Our Savior Jesus Christ has destroyed death and brought life to light through the Gospel. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Matthew 9:18-26

My daughter has just died, but come and she will live.

While Jesus was speaking, an official came forward, knelt down before him, and said, “My daughter has just died. But come, lay your hand on her, and she will live.” Jesus rose and followed him, and so did his disciples. A woman suffering hemorrhages for twelve years came up behind him and touched the tassel on his cloak. She said to herself, “If only I can touch his cloak, I shall be cured.” Jesus turned around and saw her, and said, “Courage, daughter!  Your faith has saved you.” And from that hour the woman was cured.

   When Jesus arrived at the official’s house and saw the flute players and the crowd who were making a commotion, he said, “Go away! The girl is not dead but sleeping.” And they ridiculed him. When the crowd was put out, he came and took her by the hand, and the little girl arose. And news of this spread throughout all that land.

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[grandhotelabyss]

A few extracts from the leftist thinker of the hour. In his latest piece, he inveighs against an unrelated group of philosophers, political actors, and cultural traditions, using mostly guilt-by-association and ad-hominem attacks, with some puerile schoolyard epithets (e.g., “man-childs [sic],” “Boomer Theory”)  thrown in, all in the name of what he calls “positive biopolitics,” defined, if the following vague jargon is a definition, as

inclusive, materialist, restorative, rationalist, based on a demystified image of the human species, anticipating a future different from the one prescribed by many cultural traditions. It accepts the evolutionary entanglement of mammals and viruses. It accepts death as part of life. It therefore accepts the responsibilities of medical knowledge to prevent and mitigate unjust deaths and misery as something quite different from the nativist immunization of one population of people from another. This includes not just rights to individual privacy but also social obligations to participate in an active, planetary biological commons.

Because “many cultural traditions” remain extant, it’s hard to see how we get from here to there, which makes this discourse little more than apologism for present arrangements: the corporate monopolies will, with the financial, legal, and coercive assistance of the state, manage us down to our atoms, and we will be obligated to participate whether we like it or not. Though our author makes a few faint-heartedly woke noises, his vision is, to repurpose his own argumentative tactics, fundamentally indistinguishable from neoreaction with its dream of hyperracist face tentacles—except that I suppose Land or Yarvin would allow for more dispersed authority centers, making their cyberpunk paradise, ironically, the less fascistic of the twinned accelerationisms. 

From this unseemly polemic, one concludes that Hannah Arendt and Michel Foucault are essentially equivalent to Alex Jones and Marjorie Taylor Greene and that only a simplistic reactionary with a pathological attachment to “lost objects” could have any objection to “any artificial governing intervention in the biological condition of human society.” And I’m not Agamben: I don’t object a priori to any, but surely I may object a posteriori to some. See how his abstraction serves his case: he argues at the level of ideas and would probably dismiss any assessment of the actual forces in play (pharmaceutical giants, the U.S. security state, the CCP, Bezos, Gates, etc.) as “conspiracy theory.” (If the conservative’s attachment to “lost objects” is deluded, by the way, what should we call the radical’s investment in an imaginary and basically impossible future, that famous omelette they will never be able to prepare no matter how much albumen they spill?)

The personal slam against Illich is particularly grotesque. Leaving aside the expert class’s new conviction that only a Trumpist CHUD could possibly think medical interventions must be consensual, I know people who died of tumors they had treated in exactly the way doctors recommended—they died a few months later than they might have otherwise, in agonies they might have been spared, from costly and ineffectual treatments with severe side effects. There’s no cure, after all, for cancer, though I wonder how much cancer might be prevented if the biopolitical agents our author extols did not devote themselves to coating the entire planet in a shell of plastic. But I’m sure his endorsement elsewhere of “deep climate governance”—i.e., “You’ve used your heat ration for the winter, pleb!”—will solve this problem. 

Note, too, the contradictions, flagrant in so swaggering an author. First he bizarrely and scornfully attributes to the soixante-huitards a belief in “subjective moral intentionality,” as if a bunch of Nietzscheans talking about the death of the author believed in any such Kantian thing. Then he delivers a moralistic little sermon on masks—wholly ignoring the actual disputed science on the topic—that only makes any sense at all if we subjectively recognize ourselves as moral agents rather than merely biological organisms. These intellectual misanthropes who insist we’re exactly the same as spores and houseflies always run aground on the same problem: if you’re saying it, and especially if you’re saying it to change people’s minds, then it can’t be true. Human exceptionalism, at least on this planet, is not an article of faith but an empirical fact. Marx certainly thought so—see “Alienated Labour” (1844), but then I suppose he was still a Romantic when he wrote that.

As for the wholesale dismissal of Romanticism, I suspect our polemicist hasn’t done the reading. There is no total “disgust with rationality and technology” in Wordsworth or Shelley or Emerson or Melville or Whitman—yes, comp-lit kids, you have to read the English and Americans as well as the French and Germans—only a complaint about their inability to coexist with other dispositions. I have no problem with rationality or technology, but believe their proper role is to serve us, not to master us. I would recommend Dialectic of Enlightenment (1947), but I imagine it comes pre-proscribed by our ardent technologist. And demystification? Please wake me if it’s ever anything other than a rival myth. “Humans are organic objects that should be managed by centralized power” is also a story, not a very good one. A better story, if our author will condescend to read a Romantic, is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818, 1831). Often interpreted as a warning about overweening science, it is also a caution—from a woman whose father, mother, husband, and friends were all left-wing radicals who made worse messes of their lives than Ivan Illich made of his—against what one critic memorably calls “Promethean Politics”:

By representing in her creature both the originating ideals and the brutal consequences of the French Revolution, Mary Shelley offered a powerful critique of the ideology of revolution. An abstract idea or cause (e.g. the perfecting of mankind), if not carefully developed within a supportive environment, can become an end that justifies any means, however cruel. As he worked to restore life where death had been, Victor Frankenstein never considered what suffering his freakish child might later endure. 

Mary Shelley’s middle-class gradualist liberal female politics—what Nancy Armstrong denounces as the domestic ideology of the English novel tout court—has its own dangers, and is nowadays complicit with the technocrats, as we hear “Think of the children!” used to justify every excess. Still, Frankenstein, with its gain-of-function experiment gone awry, remains a powerful vision of rampant radical technocracy, what may be unleashed on humanity when the quest to master what cannot be mastered meets its nemesis. Positive biopolitics, on the other hand, given its implicit endorsement of the powers that be and its emptily denunciatory rhetoric, is yet more evidence that we no longer have left-wing ideas in America but only “irritable mental gestures which seek to resemble ideas.”