#see a marabout

[marabout2772]

TW blood ! And kinda spoiler for the Tokyo rev manga

A sorta hankisa (?) comic I first imaginated 2 years ago, but didn't have the capabilities, or the confidence to actually draw

Today I'm proud to announce that I finally made it ! The scenario is not really interesting, but it's a project very close to my heart nonetheless :)

So yeah, this post is about hanma being a bit cray cray,

but ALSO, it's about my growth as an artist, and how I am glad drawing made its way into my life, and how it shaped me as a person :')

I know there's not a lotta audience for the hankisa, or hanma centric, side of Tokyo rev, but i hope you fine lads like it :) ❤

Likes are cool, reblogs are cooler btw

[starmaniamania]

Starmania 2022 "Paranoia" by female!Gourou Malaika Lacy - with English subtitles. I would recommend against trying to watch full screen lol

The Gourou is seen here performing a "group therapy / orgy" session with a bunch of drugged and/or brainwashed followers, among whom Stella Spotlight, and singing about weaponized conspiracy thinking (when they tell you Starmania is topical!!)

The character of the Gourou existed on the original album (sung by Michel Berger himself) and the 1979 show (Roddy Julienne) but was cut from subsequent versions. It is reintroduced here to provide a political opponent for Zéro Janvier in the campaign for the President of the Western World. The Gourou is played alternately by Simon Geoffroy and Malaika Lacy, who 1) is amazing, and 2) really gives the character additional dimension!

[hubillusion]

if anything that match proved iga is djokovics heir ……….. evil scamming after being the worse player 😭

Yes you're right too hahaha She seems to have the contact of Djoko's marabout. Maybe i should start to see her as a Rafole child 🤔

[mbabeys]

Part 2 of the PSG OG clownery 🤡

that i forgot to repost after it glitched

i've had people asking in the previous post what happened in the elevator back in 1998, well the former President of RC Lens himself recounted the story and said that the first reaction the back-then President of PSG had when the elevator stopped working was 'i don't know how, but i know it's your fault'.

in 1977, PSG reached Division I and splurged on Carlos Bianchi. For those who don't know, Bianchi was nearly blind as a bat, and confessed that the reason he didn't play any closer from the penalty box was because otherwise he just couldn't see the goal. He still went on to become PSG's top scorer for forty years, until Zlatan came along, then Cavani, then Kylian.

in 1997, the club was so desperate after a loss in the first leg against Bucarest in the UCL they paid a marabout to predict them the outcome of the second match. Literally. They needed to score at least 4 goals. The marabout predicted 5-0. PSG did win 5-0 but didn't make it out of the group stage.

in 2005, during an OM-PSG clasico, Marseille (allegedly) poured ammonia all over the Parisian locker room to prevent them from entering. The players had to change in the hallway and in various staircases. OM denied, saying their own locker room smelled even worse. PSG went on to claim that they lost because Marseille had also sent Clara Morgane, a notorious porn actress and Marseille-fan, to distract the players ahead of the game, when she specifically said she hadn't seen any of the players despite being in the stadium. Paris went on to seize the LFP. Imagine the headlines after that.

in 2012, in the weeks following Ibra's transfer to Paris, his wife got mugged Place Vendôme. PSG offered to replace her designer handbag, until they found out its cost went beyond €30 000. They promptly rescinded their offer. (Ibra was more pissed because inside was his hunting permit.)

in 2013, PSG players gathered at an A-list restaurant in town to watch a UCL match live. The place was new and constantly had powercuts, which messed up with the router. The owner was beside himself trying to make it work, until Ibra said 'I'll try'. He fixed it in the end, but the owner said the restaurant got real quiet for a while

that time in 2018 where Verratti nearly peed his pants trying to avoid Tuchel standing in the way of a Parisian restroom, just so he wouldn't be told off for staying out late

during his tenure, Pochettino (reportedly) told Kylian a few times to 'leave [him] alone' and 'please go to sleep', because Kylian kept texting him late-night gameplans and tactical plays until 2 or 3am

Dr. Rolland, the former club doctor, is the reason Verratti is still smoking. Take it up with him.

[antaxzantax]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 53

Summary: William Birkin is demoted to lab chief in the subway laboratory. William Birkin confronts Alexia Ashford.

1

Their last handshake as heads of research at the Arklay laboratory. Albert was leaving for the Department of Information on his own initiative and after having lost his passion for research when he came up against the limits of his talent.

William was staying on.

“I'll miss you.” William smiled.

“We still work at the same company. We'll see each other again.” Albert repositioned his suit jacket.

“Sure... Uhm... I remember the first time I saw you. You looked to me like you'd just come out of a juvenile facility.”

Albert shrugged.

“I've changed my style.” He headed for the exit.

“We'll see each other again.” William waved goodbye behind him. “My best friend.”

Albert glanced sideways at William.

And walked away.

2

He mounted a Mr. Spock on a little wooden horse. Spock began to ride across the barren plains of Mars toward the horizon. But a pterodactyl suddenly appeared in his path. The pterodactyl swooped down and caught Spock with its powerful claws. Spock tried to free himself from the dinosaur's deadly embrace, but his strength paled before the monster's physical power. The horsie fell to the rocks, where he died, stripped naked. But Spock had an ace up his sleeve: he activated the explosive he had kept in his jacket. Unable to react, the pterodactyl and Spock exploded like a mushroom cloud, their guts raining down on Mars.

Sherry whimpered at the tragic loss of her pterodactyl. William, emboldened by the triumph, picked up the Spock and raised it to the sky like the bone that the ape threw into space to become a man. A resounding demonstration that intelligence always defeated brute force.

Sherry, helpless, wept.

“Oh... Come on, don't cry.” William hugged her. “It was just a stupid game.”

Sherry whimpered.

“We will resurrect the pterodactyl, and it will join Spock in a new adventure.”

She stood up with her five-year-old daughter in her arms.

“Are they best friends?” Sherry asked, sniffling.

“Of course they'll be friends. Why wouldn't they be?”

Sherry cowered in her father's hollow but did not respond. William sighed.

“There are many reasons... Sometimes, people don't like each other...” he said to himself. “Anyway. Forget about it.”

“You love me...” Sherry said sleepily.

“Yes...”

There was a knock at the door. Annette appeared on the scene with a letter in her hand. She stood next to her husband and showed him the Umbrella logo. William lowered Sherry to the floor. Both parents exchanged glances and then left the bedroom. Sherry was left alone in the room with the charred remains of the pterodactyl and Mr. Spock strewn across the brown sand.

They went into William's office on the first floor. Armed with a letter opener, Annette cut open the flap and uncovered the single sheet of paper contained in the envelope.

They skipped the greeting and went to the climax:

Both researchers have been ordered to be transferred to the new underground laboratory built on the outskirts of Raccoon City.

“Underground laboratory?” Annette questioned the paper, frankly surprised. “Were there more labs?”

William scratched his neck.

“No. There is the Training Center and Arklay.”

“They must have built it now,” Annette concluded quickly. “And weren't we supposed to be notified in advance?” She stiffened her voice and gesture.

“Yes. No. I don't know.” William felt a sudden uneasiness.

That night he would have insomnia.

3

The full moon was gliding across the London sky. The City bustled with activity at midnight. From a zenithal view, suits and gowns were scouring the labyrinthine streets like the marabout sweeping through the jungle, like an amorphous mass of ephemeral passions and a permanent drive for self-assertion.

She sipped from a glass filled with water, enjoying the lush beauty of the pale satellite. Her father preferred to drink Scotch and improvise on the grand piano.

He waited for her to decide. A complex decision.

Reflected in the window glass, the silhouette of the reddish pendant her grandmother had given her when she turned eighteen was visible. The pendant she wore when her grandmother died in her arms a year before and during the funeral.

Although accustomed to the dying and decadent, Elizabeth's last exhalation made a deep impression on her. For an unknown reason, her grandmother had allowed no one else to be present at her dying except her granddaughter Alexia. On her deathbed, Elizabeth clasped her hands tightly and, in Dutch, confessed her last will:

“Sterf niet zoals Edward.”[1]

These last words anchored themselves in her mind like a wreck to the rocks on which she was decomposing. Perhaps her grandmother had been well-meaning, but that last interaction unsettled Alexia because it took her back to the frozen corridors of Antarctica...

But she had to go back.

She had to get back to Umbrella.

She had to do it for herself and for what she lost that fateful month of January. After eight years in the shadows, it was time to stick her head out into the light and prove to herself who she really was. Her grandmother had been afraid, hence the deathbed warning. But not Alexia. She was not afraid.

She had to get back to Umbrella.

“Dad.”

Alexander played the last note after listening to Alexia.

“Uhm?”

“I want to go back.”

Alexander rose from the armchair with the glass of Scotch in his hand and accompanied his daughter in the vision of the busy and bright city.

“As you wish.”

Alexia looked to her father to continue.

“Chief researcher in the underground laboratory, then. We have centralized the administration of these labs in Chicago, so you will be on your own and free of bureaucracy. The new project that was started at Arklay, the G, will be yours.”

Alexia nodded.

A decade had to pass.

4

Alex looked at the paper her father had secretly passed to her. The note listed two proper names: Alexander and Alexia Ashford.

“Under no circumstances mention the T-virus and be concise with your answers. I will lead the conversation.” Spencer imposed as he adjusted his jacket.

Alex nodded.

There was a knock at the door.

“Go ahead.” Spencer took off the cane he used as a support to stay upright and walk.

Patrick opened the door and gave way to a middle-aged blond man and a much younger, equally blond woman. The man and woman looked alike physically, so they were the two waiting guests.

“Alexander. Alexia.” Spencer turned to introduce Alex. “My daughter: Alexandra. Alexandra: Alexander and Alexia Ashford.”

Alexander furrowed his eyebrows but expressed no distinguishable emotion. Alexia remained static as she held Alex's gaze.

“She will be the chief researcher at the Arklay laboratory.”

Alexander stepped forward at last and shook Alex's hand.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

Alexia shook it at second.

“A pleasure,” she said with impersonal correctness.

“We have three ‘Alexes’ in the room,” Spencer joked as he picked up the cane. “Sasha and Lexia. Alexandra was born in America, so she doesn't have a nickname like ours. She's just Alex.” Spencer started walking towards the dining room. “And you have yet to meet Alf, who is not present but is also a friend.” He winked discreetly at Alexander and Alexia.

“Another time.” Alexander joined in the banter.

Spencer directed Patrick to open the double doors to the dining room.

“Will you join me for this dinner?” He invited them in.

Alexander and Alexia made their way to the dining room. Alex, standing behind them, merely observed their mannered gait, the slim cut of their suits and their back erect with a superiority complex. She relied on her experience as the stepdaughter of a millionaire rancher to survive the British upper class and win in the attempt.

5

Alexander opened the file cabinet containing the files of the Arklay lab's senior scientists. He pulled out all the folders at once and placed them on the table with a resounding thud. The water glass shook, and a pen fell to the floor.

Alexia began flipping through the names inscribed in each folder. Alexander picked up the pen and went to eat from the dessert plate they had been served to endure an arduous afternoon transferring and restructuring the staff of the new clandestine laboratory.

“Who was the chief investigator?” asked Alexia.

Alexander returned to the table while eating a pretzel. He rummaged through the chaos of papers until he came upon a cardboard listing the staff and their positions.

“There were two. William Birkin and Albert Wesker.” He read both names. “I saw them once when I went to Spencer manor to start the Tyrant project. Oswell told me Wesker had moved department. Birkin is still there, but Alexandra is replacing him at Arklay. Spencer asked me to keep him for us in the underground lab. Anything else you want to know?”

Alexia shook her head. Alexander retreated to the table with the desserts as he finished eating the pretzel. She continued to flip through the covers until she hit on what she was looking for.

Birkin, W.

She cleared the table of unimportant documents and opened the file.

First, a couple of photographs of the aforementioned. A first photo from when he was fifteen years old and attended the Training Center. Ordinary appearance. The second photo depicted a man in his early thirties, dressed in the same nondescript manner as the teenager in the first photo, and with a similar haircut. He turned the page. Below was a breakdown of his academic record. He started college when he was twelve. He also attended Harvard and took almost the same subjects. In these subjects, Alexia passed him by a few tenths. He earned her doctorate at seventeen. She turned over a new leaf. Personal information. Married with one daughter. Irrelevant. Turned page. Psychological profile. Erratic attitude and prone to stress. However, loyal to the company and hard worker. Poor social skills. Turned page. Directed projects. T. Hunter virus. Licker. Tyrant. Virus G.

Turned to the G-virus page.

Derived from the Progenitor. Discovered in the body of an unknown experimental subject at Spencer Manor.

“Father, who was the zero subject of G?”

Alexander put coffee in the machine.

“A woman,” he answered. “I don't know who she is. Someone from Raccoon City whom Oswell kidnapped as a guinea pig. Ask him.”

Alexia carefully reviewed the description of the G-virus. That was not her virus. The one she had lost. She didn’t want it. However, this William individual could perhaps be useful. Maybe.

“I want William Birkin as my lab chief,” demanded Alexia.

Alexander shrugged his shoulders.

“As you wish.”

6

His body was shaking like a jackhammer. In his frantic run, he collided with a passerby as he was crossing the alley toward the sales office. The passerby shat on his dead. The letter fell out of his hands, but he picked it up with extreme alacrity. In picking it up, he tripped over himself and ended up on the ground. Exhausted, he got up and resumed running until he found himself in front of the double door of the sales office.

He pressed the intercom button at two o'clock at night.

Silence.

He pressed the intercom button again.

“Who's calling?” A cavernous, distorted voice was heard through the loudspeaker.

“Wi... -William Birkin. I need to get through. Open the door!”

His voice trembled with cold and fury. Under the trench coat, he was dressed only in pajamas and underpants. As soon as Annette fell asleep, he ran away from home.

“Open the damn door!” William pounded his fists on the glass door.

“Identification number.” The voice demanded with tense calm. “Identification number.”

William stopped. He exhaled to calm himself and recalled the string of numbers and letters that constituted his employee ID.

“N... N0584H.”

“Wait a moment.” The intercom went dead.

Seconds turned into hours and hours into eons. He began to prowl like a wolf for his prey, twisting the buttons of his trench coat.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck....”

“Dr. Birkin, you may come in.”

William trotted through the automatic doors. Behind the next door, a little middle-aged man with a clerical look and a sour face was waiting for him.

“Dr. Birkin, what do you want at this time of night?”

“The bosses.” He grabbed the receiver of the first phone he saw. “I have to talk to the bosses.”

“Hey, wait, what bosses? What the hell do you want?”

The little man snatched the phone out of her hands. With a grim look on his face, he faced him and put the handset back in the cradle.

“What the fuck do you want?!”

William looked dumbfounded at the little man.

“There has been a mistake.” He smiled with his hands on his head. “It was a mistake. A mistake.”

The little man armed himself with a stapler to fend off the madness of the freak in front of him.

“It was a mistake, wasn't it?”

William looked to the distraught little man for understanding.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“It was a mistake!”

He grabbed the little man by the arms with more force than he was able to recognize. The little man then stapled one of his hands to defend himself from the deadly embrace. The pang of pain worked, and William retreated to the back of the room, with the little man ready to rip his head off if necessary.

William, dizzy, sat down on one of the chairs. For a second, he recognized that he was behaving like a madman, but the burning he felt inside him impelled him to seek answers by any means, at any cost, destroying if necessary.

“I have been demoted.”

William slumped his shoulders and clenched his fists.

“I've been demoted to lab chief.”

The little man escaped to the security alarm under the main desk. He pressed the button.

William's tears were running down his cheeks.

“My life... My life's work... My work. The effort...” William whispered to himself.

The little man noticed that the doctor had narrowed his eyes and was lamenting to himself. Security was running late.

“Why...”

He didn't believe it was real, but the sulfuric acid burning inside him was. As real as his flesh. As real as the chair. As real as the table. As real as the little man in front of him.

“Nooo!”

William began banging his head against the metal tabletop.

“Nooo!” He smacked his forehead. “Nooo!” He smacked his forehead again.

He stood up and pumped his fists. The punch reverberated through the office like an earthquake. The little man, pale with fear, slipped into the lobby. As the little man fled for his life, a pair of security guards entered the office.

“Calm down!” One of them exclaimed with a pacifying gesture. The other guard was approaching from the opposite side of the table, ready to surround him from behind.

William stood up.

“I want to talk to the bosses!” He threw a security cup in front of him.

The cup landed on the legs of the first. Meanwhile, the second caught him from behind and immobilized his arms. The assaulted security guard drew his truncheon.

He stabbed him in the abdomen. Once. Twice. William shrieked in pain. At the fourth blow, both security guards lifted him up. They crossed the office. The lobby. The automatic door slid open.

He was thrown face down on the alley floor. His nostrils became intoxicated with the stench of filth, vomit and urine that varnished the asphalt.

“Ughmm...”

His abdomen ached as if he had hit a bumper. Palpitations in the eardrums. Blurred vision.

He could not get up.

He cried.

7

Dear Mr. Ashford:

A subject broke into the Umbrella Pharmaceuticals sales office in Raccoon City around 02:00 a.m. The subject threatened an employee and had to be restrained by building security. There was no property damage or human injury.

The subject in question is William Birkin.

Mr. Spencer advised us that from now on communications concerning this employee fall under his personal jurisdiction. We are aware that the subject has been transferred with his wife, Annette Birkin, to the underground laboratory. If you have any concerns regarding this case, please reply to this message.

Sincerely yours,

Paul Jenkins

Security Director, Umbrella Pharmaceuticals

8

A pungent tobacco smell collapsed the air pocket that had been generated in the laboratory. Alex watched her sexagenarian father smoke his second cigar of the day. Such reckless arrogance was getting on her nerves. In any case, she concentrated on putting up with and pleasing her father in everything he asked, such as being appointed chief of a laboratory she had never set foot in in her life. She could only rely on her long experience working with Marcus in hiding.

And speaking of Marcus...

His virus was relegated to a smaller team in the same laboratory. Oswell had changed his mind: Alex was to work with the Progenitor virus, again, and not with its variants. His father wanted something. In their few years of living together, he had learned to read Oswell's emotional states. Beneath his apparent haughtiness, he noticed the simmer of anxiety. He hadn't yet figured out what was stirring his fear, but it had to do with Umbrella and himself.

“Are you finished?” asked Oswell.

Alex turned off the computer.

“Yes. Dr. Birkin ordered the investigation before he left.”

“Good. Tomorrow, you get an unadulterated sample of the Progenitor. I also want you to continue experimenting with the stuff in the basement.”

“With the woman?”

“Yes, with the woman.”

Alex nodded. Aside from anxious, her father was especially irascible because of his obsession with increasing the company's profitability to pay investors' dividends. In 1989, Umbrella Pharmaceuticals went public, and since then, the only discernible emotions in Oswell Ernest Spencer had been disgust and anger. But she remained composed. Her fateful experience with Marcus had prepared her to handle the paranoia of an old man addicted to his ambition.

She would survive.

9

The lab smelled new.

The material had been placed with care and in strict accordance with the guidelines of the chief researcher.

It was one hour before the lab chief and two hours before the presentation of the research team.

“I don't want you to be alone with that man.”

Alexander again communicated his intention to remain in place during the lab chief's presentation. Alexia sighed listlessly. Alexander picked up on his daughter's annoyance but could not help but insist because of the threat posed by the man.

“No...”

“You're not going to let him hurt me.” Alexia continue for Alexander.

“I'm sorry.”

Alexander made the pretense of retreating to the side of the room to distance himself from his daughter and respect her personal space.

“Dad...”

“Uhm?”

Alexia had leaned against the ledge of one of the countertops. Alexander knew she had come up with an idea because she kept pawing at her reddish pendant.

“When the lab chief is in, come in five minutes.”

“Three hundred seconds.” Alexander smiled.

Alexia checked the time on her wristwatch.

Three hundred seconds.

10

His stomach still hurt. Each impact felt like a howitzer launched against the epicenter of his digestive tract. Surprisingly, he had not been fired or suspended from his job. But what hurt the most was the job title on his new ID card: lab chief.

And who the hell had they chosen as chief researcher? A professor with a hundred years of experience? His blood was boiling.

He argued with Annette. She scolded him for his stupid reaction and lack of self-control. He had jeopardized his job in an absurd and childish way. He had gambled with his life and his daughter's food. He had to think about Sherry, more often. It was his decision to try it without a condom. Damn. Fuck.

William leaned against the wall leading to the main lab. He needed a breather. A long, deep breath.

Expired. Chest deflated. He sat up. They had made a mistake, and he would prove it to the incompetent they had placed as chief researcher.

The automatic doors opened.

Passed.

He turned his head to his left and then to his right.

“Dr. Birkin.” A female voice in front of him, hidden behind the machines and shelves placed in the center of the room.

He pursued the voice.

A young, slender woman, tall, blonde and blue-eyed, and pale as hospital tiles. A personification of the WASPs[2] who spoke with an accent that seemed to him British and exaggeratedly bombastic. He noticed that she was wearing a black ribbon with a small red pendant around her neck. Not very professional.

“I'm looking for the chief researcher.”

The young woman responded with a subtle smile. Without another word, she approached one of the containers. Before pressing the button to open the wire mesh, she looked at her watch. The wire mesh ascended, and William Birkin saw what was inside.

Virus G. A purplish test tube with the only existing sample of the pathogen.

William clenched his fists and made an immeasurable effort at restraint. The woman stood motionless, staring at the test tube and ignoring William Birkin with a blatancy that reddened him with fury. Her damned half-smile.

And one thing happened.

The woman touched the machine, and it started a resonant motor. And suddenly, the contents of the single test tube inserted in the machine evaporated.

The violet color faded. It was not in the glass. It had disappeared.

The sample has been removed, announced a synthetic voice.

William froze in place.

He looked at the woman.

Her eyes conveyed aggression and defiance. She was not smiling.

“I'm Dr. Alexia Ashford. I'm going to be your chief researcher. The G-Project is off the table.”

Alexia Ashford. The name rang a bell. That name... William's brain sparked. That devilish name. He remembered those three hellish years. But what he remembered most were the feelings. The helplessness, the belittling, the sadness, the anger, the misunderstanding. All of it. He remembered it all.

He clenched his fists.

The woman took a quick glance at the clock.

William pounced on Alexia.

Alexia bumped into the table. The surrounding documents flew. William pressed the woman's abdomen against the table. Alexia tried to reach up and pull herself free, but her lousy positioning prevented her from getting a good foothold. Still, she did not scream, nor did she utter the slightest sound except a rhythmic gasp. William pressed his legs against her to catch her bent as she was. And then he began to move his hands upward. Alexia, however, had stopped straining. On the contrary, she was looking at him with a flaming anger, but she didn't understand why she had stopped struggling. William imprisoned her neck with both hands. Alexia's arms came free, and she used them to grip his wrists without pulling. She didn't pull. William's hands trembled, and he squeezed.

Alexia increased the strength of her grip.

He didn't know what he was doing.

A door opened.

What the hell was he doing.

Alexia, red from incipient suffocation, smiled. A compassionate smile. She pitied him.

Why.

Alexia looked to her right.

William turned around.

There was a bearded man standing to his left. The bearded man had removed the top of his suit, exposing his hypertrophied torso and arms. The bearded man was looking at him with the same mixture of aggression, defiance and fury as Alexia.

William loosened his hands.

It was the same bearded man he had seen with Spencer at the mansion. The man who had introduced them to the Tyrant project.

Alexander Ashford.

The bearded man adopted a stance identical to the one he had seen in the boxing matches his father watched on television.

William withdrew his hands.

He was sweating the equivalent of the Pacific Ocean.

What he had done.

The bearded man lunged at William. His right fist impacted his face like a high-speed train crashing into a mountain. He grabbed William by the shoulders and impacted his head against the metal table.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

William was dripping blood from his mouth and nose.

Four times.

He fell to the ground completely unconscious.

[1] Dutch: “Don't die like Edward.”

[2] White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.

[dolphin1812]

The Orientalism continues in this chapter. I wrote about it yesterday, and @cliozaur has written about it as well, and it just gets worse. Hugo repeats these tropes both within Europe (”Rome blossoming out in Paris”) and without (Tibet, India, Turkey, Egypt, etc), placing all of these locales on a temporal and developmental framework; France is at the pinnacle in spite of its problems, Spain and Italy trail behind, and “Asia” is last. I referenced the colonial links to this, and they’re clear here as well. The idea that these “social ills” are worth “fighting” was a justification for colonialism (the “civilizing” aspect), and when combined with the idea that people in these cloisters can’t think for themselves (with their “walled-up brains”), Hugo’s call for resistance to these structures can also seem like an insistence on intervention. 

@cliozaur referenced the sanitary metaphor in yesterday’s chapter, and that’s also present here:

“Whoever says cloister, says marsh. Their putrescence is evident, their stagnation is unhealthy, their fermentation infects people with fever, and etiolates them; their multiplication becomes a plague of Egypt. We cannot think without affright of those lands where fakirs, bonzes, santons, Greek monks, marabouts, talapoins, and dervishes multiply even like swarms of vermin.”

Aside from direct terms like “unhealthy,” “fever,” and “plague,” the environmental language here hints at the influence of miasma theory, which held that “bad smells” (like rot) could make one sick. The “marsh” and the “putrescence [of the cloister]” allude to this, with their “putrid” scents bringing illness to the otherwise “healthy” land of France. The idea that the “East” was diseased was its own Orientalist trope, and Hugo listing religious figures from outside of the “West” here makes it clear that he subscribed to it to some extent. Even worse, he describes these figures as “vermin,” further linking them to disease and dehumanizing them. The idea that they “swarm” also makes them seem threatening through numbers, as if they could “overwhelm” places that Hugo sees as good.

I think this line also sums up a lot of what Hugo’s saying about the past here:

“As for us, we respect the past here and there, and we spare it, above all, provided that it consents to be dead.”

“Respect” for the past can only happen when it’s “past,” and even then only “here and there.” It’s treated as an enemy that can be “spared” rather than as a simple fact (”something that happened”) or as something that can coexist with other factors (Hugo thought this at the same time that convents still existed; one society could hold many contradictory viewpoints and lifestyles). On the one hand, this rhetoric can be effective in calling for social change. Hugo sees the convent as an unjust, oppressive structure, and we can see why from his descriptions of Petit-Picpus’ convent. On the other, it’s difficult to just accept that it should “consent to be dead” not only because that binary between “past” and “present” is an oversimplification, but because it wasn’t dead. The convent was dying in that its members were all dying of age, but it was still serving as a shelter for women who had nowhere else to go. Ideally, they would have alternatives. But “attacking” the convent when, on a purely material basis (because the religious and spiritual dimension is another thing entirely), there was no alternative for many of these women feels harsh. Again, this is not to defend the convent. But even if the French Revolution had changed the role of religion in society, it had not provided alternatives for women at that time (as seen in the text), and the women who had lost other lifestyles (noblewomen, nuns from destroyed orders) were still alive in the period he describes. Hugo frames convents as holdovers from the past that are held up as good by the Restoration, which applies “to the past a glazing which they call social order, divine right, morality, family, the respect of elders, antique authority, sacred tradition, legitimacy, religion.” However, we know that the convent clashes with the government on some issues, like burials, even if the government can support it as a way of upholding “religion.” Consequently, its position was more complicated than a simple “holdover” or propaganda for the Restoration. As before, Hugo’s Orientalism is accompanied by a gross oversimplification of the past, even as it is present in his own text. 

[grandmaitremaraboutwossou]

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[itsgrandfeticheurmaraboutcosme]

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[marabouts-blog]

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[puissant-hounnon-houna]

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[kaedeakeshisworld]

shadow work is kicking my ass 😭

I've realised that I don't appreciate people helping me at all...like I ain't ask for it so don't do it. I don't care if you were raised like this but when it comes from yt men, it's even worse. Like, bro who said I needed help, who hinted that. Nobody so don't

and pleath, don't you dare tell me your upbringing consisted of being courteous to women a priority like I don't know about you but my parents if there's one thing they made crystal clear is for me not to feel like a woman because I don't fit their criteria of what being a woman stands for so at this rate you're most certainly talking not to my blackass

Went to see a marabout earlier this year because My mother thought something was wrong with me( my lack of wanting to do anything that included being active- I tend to abuse a bit too much of sloth mode I dare say). This man read me to filth, I couldn't even be like I don't believe this shit because he really decided to pull out the card of the first man I ever fell in love with and he said I know his name start with x letter and he got a daughter. At that moment I was like, ma I love you but this is too much.

my ma was right about something being wrong with me. Apparently, I have people plotting against me just because I exist. That's insane and I won't go on any further but funny these people that wanna witness my downfall don't even have my number or know me but following their logic have a problem with me. honestly, your life must be hard man 👀. They do clown shit all day, be fake imitating plastic and wonder why shit doesn't go their way suspicious right!

He said a lot of things which rang true back then and still do make sense now. When he questioned me about my profound distaste for men, I couldn't formulate a proper answer on the spot and told him I don't know.

After a tedious amount of shadow work which has led me to where I currently stand today results from past events that really shaped how I never ever ever desire to rely on anyone not even a man. It all stems from the trauma I have developped concerning man dates back to that one fateful morning where a black woman in my town got shot before going to work because her former significant other couldn't envisage the following which was they were no longer together imma do me and you do you( yes, her former significant other was black and I knew her kids, it was devastating to enter your teenage years like that. I don't wish it to anyone)

so yeah, I'm not tryna become a statistic at any given time of my life nor die by the hands of a man 'cause nope, that ain't happening not on my watch. I am divinely protected period. Me and death we're bestfriends( if you have a scorpio rising you know what I'm talking about 🥲 cannot rest period what is even that?)

so yeah anytime a man comes into I'm like hell naw find you somebody else I can't do that, I'm doing hot girl shit which stands for questioning your purpose on this planet 24/7. I suck at multitasking and have a terrible memory unless you crossed cause I won't forget that. Ever

also being blessed with a scorpio Lilith doesn't make things better. I quite literally had men tell me they want me as their side piece in front of their girl. Are you mad? are u sick? are you insane? are you ill? have you gone bonkers? those questions race through my mind as well as sure, I'll do that when you die so please hurry up, I gotta slay at your funeral

[starmaniamania]

I didn't have room for the Maid or the Bodyguard 😭 But if they're your faves or if I forgot someone crucial, feel free to give details in replies!

The poll will go for a week to give everyone time and then we can have a different one next week! (Ideas?)

[urbanhermit]

St Charles de Foucauld, Brother of Beni-Abbas, Marabout (a man 'shackled to God'), Hermit of Tamanrasset, Scholarly Hermit of the Hoggar, Viscount de Fouculd, 2nd Lt de Foucauld, one of my favorite saints. Picture 9 is on my home oratory wall, and picture 10 is some of my collection of his works & writings by others of his life. Speaking to the Association of the Spiritual Family of Charles de Foucauld, Pope Francis called him a “prophet for our times, who knew how to highlight the essence and universality of the faith.” He said St. Charles de Foucauld boiled the meaning of faith down into two words: “Iesus – Caritas (“Jesus – Love”). The Saint discovered that truth by returning to Jesus’ hidden life at Nazareth after he lived in Jesus’ hometown for several years. “I encourage you, like Brother Charles, to continue to envision Jesus walking in the midst of people, patiently carrying out a difficult job, and living day-to-day in a family and a city.” Pope Francis said it must please the Lord to see men and women imitate St. Charles along “the path of littleness, humility, and solidarity with the poor.” He added that the French missionary discovered the essence of the faith, which he wrote was that “God gives primacy of place to love and then to sacrifice inspired by love and obedience derived from love.” Saint Charles de Foucauld, added the Pope, also focused on the universality of faith, living Christianity as a brother to all, especially during his 15 years in the Sahara Desert of Algeria. “He did not have the objective of converting others, but only of living in the gratuitous love of God, carrying out an ‘apostolate of goodness’.” The new Saint sought to have “Christians, Muslims, Jews, and idolaters” consider him their brother by opening the doors of his house to all people. Speaking off-the-cuff, the Pope said Charles de Foucauld’s spirituality helped him personally when he was studying theology. “He helped me overcome my crises and find a more simple, less Pelagian path of Christian life which is closer to the Lord.” https://www.instagram.com/p/ClnI3FGNNQU/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[breath-of-eternity]

Preview! Excerpt! Whatever you want to call it!

Interlude: Faith

As the marabout droned on, Samir’s knees began to hurt and their prayers became more about the sermon finally ending. They supposed they should be grateful it was not a holy day and there was no confession and atonement afterward.

They shut their eyes, totally not napping. They were deep in contemplation.

“May you walk with the gods,” the marabout said.

“And you as well,” Samir’s family intoned, and they jolted to alertness to add their own voice. Their older brother glanced over at them wearily, a (thankfully) silent remonstration for drowsing during prayer again. They half-expected it to turn into a lecture, but Raheem left with his husband and their younger son.

“Want to come play?” their niece Safiya asked, and their nephew Khalid tugged on their arm. Samir had been running around with them all day. Enough was enough.

“Play with your nurse,” they said. “I have to go see my mother.”

Both the little kids groaned, as if it was some punishment. Safiya, who would one day be Emira of the region, ran out of the temple and stomped on the nearest mud puddle. Oh well, she was only eight, might as well let her have fun while she could.

Samir took a wide path around the courtyard and went in the castle through the western entrance. It was near the kitchens, really beneath someone of their rank, but it was the fastest way up to the west wing where their mother was secluded.

They entered through the servant’s hall, darting around a maid and skidding around the corner to the entrance to his mother’s chambers.

“You’re not supposed to use the service entrance,” Zahi said, and once again Samir promised it would be the last time, and Zahi said he’d hold them to that, and both of them had to know he wouldn’t.

“How come you’re here instead of Laila?” Samir asked.

“You know how the trees are blooming. She sneezed, and Lady Atifa assumed she was ill and would not accept otherwise. Laila was sent back to her quarters.”

Made sense. Mother was always so paranoid about illness—and many other things. A guard was outside her room through the day and night not to keep her in, but because she feared an assassin would come after her, despite having no enemies Samir had ever heard of.

“Has she eaten yet?”

“No, she refuses to stop cleaning. She tells the maids to keep bringing up hot water, but she won’t let them assist her.”

“No one else can get it clean enough,” they said, sadly, wearily. “Have some carrot soup sent up, tea, and whatever biscuits are the mildest.”

Zahi nodded and stepped out of the way. Samir knocked three times, waited, then knocked four more times.

“Come in,” came the faint reply.

They entered and as they shut the door, they saw Zahi moving back to his position in front, protecting the wife of the dead Emir from enemies no one else believed in but were real enough to her.

There was a bowl of water on the floor, dingy but not truly dirty. Mother’s hands were red, not a lady’s hands, but she was long past the ability to tend to the duties of consort—even if it was to a man who died ten years ago.

Samir sat down on one of the chairs in her sitting room. “Why don’t you come sit with me? I ordered you some food. It’ll be here soon.”

“You should mind your speaking. You are the son of an Emir. You should speak as such.”

Yeah, that would happen right when they stopped using the servant’s entrance. Besides, she couldn’t really talk about what was appropriate when she was scrubbing her own floors.

“Come sit with me, Mother,” they said, patting the chair.

“I will. I need to finish cleaning. The maids never get it right. The dirt and dust are what makes you sick.”

“But I want to talk to you,” they said, letting an edge of pleading into their voice. She needed at least twenty minutes to shift the focus of her attention, and if it was left until her food arrived, the soup would be cold. Then she’d send for a fresh bowl, grow more hungry and irritable, and distract herself by cleaning before the new soup would arrive. Samir kept pleading with her until she finally set aside her rags and the bowl of water and came to sit with them. Her bony hand clutched theirs, and not for the first time he noticed how thin her face was, and how her hair was so brittle it could no longer hold combs.

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

There is no doubt, despite his great popularity and the friendship of Captain Haddock, Tintin remains one of the oldest boys in comics. So much so that a French painter wanted to give it a boost. On the moon or in friendly bars conducive to encounters, the French painter Xavier Marabout has taken it into his head to imagine behind the scenes of the albums of the famous reporter with a puff. Thus, the Breton painter, under the influence of Hopper, decided to give Hergé's son female companionship. Beer in hand, tattoo on his forearm, here is the hero in the blue sweater, more relaxed than facing Rastapopoulos and prey to feminine charms. And in particular, between a few strangers who are not shy, another comic book heroine, Yoko Tsuno. Pin-ups, much more alluring than Castafiore or Irma, which also put the adventurer in all his states and even... shirtless! A realized fantasy that some tintinophiles were desperate to see realized one day. Kindly nostalgic, these paintings also take us through dated landscapes, evoking the American dream and its beautiful racing cars. As if tired of no longer living stories, Tintin had finally decided to have a good time, without leaving Dupondt, Tournesol and Captain Haddock on the floor. A beautiful audacious but also respectful revision of this soon to be octogenarian still very lively. Xavier Marabout, who defines himself as a pop artist, is not at his first attempt since he had already succeeded in bringing the characters of Tex Avery into famous paintings

l n’y a pas de doute, malgré sa grande popularité et l’amitié du Capitaine Haddock, Tintin reste l’un des plus vieux garçons de la bd. À tel point qu’un peintre français a voulu lui donner un coup de pouce. Sur la Lune ou dans des bars conviviaux et propices aux rencontres, le peintre français Xavier Marabout s’est mis en tête d’imaginer les coulisses des albums du célèbre reporter à la houppette. Ainsi, le peintre breton, sous influence d’Hopper, a décidé de donner au fiston d’Hergé une compagnie féminine. Bière à la main, tatouage sur l’avant-bras, voilà le héros au pull bleu plus décontracté que face à Rastapopoulos et en proie aux charmes féminins. Et notamment, entre quelques inconnues qui n’ont pas froid aux yeux, d’une autre héroïne de BD, Yoko Tsuno. Des pin-up, bien plus affriolantes que la Castafiore ou qu’Irma, qui mettent d’ailleurs l’aventurier dans tous ses états et même... torse-nu! Un fantasme réalisé que certains tintinophiles désespéraient de voir un jour réalisé. Gentiment nostalgiques, ces tableaux nous baladent aussi dans des paysages datés, évoquant le rêve américain et ses beaux bolides. Comme si lassé de ne plus vivre d’histoires, Tintin s’était enfin décidé à prendre du bon temps, sans laisser sur le carreau les Dupondt, Tournesol et le Capitaine Haddock. Une belle révision audacieuse mais aussi respectueuse de ce bientôt octogénaire encore bien sémillant. Xavier Marabout, qui se définit comme un artiste pop, n’en est pas à son coup d’essai puisqu’il avait déjà réussi à emmener les personnages de Tex Avery dans des tableaux célèbres

[grandmaitremaraboutwossou]

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A man for himself alone is not easy these days. But with the help of my ritual and efficient sacrifice, specialist in love issues, it is quite possible. So if you want to make your man madly in love with you; or if you are not very reassured of the love of your man; or if your man continues to see elsewhere; the solution is all found with the medium and seeing great master wossou witch doctor.

So to alleviate the problems of lack of love, attention, or affection of women on the part of men, the grand master marabout grand master witch doctor offers rituals and

effective love work to make your man madly in love with you even from a distance. These rituals and works of love are also well recommended for partners who live separately with their man or woman. These rituals to make a man madly in love are performed even from a distance and give very effective effects on your man. Once this ritual is performed, your man

will be madly in love with you and will have to live only for you. He will take care of you and give you all his affection. He swore loyalty and love to you forever.

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