#pythagorean spiral

[valleeeeejo]

there is beauty and symmetry everywhere

[zytes]

9.16.24 / 9.17.24 - september supermoon

[apple-onigiri]

DISTANCE IN VAUGARGE (revamped edition)

IMPORTANT: this post was deleted and made again to make edits and not spread misinformation (because i made a stupid mistake and took earth's entire circumference and accidentally treated it like it was only half of it! it's really funny because i did think that this feels way too big of a distance... happens i guess! especially at 4am lmao but it did uh, increase all the numbers by a whole Two so. unfortunate! gotta fix it!!)

@cyten0 (sorry to tag you again just figured you'd like an update and an actual correct answer, and you're still the one who inquired about this) asked if i could provide more information about my calculations for traveling across vaguarde, and since it seems too long for a reblog and i want to categorize it properly on my blog, here it is in a whole separate post!

this honestly started out as a curiosity about what climate the northern island could've had given its distance from the equator compared to earth's countries and uh. spiraled into me thinking about this. don't ever think about anything guys

TL;DR (for people who don't want the super fun math part): it's 1111.4 km/690.59 miles from dormont to bambouche in a straight line and somewhere in the ballpark of 250 hours of constant travel by foot to cross the distance. with a bonnie-ordained preteen-friendly tempo of around 5 km/h (3.1 ish mph) and eight hours of travel per day from 8am until 1pm and then 3pm to 6pm to set up camp properly early, it'd take around a month or so to make the trip, not counting any and all longer stays to refill supplies and any irregularities caused by going to a town and not having to set up camp or pack it back up.

ok quick geography lesson: the lines on the globe running horizontally are the latitude. they go up to 90 in each direction from the equator, which is 0, so there's a 180 in total. obviously for specific locations you'd use decimals but who caressss

longitude is important too here - the vertical lines - but less so. they go up to 180 on each side of the latitude's version of the equator, the prime meridian, as well but it really doesn't matter where that meridian is placed here, the only thing that matters is that the lines are in a correct distance to each other.

here's the globe id5, in her infinite wisdom, bestowed upon us (i'm completely normal about the existence of any and all maps. in the original post i said can be trusted with them but that is! clearly not the case!) that i added all the southern hemisphere latitude lines onto, as well as the longitude needed for my insane needs (math)

i obviously assumed the planet is the same size as the earth because i genuinely see no reason why it couldn't be other than to make my life sad and hell also. the general distance from one pole to another is 20,000 ish kilometers. (if you for some reason want the planet to be smaller or bigger, cool trick, literally just multiply the 20,000 by it. want it to be one third of its current size? multiply by 0.3. two-and-a-half times bigger? 2.5!) so what i did was draw out the lines onto the actual map and measure the estimated distance based on how big of a chunk it is out of this 20k.

it seems dormont is at about 19 degrees, while bambouche is at 11. easy here!

just divide the whole distance by 180 and you get 111.(1) km (that 1 in a bracket telling you that that one goes on foreeeeever if you let it). since we're looking for the distance of 8 degrees, and we've got a distance of one, you can either multiply it by 8 or subtract the one degree times 2 to get 889. ish. any decimals are the enemy here at this point.

you do the same for the other direction - both bambouche and dormont seemed to be about 2 degrees from the longitude lines, so you do the process with just multiplying by 6 at the end or subtracting the one degree times 4 and get 1333. ish.

it's pythagorean theorem time!! it looks like a lot of big numbers but they do that only to get added nicely, it's okay, they're not that scary and they don't bite pretty promise with a cherry on top, and you get the resulting distance of 1111.4 kilometers like that!

here's how it measures up in reality for some scale:

(hey it fits into all of france now!!)

the average recorded speed of a preteen - which the party logically must move at most of the time - is about 5 kilometers per hour (3.1 ish miles). with a travel plan of 4 hours of travel since 9am until 1pm, a two hour break, and another 3 hours until 6pm, because you need to set up camp and things like that need time, it's safe to assume they'd be crossing around 35 km/h a day. and this is still a really good pace!!! very endurance-heavy! divide the total distance by that and you get an estimated time of travel in days, which here is 31; just around a month.

this is, while less than my initial busted calculations, still a lot! lots of walking. so i uphold my statement that they better have sent a letter to nille ahead of them and that the vaugarde postal system is robust enough to deliver it in a timely manner right after the entire country defrosted, to keep her from worrying to death!

[talonabraxas]

From THE One

To the many.

From the many

To The ♡NE.

The Swastika Symbol

卍

In Sanskrit it is called a swastika, meaning “good.” It comes from the word swasti “welfare,” in turn from su “well” and asti “it is.” In popular use in India, it is thought to be a sign of good luck.

The clockwise Swastika is a Solar Symbol representing the cycles of the Sun, while the counterclockwise is called “Sauvastika” and it represents the night and its Lunar cycles.

This archetypal pattern refers to eternal processes of cycles and polarities which exists at all scales of nature, just like the Ouroboros, Hexagram, Yin-Yang, Torus, Fibonacci Sequence, etc…

It is the “Cosmic Spiral” which forms the Universe and Life itself.

“Few world-symbols are more pregnant with real occult meaning than the Svastika. It is symbolized by the figure 6; for, like that figure, it points in its concrete imagery, as the ideograph of the number does, to the Zenith and the Nadir, to North, South, West, and East; … It is the emblem of the activity of Fohat, of the continual revolution of the ‘wheels,’ and of the Four Elements, the ‘Sacred Four,’ in their mystical, and not alone in their cosmical meaning; further its four arms, bent at right angles, are intimately related … to the Pythagorean and Hermetic scales. One initiated into the mysteries of the meaning of the Svastika, say the Commentaries, ‘can trace on it, with mathematical precision, the evolution of Kosmos and the whole period of Sandhya.’ Also ‘the relation of the Seen to the Unseen,’ and ‘the first procreation of man and species.’ The initiated adept, who had successfully passed through all the trials, was attached, not nailed, but simply tied on a couch in the form of a tau (in Egypt) of a Svastika without the four additional prolongations (thus:, not) plunged in a deep sleep (the ‘Sleep of Siloam’ it is called to this day among the Initiates in Asia Minor, in Syria, and even higher Egypt). He was allowed to remain in this state for three days and three nights, during which time his Spiritual Ego was said to confabulate with the ‘gods,’ descend into Hades, Amenti, or Patala (according to the country), and do works of charity to the invisible beings, whether souls of men or Elemental Spirits; his body remaining all the time in a temple crypt or subterranean cave. In Egypt it was placed in the Sarcophagus in the King’s Chamber of the Pyramid of Cheops, and carried during the night of the approaching third day to the entrance of a gallery, where at a certain hour the beams of the rising Sun struck full on the face of the entranced candidate, who awoke to be initiated by Osiris, and Thoth the God of Wisdom.”

–Helena Petrovna Blavatsky - The Secret Doctrine - Volume II

[santoschristos]

From THE One To the many. From the many To THE ♡NE.

The Swastika Symbol 卍 In Sanskrit it is called a swastika, meaning “good.” It comes from the word swasti “welfare,” in turn from su “well” and asti “it is.” In popular use in India, it is thought to be a sign of good luck.

The clockwise Swastika is a Solar Symbol representing the cycles of the Sun, while the counterclockwise is called "Sauvastika" and it represents the night and its Lunar cycles.

This archetypal pattern refers to eternal processes of cycles and polarities which exists at all scales of nature, just like the Ouroboros, Hexagram, Yin-Yang, Torus, Fibonacci Sequence, etc. . .

It is the "Cosmic Spiral" which forms the Universe and Life itself.

“Few world-symbols are more pregnant with real occult meaning than the Svastika. It is symbolized by the figure 6; for, like that figure, it points in its concrete imagery, as the ideograph of the number does, to the Zenith and the Nadir, to North, South, West, and East; . . . It is the emblem of the activity of Fohat, of the continual revolution of the ‘wheels,’ and of the Four Elements, the ‘Sacred Four,’ in their mystical, and not alone in their cosmical meaning; further its four arms, bent at right angles, are intimately related . . . to the Pythagorean and Hermetic scales. One initiated into the mysteries of the meaning of the Svastika, say the Commentaries, ‘can trace on it, with mathematical precision, the evolution of Kosmos and the whole period of Sandhya.’ Also ‘the relation of the Seen to the Unseen,’ and ‘the first procreation of man and species.’ The initiated adept, who had successfully passed through all the trials, was attached, not nailed, but simply tied on a couch in the form of a tau (in Egypt) of a Svastika without the four additional prolongations (thus:, not) plunged in a deep sleep (the ‘Sleep of Siloam’ it is called to this day among the Initiates in Asia Minor, in Syria, and even higher Egypt). He was allowed to remain in this state for three days and three nights, during which time his Spiritual Ego was said to confabulate with the ‘gods,’ descend into Hades, Amenti, or Patala (according to the country), and do works of charity to the invisible beings, whether souls of men or Elemental Spirits; his body remaining all the time in a temple crypt or subterranean cave. In Egypt it was placed in the Sarcophagus in the King’s Chamber of the Pyramid of Cheops, and carried during the night of the approaching third day to the entrance of a gallery, where at a certain hour the beams of the rising Sun struck full on the face of the entranced candidate, who awoke to be initiated by Osiris, and Thoth the God of Wisdom.” --Helena Petrovna Blavatsky - The Secret Doctrine - Volume II

[33-108]

The Swastika Symbol

卍

In Sanskrit it is called a swastika, meaning “good.” It comes from the word swasti “welfare,” in turn from su “well” and asti “it is.” In popular use in India, it is thought to be a sign of good luck.

The clockwise Swastika is a Solar Symbol representing the cycles of the Sun, while the counterclockwise is called "Sauvastika" and it represents the night and its Lunar cycles.

ㅤ

This archetypal pattern refers to eternal processes of cycles and polarities which exists at all scales of nature, just like the Ouroboros, Hexagram, Yin-Yang, Torus, Fibonacci Sequence, etc. . .

It is the "Cosmic Spiral" which forms the Universe and Life itself.

“Few world-symbols are more pregnant with real occult meaning than the Svastika. It is symbolized by the figure 6; for, like that figure, it points in its concrete imagery, as the ideograph of the number does, to the Zenith and the Nadir, to North, South, West, and East; . . . It is the emblem of the activity of Fohat, of the continual revolution of the ‘wheels,’ and of the Four Elements, the ‘Sacred Four,’ in their mystical, and not alone in their cosmical meaning; further its four arms, bent at right angles, are intimately related . . . to the Pythagorean and Hermetic scales. One initiated into the mysteries of the meaning of the Svastika, say the Commentaries, ‘can trace on it, with mathematical precision, the evolution of Kosmos and the whole period of Sandhya.’ Also ‘the relation of the Seen to the Unseen,’ and ‘the first procreation of man and species.’ The initiated adept, who had successfully passed through all the trials, was attached, not nailed, but simply tied on a couch in the form of a tau (in Egypt) of a Svastika without the four additional prolongations (thus:, not) plunged in a deep sleep (the ‘Sleep of Siloam’ it is called to this day among the Initiates in Asia Minor, in Syria, and even higher Egypt). He was allowed to remain in this state for three days and three nights, during which time his Spiritual Ego was said to confabulate with the ‘gods,’ descend into Hades, Amenti, or Patala (according to the country), and do works of charity to the invisible beings, whether souls of men or Elemental Spirits; his body remaining all the time in a temple crypt or subterranean cave. In Egypt it was placed in the Sarcophagus in the King’s Chamber of the Pyramid of Cheops, and carried during the night of the approaching third day to the entrance of a gallery, where at a certain hour the beams of the rising Sun struck full on the face of the entranced candidate, who awoke to be initiated by Osiris, and Thoth the God of Wisdom.”

--Helena Petrovna Blavatsky - The Secret Doctrine - Volume II

[saraloveliness-blog]

'"Non-Geometric, Geometric Stuff' That's Tight" Joey Voiron

Plato used the discipline of geometry to make possibly erroneous assumptions about the nature of thought, reality, and typology. This idiot made a 98 in the high school geometry, but Platonism is too deep for me.

Geometry is not a lovely village ramble. There are basic presuppositions that are the platform, and you build a ladder and climb on top of that. I am a dumbass. Socrates was right. That's how geometry works.

Where it gets hairy is he seemed to say that these geometric figures are divorced from concrete reality and sensory experience. Socrates, you were a philosopher. The Pythagoreans were too. But I am pretty sure that the men who built the temples and the Parthenon don't think geometric shapes, lines, and angles were abstractions or types.

Maybe geometry is useful, uses sight, movement, and hearing to a lesser extent, and the construction workers, architects, and stone masons were better at understanding it than Socrates.

Plato said based on geometry, or rather Socrates did that knowledge was of the highest order, thought was second, confidence was third, and conjecture was final.

What shape is that, Socrates? Is that "the hermeneutical spiral"? Shout out to Osborne. I did not read your book. It was too long and hard.

Seriously, does knowledge lead to conjecture, or does conjecture lead to knowledge, and if they are a hierarchy, what's at the top? You said knowledge. You also said some assumptions are foundational, but that is not called "conjecture."

Socrates, your take on geometry is contradictory in this dumbass's eyes. I should have read The Hermeneutical Spiral so that your Non-Geometric, geometric stuff would make sense. It doesn't. At all.

In geometry we used rules, actual facts about lines, angles, shapes, and how they worked to make logical arguments. We collaborated--Mrs. Richardson did most of the work--to build a cool fractal out of construction paper. A geometric proof is a cool thing. Geometry is used to build cool things. The construction workers who built the Parthenon seemed to grasp this. Grant R. Osborne made biblical, geometric arguments about hermeneutics. Jesus called Himself a road and a rock. St. Paul said He was the cornerstone. Socrates seemed to think either that conjecture leads to knowledge or knowledge leads to conjecture. He is not clear which. Right now I have more respect for Ayn Rand than I do for this dork. You were great at talking and asking questions, but epistemology did not seem to be your strong point. It is not mine either.

Jesus is the Truth. He is the rock you build on. He is both the beginning and the end of the alphabet and the debate. The beginning is not conjecture, and neither is the end. So much for Platonism. Ayn Rand had sensory experience as the beginning of her epistemology. Wheaton College, Warren Yazoo Behavioral Health, and family were good at lying to this schizophrenic dork about that avenue of knowledge. Jesus said that He was the beginning, and He became visible and physical. Atheism rules. Christianity is even more excellent. Satanist gas lighters are deplorable. Truth matters.

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Anima mundi

Thus, then, in accordance with the likely account, we must declare that this Cosmos has verily come into existence as a Living Creature endowed with soul and reason [...] a Living Creature, one and visible, containing within itself all the living creatures which are by nature akin to itself.

— Plato, Timaeus 30b–d, translated by W.R.M. Lamb

Plato's Timaeus describes this living cosmos as being built by the demiurge constructed as to be self-identical and intelligible to reason, according to a rational pattern expressed in mathematical principles and Pythagorean ratios describing the structure of the cosmos, and particularly the motions of the seven classical planets.

To the Stoics, the cosmos is a single pantheistic god, one which is rational and creative, and which is the basis of everything which exists. Nothing incorporeal exists. The nature of the world is one of unceasing change, driven by the active part or reason (logos) of God which pervades all things. The active substance of the world is characterized as a 'breath', or pneuma, which provides form and motion to matter, and is the origin of the elements, life, and human rationality. The cosmos proceeds from an original state in utmost heat, and, in the cooling and separation that occurs, all things appear which are only different and stages in the change of primitive being. Eventually though, the world will be reabsorbed into the primary substance, to be consumed in a general conflagration (ekpyrôsis), out of which a new cycle begins again. Since the world operates through reason, all things are determined. But the Stoics adopted a compatibilist view which allowed humans freedom and responsibility within the causal network of fate.

RECORD 0-CHASM-02

Zakharik Gilmanovich Bekhterev. May he rest in peace. When our probes continued to fail, when my report remained our only positive finding, he volunteered to use the device. One minute of subjective experience inside.

We took precautions. They worked. Bekhterev’s experience left no physical damage.

After we extracted him, he said that he felt determined. I asked him what he meant and he said that he meant it, he had been determined, he could feel all his choices set out before him like a railroad. Deviation was impossible.

He died by suicide. I wonder if he was trying to make a point.

In [Gnosticism] the original cosmogonic significance of the Sophia still stands in the foreground. The antithesis of Christus and Sophia, as He of the right (ho dexios) and She of the Left (hē aristera), as male and female, is but a repetition of the first Cosmogonic Antithesis in another form. The Sophia herself is but a reflex of the "Mother of all living" and is therefore also called "Mother." She is the formatrix of heaven and earth, for as much as mere matter can only receive form through the light which, coming down from above has interpenetrated the dark waters of the hylē; but she is also at the same time the spiritual principle of life in creation, or, as the world-soul the representative of all that is truly pneumatic in this lower world: her fates and experiences represent typically those of the pneumatic soul which has sunk down into chaos.

Sola could feel the Light twisting from her prey's core. She jerked her hand, which dripped with hungering power, and plucked at something deeper. Sola worked her power between her prey's ribs and felt them give way. She dug in, in spite of the pleas, feeling for a grip to hoist their Light to the surface and find what hid underneath.

"So…" Sola's intent bit deeper, malleable claws that flexed against her prey's Light. They probed through blood and muscle to an umbral center. "…it's within you too||And you. And all.||."

We live in succession, in division, in parts, in particles. ||In fractals. In spirals.|| Meantime within man is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty ||Majestic. Majestic.||, to which every part and particle is equally related, the eternal ONE. And this deep power in which we exist and whose beatitude is all accessible to us, is not only self-sufficing and perfect in every hour, but the act of seeing and the thing seen, the seer and the spectacle, the subject and the object, are one. We see the world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon, the animal, the tree; but the whole, of which these are shining parts, is the soul.

The Supreme Critic on the errors of the past and the present, and the only prophet of that which must be, is that great nature in which we rest, as the earth lies in the soft arms of the atmosphere; that Unity, that Over-soul, within which every man's particular being is contained and made one with all other; that common heart.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson, "The Over-Soul"

Microcosm

Macrocosm

"So all being is a one and only being; and that it continues to be when someone dies, tells you, that he did not cease to be." —Schrodinger's epitaph

"We are unique emanations of the same shared Light."

Collective unconscious refers to the unconscious mind and shared mental concepts. It is generally associated with idealism and was coined by Carl Jung. According to Jung, the human collective unconscious is populated by instincts, as well as by archetypes: ancient primal symbols such as

The Great Mother

The Shadow

"Shadows were cast here. History made.”

“Am I to cast a Shadow?”

“Yes. You were bred to be a sorrow-bearer. I seek a Hive commander, but those are not so readily available. So I made you.”

"The shadows, showing the truth by their casting."

The Tower

Water

"...wellsprings and rivers..."

The Tree of Life

Jung considered the collective unconscious to underpin and surround the unconscious mind, distinguishing it from the personal unconscious of Freudian psychoanalysis. He believed that the concept of the collective unconscious helps to explain why similar themes occur in mythologies around the world.

O: [sighs] I do not fully understand what I saw, and for a Human to understand a Hive mind... How many legends of katabasis do we have, Ikora?

I: We currently have dozens of stories about descending to the realms of the dead, though research has indicated many more must have existed, lost in the layers of Human history we will never lay eyes on. Mathematically, there were likely hundreds.

I: [pauses] Inanna and Dumuzid and Geshtinanna, Orpheus and Eurydice, Izanagi and Izanami, to name a few. Gods and goddesses, mortal and immortal lovers, always seeking to descend and return with the lost.

O: And neither the lost nor those who searched for them were ever returned the same.

He argued that the collective unconscious had a profound influence on the lives of individuals, who lived out its symbols and clothed them in meaning through their experiences.

"They evidently live and function in the deeper layers of the unconscious, especially in that phylogenetic substratum which I have called the collective unconscious. This localization explains a good deal of their strangeness: they bring into our ephemeral consciousness an unknown psychic life belonging to a remote past. It is the mind of our unknown ancestors, their way of thinking and feeling, their way of experiencing life and the world, gods, and men. The existence of these archaic strata is presumably the source of man's belief in reincarnations and in memories of 'previous experiences'. Just as the human body is a museum, so to speak, of its phylogenetic history, so too is the psyche."

Ego | Shadow

Sacred Progenitor | Tyrannical Progenitor

Old Wise Man | Trickster

Animus | Anima

Meaning | Absurdity

Centrality | Diffusion

Order | Chaos

Opposition | Conjunction

Time | Eternity

Sacred | Profane

Transformation | Fixity

Light | Darkness

"And the essential thing, psychologically, is that in dreams, fantasies, and other exceptional states of mind the most far-fetched mythological motifs and symbols can appear autochthonously at any time, often, apparently, as the result of particular influences, traditions, and excitations working on the individual, but more often without any sign of them. These "primordial images" or "archetypes," as I have called them, belong to the basic stock of the unconscious psyche and cannot be explained as personal acquisitions. Together they make up that psychic stratum which has been called the collective unconscious. The existence of the collective unconscious means that individual consciousness is anything but a tabula rasa and is not immune to predetermining influences. On the contrary, it is in the highest degree influenced by inherited presuppositions, quite apart from the unavoidable influences exerted upon it by the environment. The collective unconscious comprises in itself the psychic life of our ancestors right back to the earliest beginnings. It is the matrix of all conscious psychic occurrences, and hence it exerts an influence that compromises the freedom of consciousness in the highest degree, since it is continually striving to lead all conscious processes back into the old paths."

Every weapon wielded and scrap of armor worn, every place visited, person met, symbol seen and pondered, every thought formed and lost and formed again... each one has a place in this story. Haven't you ever wondered what it all means? Where the path leads? Many have followed it before, countless numbers. And soon, it will be your turn. To walk. To see.

To understand.

A dream of a metaphor made starkly, an allegory discussed in study of ontology, in Darkness not unkind. It leaves behind a warped, barely-real data fragment to mark its passing. There is a voice that echoes across the Darkness, and it asks this question: what is the purpose of it all? And there is another voice that calls back and says: listen, I will tell you a purpose. I will tell you of a Final Shape. Look: there are a hundred gildings for this story. It comes down to one key matter. Beings in suffering crave purpose to carry them through. The tyrant consumed by ennui or the disenfranchised struggling simply to survive—it is the state of mind, the pain which cries out: give me a reason I should suffer so! Let us speak of power and choices. A man comes to a crossroads and asks of the sky, "Which road shall I take?" There is no answer from the sky, nor the wind, nor the earth beneath his feet. But another wanderer on the road, coming from behind and hearing the question, says, "I know the way. You should take the dexter road." If the man agrees, he puts himself in the wanderer's power, ceding his own choices for the implicit promise that this is the correct road, the safe road. And if he disagrees? Let us say that the wanderer draws a knife. The man may therefore be made to take the dexter road. But now if the knife goes away, the man will certainly flee. And perhaps even if the knife remains, the man may tire of being threatened and decide the risk is worth fleeing. In this way, the wanderer erodes their own power. If the wanderer says, "The wind has said that you should take the road of my choosing," will the man accept the choice made for him? And if the wanderer says, "Behold, I have seen that the meaning of suffering lies along the dexter road," will the man give away his own power for longer? Is it not easier to accept the guidance of a stranger when the path ahead is unknown?

And day dissolves into gold Night beckons and calls Night turns white with grief I can’t sleep

Whispers of the past Memories of yesteryears The things that did not last I recollect the tears

My love hold me tight There’s a haunted moon tonight Withered flowers never lie In midnight hours and numb goodbyes

Whispers of the past Memories of yesteryears The things they did not last I recollect the tears

Whispers of the past Memories of yesteryears The things they did not last I recollect the tears, the tears

[187days]

Day Eighty-Nine

Today was one of those days that made me wish I had a clone because I had so many things to do- and sometimes simultaneously! The Vice Principal asked team leaders to meet with her this morning because 8th Grade Transition Night is coming up in March, and a lot of planning goes into that, so we needed to start now. That took basically an entire block.

Then I taught World, which went pretty well. I mentioned yesterday that I thought students would be more prepared to present their mini-projects, and, for the most part, I was right. I still think next year I’ll plan on giving them one additional day to work, though. I said that to Mr. F when he came over to chat about how it had gone for his geometry students (whose mini-project was to explain the spiral they drew and decorated in the Middle Eastern style), and he totally agreed. But we’re happy with how this went. It was our first time trying a new thing, and it was cool. 

During flex time, students who were interested in helping redecorate the ninth grade house bulletin boards came to my room. Two of the boards are right next to each other, so we decided to put the Choose Love themes on one board, and put examples on the other; students brainstormed instances of courage, compassion, forgiveness, and gratitude in their lives and/or in things they’ve been studying. I left them to it while I went over a unit test with two of my APUSGOV students, and by the time I was done they’d thought of enough examples to cover the board, so we went out into the hall to start putting them up.

We ran out of time before we finished, but a few of the students had Block 5 study halls and offered to come back, which was great. I had a meeting for part of the block, but I made it as quick as possible (I think I may have annoyed half of my team, but Mr. F and Mrs. T also had other things they needed doing, so it wasn’t just me), then went back out to help. Awesome thing: there were scraps and staples on the floor- which happens during bulletin board decorating- and these kids went and found a broom and dustpan to sweep up. I didn’t even have to ask. 

There was a faculty meeting after school, so I missed most of track practice. I made it for the last half hour, though, so I was able to direct the cool down, core exercises, and stretches- which I do at every practice, that’s one of my responsibilities- and the administrative assistants offered my team all the veggies and crackers the faculty didn’t eat at the meeting. They were quite happy about that. 

Tomorrow’s going to be a busy one, too. Stay tuned!

[mellifiedprincess]

hii :) this is my first time writing on here, so please be kind to me. i do appreciate constructive criticism though!

a/n: while there isn’t any smut in this, there are some suggestive themes. there is also mention of anxiety

ANXIOUS MY LOVE?

jack champion x reader

He was spiraling. You could see it in his eyes, as soon as you looked over at him. He was freaking and you weren’t quite sure how to help. You couldn’t quite tell how deep in his thoughts he was at the moment.

You knew you needed to get him somewhere quiet though. Somewhere away from the prying eyes of reporters surrounding the red carpet.

“Hey, Jack? Hey-“ You pause as he meets your eyes. The whites of his tinged with pink from holding back tears. A soft worried smile makes its way to your face, and you place a comforting hand on his arm. “I’m gonna get you somewhere a little more quiet, okay?” All he can manage to do for now is nod.

You’re not sure if it’s the bright lights, the shouting from every direction, maybe even the nerves of everyone he loves watching the premiere of his new movie. Maybe it’s all of that and then some, but there’s one thing you know for a fact and that is he’s on the verge of an anxiety attack. You make quick steps to find the entrance of the building the premiere is being held in, avoiding the yells from cameramen trying to get pictures of your boyfriend.

You finally make it inside and find a quiet room, pushing him inside quickly, before locking the door making sure no one can disturb you two. “I’m just gonna let your mom know what’s going on. I don’t want her to panic when she can’t find us.”

After sending her a quick text, you stand in front of Jack, taking his hands into your own. “You wanna tell me what’s going on in that pretty brain of yours?” You tilt your head a bit to look up at him, making eye contact so he knows he has your full undivided attention.

He’s leaning against a counter, big brown eyes staring straight into yours.

“It’s just a lot at once. This is my first big movie role, you know. I’m worried about disappointing you and disappointing my mom.

What if I’m a shit actor and this is all I’m ever gonna get because I suck so bad at doing the one thing I love.” Jack pauses, pulling you closer to his body, wrapping his arms completely around you and lays his head on top of yours before continuing.

“I just- We all have spent so much of our time on this movie. And not just the cast and crew, I’m talking about my mom too. She’s done so much for me. She’s given so much of her time for me.” He takes a breath in, his words getting caught in his throat.

“And you-“ He pauses again, moving his hands to cup your face. He smiles, his dimples peeking through, and then places a soft kiss to your lips. “You have been nothing but supportive, patient, and shown me nothing but love.”

You can hear the emotion in his voice. You can see the tears he’s trying his best to hold back. You can feel the slight shake in his hands.

“I’m terrified right now, baby. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

You place your hands on top of his, still resting on your cheeks. “Jack, I love you, okay? Your mom loves you too. And I’m willing to bet, she’d agree with me when i say, you could never disappoint us. We know how much you put into this. We know how hard you’ve worked.

You remember that little music video you made for school? About the pythagorean theorem.” A blush coats the apples of his cheeks, you know he hates that video. You love it though.

“Do you know how proud I was of you when you made that? You stepped outside of your comfort zone, and made something hilarious.” Jack shakes his head and he gives you a small laugh. “My point is, you can’t disappoint us. Cause no matter what you do, we’re gonna keep loving you and cheering you on.”

You move your hand down to his bicep, squeezing it before rubbing it up and down. “I seriously don’t deserve you.” Jack mumbles as he leans down to place another kiss to your lips. This time he deepens it, it lasting a lot longer than the other one. “Yeah, well you can prove your worth later when we’re alone.” You mumble back.

“We’re alone now.”

You push at his chest as his lips move down to your jaw. “I mean later in the privacy of our hotel room. Besides, my very attractive boyfriend is in this movie we’re about to watch. Can’t miss that, now can we?” You take your thumb and wipe away the pink lipgloss from his lips, a little more swollen from the heated kiss you two shared just moments ago. He grabs your hand before you pull it away and places a kiss to the palm of it, before grasping it in his.

“I guess you’re right.” Jack says as he rolls his eyes affectionately. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at him. “But seriously, are you feeling better?” Physically you can tell he is, but you being you needed him to verbally confirm he was okay, before going back out there.

He smiles down at you once again and grabs your chin, kissing you one more time before answering.

“Yes baby, i’m feeling much better because of you.”

“Good! Now let’s go watch little Jack run around with that big ass forehead on display.”

“Oh you’re paying for that one later.” Jack says as he pinches your sides, making you squeal with laughter.

His little threat meant nothing to you, you were just happy he was feeling better.

[ranidspace]

idk. reblog with ur favourite math images or things that are iconic that i missed

[santoschristos]

From THE One

To the many.

From the many

To The ♡NE.

The Swastika Symbol 卍

In Sanskrit it is called a swastika, meaning “good.” It comes from the word swasti “welfare,” in turn from su “well” and asti “it is.” In popular use in India, it is thought to be a sign of good luck.

The clockwise Swastika is a Solar Symbol representing the cycles of the Sun, while the counterclockwise is called “Sauvastika” and it represents the night and its Lunar cycles.

This archetypal pattern refers to eternal processes of cycles and polarities which exists at all scales of nature, just like the Ouroboros, Hexagram, Yin-Yang, Torus, Fibonacci Sequence, etc…

It is the “Cosmic Spiral” which forms the Universe and Life itself.

“Few world-symbols are more pregnant with real occult meaning than the Svastika. It is symbolized by the figure 6; for, like that figure, it points in its concrete imagery, as the ideograph of the number does, to the Zenith and the Nadir, to North, South, West, and East; … It is the emblem of the activity of Fohat, of the continual revolution of the ‘wheels,’ and of the Four Elements, the ‘Sacred Four,’ in their mystical, and not alone in their cosmical meaning; further its four arms, bent at right angles, are intimately related … to the Pythagorean and Hermetic scales. One initiated into the mysteries of the meaning of the Svastika, say the Commentaries, ‘can trace on it, with mathematical precision, the evolution of Kosmos and the whole period of Sandhya.’ Also ‘the relation of the Seen to the Unseen,’ and ‘the first procreation of man and species.’ The initiated adept, who had successfully passed through all the trials, was attached, not nailed, but simply tied on a couch in the form of a tau (in Egypt) of a Svastika without the four additional prolongations (thus:, not) plunged in a deep sleep (the ‘Sleep of Siloam’ it is called to this day among the Initiates in Asia Minor, in Syria, and even higher Egypt). He was allowed to remain in this state for three days and three nights, during which time his Spiritual Ego was said to confabulate with the ‘gods,’ descend into Hades, Amenti, or Patala (according to the country), and do works of charity to the invisible beings, whether souls of men or Elemental Spirits; his body remaining all the time in a temple crypt or subterranean cave. In Egypt it was placed in the Sarcophagus in the King’s Chamber of the Pyramid of Cheops, and carried during the night of the approaching third day to the entrance of a gallery, where at a certain hour the beams of the rising Sun struck full on the face of the entranced candidate, who awoke to be initiated by Osiris, and Thoth the God of Wisdom.” –Helena Petrovna Blavatsky - The Secret Doctrine - Volume II

[dlwritings]

Disappointed | Peter Parker

masterlist found here

pairing - dark!Peter x reader word count - 2,225 warnings - so much angst, dark Peter is dark, ENDGAME SPOILER UNDER THE CUT A/N - for the anon who requested it! | I’ve never written a dark Peter before and I didn’t really know what to do but I hope this is good

summary - The events of Endgame have taken their toll on Peter. Unfortunately, this means you’re left picking up his broken pieces, and you’re not sure how much more strength you have to help him.

You learned a lot of things in school.

You could recite the Pythagorean theorem at the drop of the hat.

You were completely aware of all the different stages of mitosis.

You knew about the Nixon Tapes and Watergate and World Wars I and II.

Teachers would tell you everyday how important all of those things would be someday, and maybe they were right. The thing was, they didn’t teach you anything that you needed to know as a senior in high school.

No one taught you how to look like you hadn’t just been crying in the bathroom.

No one taught you how to hold your car keys between your knuckles when you’re walking home at night.

And no one told you how to help a friend out of a dark spiral when they can’t see the end.

Those things you had to figure out on your own.

When Tony died, Peter was a completely different person. To you, he was almost unrecognizable. His usual smile was gone. When he did allow his lips to curve even slightly upward, the happiness never met his eyes. You assumed it was because the happiness wasn’t actually there. He always looked tired and worn -even more so than he would after a particularly hard day of being Spider-Man. He even started getting into fights at school the minute someone looked at him in a way he didn’t like.

It was the pity, you thought. If anyone showed even a glimpse of pity towards Peter, he snapped. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. He didn’t want their condolences or prayers. He wanted Tony back.

By the end of your senior year, you were exhausted. You were exhausted from school and college applications, but mostly you were exhausted from handling Peter. Somehow throughout the course of the year, you had been handed the responsibility of getting him out of trouble. It was a lot of work. You loved Peter so much -he was your best friend and your boyfriend- but it was getting so hard to constantly stand up for him when he took things too far.

On the last day of school, everything seemed okay. Peter wasn’t happy in his old sense of the word, but he was happy. Everyone was. School was out, summer was just around the corner, and college was on the horizon. What was there to be unhappy about?

The final bell rang, and everyone headed to their lockers. Free periods were spent cleaning them out, so all you had to do was grab your backpack and head out the door. As usual, you were going to wait on the school’s front steps for Peter. Just as you were about to reach the doors, MJ ran up to you and grabbed your arm. She had a look of fear on her face, which you hated. It wasn’t a look she adorned very often. You couldn’t even get any words out, because all she had to say was, “Peter,” and you were gone. She led the way through the halls towards the back doors of the school. In the back courtyard, a crowd had gathered. You pushed your way to the front of it and saw Peter pounding his fists against Flash’s face.

“Peter!” you shouted, your voice hardly audible over the sound of the crowd egging him on. He didn’t stop for a moment, as if he didn’t even hear you. He was in his own world. You called his name again, and still got nothing. You finally walked over to him, ignoring the protests from MJ. He was too far gone now. You knew you were the only one who could bring him back.

You walked up to him and crouched down in front of him. You didn’t want to sneak up behind him, so you kneeled down by Flash’s head so Peter could see you. You said his name again, fighting the lump in your throat. Tears were coming to your eyes as you saw Flash’s face: beaten, bloody, and bruising. “Peter, stop,” you said, your voice cracking. You laid a hand on his shoulder, and he finally stopped, looking up at you as if only just then realizing you were there. He looked up at you, his dark eyes softening a bit. He saw the tears in your eyes and looked down at Flash. His eyes widened like he had no idea he had been the one who had made those markings. He looked back up at you as you stood up and reached for his hand. He stood up as well, not sparing another glance at Flash. You did, seeing MJ going to help him up and probably take him to the nurse’s office. You gave her an apologetic smile, and she returned one. She knew this was hard for you.

Neither you nor Peter said a word on your way home. You both knew you were going to your apartment. You lived with your mom and she worked as a nurse into the early hours of the morning. This was routine after one of his fights. You would bring him to your apartment and fix things there the way they needed to be fixed.

You both walked into your apartment, dropping your backpacks on the couch in the living room. Without any question or hesitation, you and Peter went into the bathroom. Peter jumped onto the bathroom counter as you went into the cupboard to get the first aid kit. He didn’t need much bandaging. Flash hadn’t gotten many good licks in: a cut on his lip and one on his forehead. What you were really looking at were his hands. Covered in blood that you were sure weren’t his own, they couldn’t be the same hands that touched you so gently.

You sniffed, swallowing back some tears, and grabbing a washcloth, running it under some water. You took Peter’s hands in yours and washed them gently. The blood vanished, revealing a few cuts of his own on his skin.

You continued cleaning him up in silence. You had nothing to say to him. This was getting old, and you were running out of words of encouragement. “He egged me on,” Peter whispered. “He said Tony’s death didn’t get me a free pass anymore. Then he called me Penis Parker again.”

“And you just couldn’t let it go, could you?” you said, not looking up at him. “Flash has been taunting you since middle school. I can’t believe you let him get to you.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” Peter asked. “He said Tony-”

“I heard what you said, Peter,” you said. His fists had clenched, so you rubbed your thumb against his skin to get him to relax again. You finally finished cleaning up his face and looked at him. Tears were in your eyes again, and Peter’s face softened. “I can’t keep doing this, Peter,” you said. “It’s exhausting being the only one who can fix you. I feel like I don’t even know who you are anymore.” You let out a soft cry “Don’t you see all the people you’re hurting? Don’t you see that May can’t even look at you without crying anymore?”

“Shut up, (Y/N),” he muttered. You could tell he was angry, but so were you.

“Ned is scared of you, Peter,” you continued. “He doesn’t even like to be alone with you.”

“Shut up!” Peter yelled.

“Tony would be so disappointed in you.”

This made Peter freeze. He looked at you, astonished at your words, before hanging his head and staring down at his hands -hands he didn’t even recognize anymore. A part of you wished you could take the words back, but another part of you knew he needed to hear them. Sure, you could bring him back to Earth when he was spiraling, but you knew Tony could too. You just wished he was there to tell you what to do.

“You don’t think I wish I wasn’t like this?” Peter whispered. “You don’t think I’m scared of myself when I look in the mirror? I wake up in the morning, and I don’t even feel like myself. I just, I’m so angry all the time, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix it.” Peter looked up at you, eyes bloodshot and filled with tears. His cheeks were flushed, and there were tear stains across his skin. You hated seeing him like this. “Please don’t leave me,” he choked out. “Please. I’m begging you.”

“Whoa, whoa, what are you talking about?” you said, holding his face in your hands. You brushed some tears away and stared into his eyes. “You think I’m gonna leave you? Why the hell would I do that?”

“I know that I’m breaking you,” he said. “I know what you say about me when you think I’m not listening. When you think I’m asleep so you call MJ. I know what you say. You’re scared of me, too.”

“I’m not gonna leave you,” you said. You rubbed the pads of your thumbs across his skin. “Okay?” Peter didn’t say anything. You knew he didn’t believe you. “Peter, listen to me,” you said again. He had been darting his eyes around the room, not wanting to look at your face, but your firm words made him stare at you again. “I’m not going to leave you. You’re going through something, and I’m going to go through it with you. That’s my choice, and I make that choice because I love you.” Peter let out a soft sob, and you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close to you. He buried his head in your chest, and you brushed your fingers through his hair. You saw your reflection in the mirror and noticed your eyes were as sad as his were. You didn’t know Tony all that well, but his death had been hard on the whole world. Seeing it break Peter as much as it did made it feel oddly personal to you.

“I miss him so much,” Peter cried, “and I’m so sick of being sad.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“I just want to be better.”

“I know.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“But I am.”

You pulled away from him and tried to brush more tears from his cheeks. You gave him a sad smile and kept one of your hands on his cheek. “I want my Peter back,” you whispered. “I mean, the angst can be hot, but I miss your smile.” This made Peter scoff and hang his head again. You ran your fingers through his curls and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Do you want to have angsty sex?” you teased as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “I know you love angry angst sex.” Peter let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. It was such a hopeful sound, it made your heart flutter.

“I think I just wanna hold you,” he mumbled. He looked up at you with soft eyes that were so familiar, from a time that felt so far gone. “Can I do that?” You smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

“Of course,” you said. The two of you made your way to your bedroom. Peter stripped down to his boxers, and you tossed him a pair of sweatpants he had once left at your place. You pulled on some of your own sweats and a tank top and crawled into bed beside him. You shot a quick text to your mom, informing her as briefly as you could about the situation and that Peter would be spending the night. She knew what Peter was going through and the toll it was taking on him (and you), so she was understanding about it all. When you put your phone on the nightstand, Peter put his arms around you and pulled you close to him.

When Peter was sad, all you wanted was to hold him in your arms and run your fingers through his hair. Instead, Peter insisted on it being the other way around. He would hold you close to his chest and brush his hand from the top of your scalp to the ends of your hair. You had a theory that it was because it put him in control. Even if the whole world was chaos, he could still hold you and keep you safe.

“Do you want any food?” you asked him. “We could get Chinese or pizza.” Despite the fact that you were laying in bed, it was only about 5:00.

“Not really,” Peter mumbled. “Maybe later? I just, can we just lay here?”

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s okay, too.” Peter looked down at you and gave you a sad, tired smile.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” you asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

Peter placed a kiss to the top of your head. “For everything. For loving me, despite, you know, everything.”

You and Peter laid in bed in silence until your stomachs both growled too loudly to ignore. It made Peter laugh -a real laugh that you hadn’t heard in so long. You smiled. Your Peter would come back to you soon enough. You could feel it.

[wander-yet-wonder]

Parting the veil - Spaus

Fandom: Hetalia Pairing: Spaus, (Spain / Austria) Word count: 2319 Rating: All audiences Warnings: Historicised attitudes towards Islam do not reflect the author’s views.  Summary: Roderich isn't the best at travelling. Still, he'd gladly do so in order to spend time with his new husband. The Spanish landscape betrays things about Antonio he'd rather keep silent himself. It seems like Antonio has separated himself from his past through a sheer curtain and when visiting Roderich feels like he can almost see through it, see the ghosts that move on the other side. Everything is so foreign to him, will he be able to eventually harmonize with Antonio? Read on AO3: X

I was requested to write a Spaus drabble, apparently, I can’t write drabbles and instead put out a whole ass fic. So um- have this? @fandomghost I hope you like it. Special shoutout to @katemarley  for recommending me Innsbruck ich muss dich lassen when I was nerding to her about German renaissance music <3

At least there were mountains. Roderich was grateful for the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees that decorate the horizon visible from his window. They were the only familiar sight because he was in all other aspects “fast entheimt”. Unfortunately, now that they had reached Zaragoza, a city with a name so foreign that he wouldn’t have discredited as the name of an ancient Persian magician in a novel, the mountains were far more distant and only visible on clear days. The name of the city wasn’t the only thing that was foreign to him, when he and his consorts had crossed the mountains he had felt like the very bedrock that Spain was made of was unlike his own, down to the small crocus like flowers that bloomed in the meadows that their guide had explained to him were rare ‘false saffron’. In Zaragoza, he’d been given a room in the palace of the catholic monarchs that had taken residence there after Isabel I of Castile had married Ferdinand II of Aragon but that in the streets was still referred to by the people as the palace of Aljaféria. Though that royal marriage had unified Spain and was the reason he could stay there to visit his Antonio, Aragon was by no means gone. Her belongings and her culture were still found all over the province. However, he wasn’t to meet her until later that month. He felt like in a way, simply by travelling the land he already had met her. She wasn’t the only shadow of a nation that he felt. Besides Spain, that is to say, Castile and Aragon, there was a third presence within these castle walls, an invisible presence, a ghost from the past.

 Roderich had never fully realised the reality of the occupation by Arabic forces in the peninsula. When he had Antonio in front of him in Aachen, a fierce proprietor of Christendom, speaking Latin with a quintessentially Romanesque tongue… He had somehow thought that as the occupiers left the peninsula, Antonio was a roman again. That when they left, they took everything with them, left no traces, that whatever was left was carefully purged by his new husband. Yet these walls told a different story. In a moment where he’d been free to roam the halls, he’d let himself be spellbound by the strange arabesque masonry, the ever-spiralling geometrical decorative patterning in the friezes, the archways, the capitals. One gallery from where he could reach the stonework, he had secretly pressed his fingers against it, half expecting it to give way like bee’s wax due to how much it resembled a honeycomb. He let out a quivering breath and whispered the name: the Umayyad dynasty, the caliphate of Cordoba. That strange shadow that seemed to hide in the corners in the palace. Had he made a mistake when marrying Antonio? How much of his husband was still Moorish?

 Antonio was always secretive and defensive about his time isolated from the rest of them. Roderich never pressed him for answers. He’d lie in bed next to him and watch Antonio’s quiet breathing and think to himself that Antonio must’ve suffered a lot. Yet he looked at how his own hand looked like porcelain against Antonio’s chest, and he wondered.

 These thoughts were tumbling over each other as he was staring out the window, his letter to the bishop abandoned in front of him as his quill was resting idly between his fingers. He felt sick to the stomach again, he’d always get such bad Heimweh, if only Toni could just always visit him in Austria… that would be a perfect world.

“Ah, there you are!”

Antonio snapped him out of his reverie by materializing in the doorframe and looking at him like he was trying to figure him out, like studying a puzzling little flower, like a false saffron, and wondering whether it was edible or not.

“Have you truly been cooped up in here all-day writing? Come, this won’t do, come out and catch some fresh air.”

He’d already strode over and made to pull Roderich along by the arm despite the young man’s protests that it was too hot outside and that he’d tan.

“I gathered some courtiers, we’re going to play music in the courtyard. If you sit in the gallery you won’t tan. Just join it’ll be great. Did you play that Viol a lot?”

 ‘That viol’ was the lovely Soprano viol that Antonio had given to Roderich when they parted ways after their second visit. Roderich had been familiar with the more European Vieille already and had taken to the instrument like he’d never played anything else. It helped that it was a gift from Antonio, so whenever he missed him too much he could take out the viol, lovingly caress the little wooden face that was carved into the end of the neck with incredible craftmanship, and then by playing and studying bring Antonio a little closer. He’d carefully press down on the strings and would imagine Toni listening and smiling. He’d been playing it when sad or lonely so often he started to feel like he expressed his feelings better through music than through words. So to Antonio’s question, he gave a firm affirmative nod and looked at the case that contained it when he brought it with him here.

“Well bring it! I want to hear!”

Roderich’s heart quickened. He had fantasized about what would happen if he’d play in front of Antonio, that Antonio would listen and understand- that he could say what he wanted to say without words. That Antonio instantly recognised that he’d studied hard just to please him. But now that the moment was here, he felt suddenly nervous.

“Ah, very well, I’ll play for you. But not for your court.”

Antonio looked a little taken aback but then agreed with a smile

“We’ll have fewer instruments then, but it agrees with me.”

 Roderich tried to read Antonio and see if he wasn’t upset but he couldn’t tell. He took the dear instrument and tagged along, all the while trying not to be deafened by his heart nervously pounding in his ears. Antonio retrieved his vihuela de mano from the group of courtiers and declared they wouldn’t be joining them until later. They seemed a little disappointed, but Roderich observed from the doorway that the confident way in which Antonio declared he wouldn’t be present, rather than asked to be forgiven for not joining made no one even think of questioning him. He smiled; this is what he adored in Antonio.

 Antonio took him to one of the palaces many open courtyards and sat him down underneath the strange honeycomb arches on a railing. With just the two of them in an enclosed garden Roderich thought of the many courtly romance novels he’s read and blushed a bit. Antonio caught on and with a grin took his hand and kissed it.

“So, are we going to play music? Or was this all an elaborate plan of yours so we could exchange kisses?”

Antonio was already scooting a bit closer and his smirk grew. Roderich frowned as his blush deepened but couldn’t hide a smile.

“Don’t tease me, Antonio.”

He leaned in and gave Antonio a small kiss on the cheek.

“I had every intention to play music for you."

 Antonio nodded and sat back a bit and gave Roderich a tender smile that sent a warmth spreading through his chest. Roderich got in position and put the viol between his legs. He took a deep breath and took the bow to the strings. He took a deep breath and started to sing. It was the song he’d been singing ever since Innsbruck’s precious valley had been swallowed between the pine trees as they had crossed that fateful bend in the road that meant saying goodbye. Roderich had never been good at travel, he was in his essence a very rooted person. He needed the mountains, the pine trees, the fresh crisp winter air, he needed his home. At first, he had thought that this crippling nervousness that took hold of him when he was in unfamiliar territory had to do with the type of creature that he was: wouldn’t it make sense for countries to have to be close to their lands? But the more other’s he met, the more he learned that isn’t necessarily the case. He sang the first tender lines of ‘Innsbruck ich muss dich lassen’, which he had been practising to bring him solace ever since he had left. He had adapted the original choral piece by giving the higher register to his viol and himself singing a fragile tenor second voice.

 “ISbruck, ich muß dich lassen ich far do hin mein strassen in fremde land do hin mein freud ist mir genomen die ich nit weiß bekummen wo ich jm elend bin.”

 It had every property of a learned piece of music, despite its secular subject. In his opinion, the choral harmonies showed a Pythagorean harmony and evoked the harmonies of heaven. It was in every aspect a thing of technical ingenuity. But it was out of place. Singing about Innsbruck and his land in the Spanish summer heat just fell flat. All the emotion he could usually put into it, about missing home and struggling with travel didn’t seem to communicate either.

 “Groß leid muß ich yetz tragen das ich allein thu klagen dem liebsten bůlen mein ach lieb nun laß mich armen im hertzen dein erbarmen das ich muß von dannen sein.”

 The second verse, about parting from your lover was yet another thing very recognisable for him, as he and Antonio often spent large stretches apart from one another. Antonio, however, seemed more concerned with picking dirt out from under his nails than listening. He knew Antonio didn’t know much German, but he hoped he would at least get the gist of it. His voice wavered slightly as he tried to keep Antonio invested in the music all through the last verse.

 “Meyn trost ob allen weyben dein thu ich ewig pleyben stet trew der eren frumm nun muß dich Gott bewaren in aller thugent sparen biß das ich wider kumm.”

 A pledge of faithfulness to the one you’re leaving. It was silent for a moment between them after he finished and Roderich felt like he’d swallowed a brick. Antonio perked up again and took his vihuela.

“You did not enjoy it.”

He must’ve looked hurt because Antonio winced and reassuringly pet his hand.

“Ah no! It was good! I could tell it was technically perfect.”

Antonio was a terrible liar though and with one stern look, Roderich managed to get him to sigh and tell the truth.

“It was just- all the same. And a bit sad, but mostly just that it was the same thing three times, and all the rhythm stayed the same and the distance between the cords stayed the same… It made me feel like I was either at church or just- really bored.”

Roderich was confused, “But- isn’t that what music is supposed to sound like? With regular harmonies? I read in a book-”

Antonio cut him off: “That’s exactly it! It sounds so learned, so lifeless! Shouldn’t music be sweeping? To slowly build and make you feel this- this- Ecstasy! wait, I’ll show you what I learned!”

He started strumming the vihuela. “Ok, you clap along.” Roderich uneasily started clapping, a little off-beat because of the strange rhythm Antonio was creating.

“This is an old one Roderich so you might know it. Hmm, maybe not the words it’s easy, you just sing the refrain with me I’ll do the stanzas. Ok, it’s Santa María, Strela do día, Móstra-nos, pera Déus e nos guía. Got that?”

Antonio was tapping his foot to the rhythm and slapping the wood of his vihuela in between the plucking. Then he suddenly stopped and took a ring of keys of his belt and handed it to Roderich. “Here, shake this- hmm this would be better if we had more players.” But he kept playing until Roderich got the hang of it. Then he started singing with it, the refrain was relatively straightforward but once Roderich got it, Toni started to make strange variations on it that threw him of again.

“No, it’s ok Roderich, you just keep singing the regular version and I’ll vary upon it. Also, the rhythm is rha-pa-pa-pa, rha-pa-papa-pa-pa. Yes, like that.”

Once they sang together like that for a while Antonio inserted stanzas between the refrains where the end of the sentences ended in long drawn out undulating notes. They were unlike anything Roderich had ever heard in a church at home or even at the fair! Though they were singing about Mary, about asking god forgiveness for sins, Roderich felt strange with what was happening. He wasn’t very good at it, but it felt like Antonio was pulling him along in a wild dance. Just as he’d gotten the hang of it, Antonio sped up and harmonized with him. Roderich could feel his body sway from side to side, almost without his will and they moved in perfect unison, rising and falling. He felt his sadness slowly fading and he smiled while singing. The thing Antonio had said about sweeping you away, about ecstasy, he was starting to understand it now. This strange rhythm, and the way Antonio intuitively reacted to what he was doing… it was almost sensual. When they finished his cheeks were red and he was slightly out of breath. Any passer-by would’ve suspected them of exchanging kisses in the garden after all. Perhaps he might as well… He enthusiastically threw himself forward, wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed Antonio on the lips. Nothing as chaste as before, the vihuela awkwardly between them. Antonio was clearly surprised but not complaining.

 Hi! Welcome to this fic exploring the musical differences between Antonio and Roderich (and perhaps, by extension in their personalities). The music, however, isn't the only historical reference going on in here.

 This fic is set very shortly after their marriage so anywhere between 1520 and 1525. They're still trying to figure each other out and getting to know the other's culture. Or at least, Roderich is.

 The Moorish occupation of the Iberian peninsula was in that time seen as a very dark page in Spain's history and after the Reconquista Spain was portraying itself as an extremely Christian country (perhaps overcompensating slightly?). The time in Al Andalus, however, was a time when music, poetry and science flourished in Spain and the land and culture are still very influenced by it. The palace they're staying in is evidence of that. (Look up a picture it's gorgeous).

 Roderich is starting to notice these Islamic influences in his new husband. And as a Christian man living in the 1500's they make him warry (not to speak of the attacks of the Ottoman empire on Austria in that time). However, the thing he ends up enjoying immensely about Antonio in this fic, his music, is something that is extremely Moorish.

Moorish music was seen as highly skilled and highly superior music even after Christianisation and Moorish musicians were still employed by the court a lot for special events.

 There are two characters in here that aren't canon: the kingdom of Aragon and the Caliphate of Cordoba. The Kingdom of Aragon is a fierce lady that's the bane of Antonio's existence even though right now they're unified.

 The pieces that both of them play are from their respective countries, and links are included in the lyrics. Roderich's is a contemporary piece by Henrich Isaac. If the lyrics look strange that's because that's the original 16th-century german. Antonio's piece is older, It's one of the many cantiga's de Santa maria. These canticles were written for King Alfonso X, who made a great contribution to early Spanish Christian culture. They're in the Galician dialect of Spanish that's super close to Portuguese.

 As for their instruments, there are three instruments mentioned. The first being Roderich's viol. This is a predecessor to the modern-day violin, but also to the cello. It belongs to the family of the 'viola da gamba'. it was developed in 15th-century Spain. They are played upright in the lap with a bow. You can see one in use here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLgJPBDzS6o

 The viol bore some resemblance to the vielle, an older and more northern European relative to the instrument, that is actually played underneath the chin. The experience with the vielle is what made it easier for Roderich to learn the viol.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdps64D-u-g

 finally, Antonio is playing the vihuela da mano. While this seems yet another instrument of which the name resembles 'violin' it actually resembles a guitar more!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=duHMeCndpjo

 And let's not forget about the important percussion instrument: Antonio's keys.

 Have any questions about historical things I forgot to explain? please don't hesitate to shoot me a message or comment on this fic and I'll gladly elaborate.

[6ebe]

Do you ever look in a mirror and think of what a plastic surgeon would do to your face to make it better and then catch yourself kneeling at the feet of conventional and quantified beauty standards nd drop kick that thought straight out of your brain because no my face is not a damn golden ratio Pythagorean spiral and it shouldn’t have to be or?