Mortality Constantly Staring You In The Face Is A Wonderful Thing. Isn’t This One Of The Enduring Harms

“No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.”

— ERIN BOW

taken by me

Taking the hands of the maiden rumoured to be

Fairer than the naiads, you’ll dance among

the falling ruins of the golden city,

And let ripples of laughter collide with

the crashing wave of destruction, while the

Seas roar and Cetus ravages the coast of Aethiopia,

Flinging care into the ever-clouded face of the ocean,

Andromeda hid her grief beneath eyes bright and

Glistening, and avowed to dance till death looked

Sharp into her eyes, his face pale and haggard.

Thus came to a halt the whistling winds

And the singing sirens,

for the lord of the dead awaited none,

Some say the care she threw into the ocean,

Now lies buried amidst a wreath of bleeding hearts,

You’ll clasp it gently in your hands,

Were there ever ones more worthy?

And I’ll weave the hearts into a

Shroud for the lost daughter.

To be lit under the evening ablaze with the

Light of a thousand stars, all fallen.

“Taking refuge in the abandoned terrace, forsaken by all but me, an odd squirrel or two, a lone bird, watched the crippling ivy of despair wound itself around the child of sorrow I had let in to warm herself by my slowly smouldering hearth. Gently she knelt, oh so softly she sang, bewitched me into thinking the house was freezing, coal upon coal I blindly shoved unto the fire, and whom was the blazing house to blame? for t’was never a home.”

Frosted glass between rain and life

I run my hand through the same old withered branches,

Drenched in the same old tired rain,

Far away the sunset harbours the lost gold of

Odysseys gone by, and if the wind were to hide

Within it some unremembered glow from the land

Of unknown secrets, the evening will gently

Whisk away the covers of the coquette,

And reveal to us a maiden under the bent willow,

Sweet as the apples from the orchards where our dreams

Were buried. She will beckon for the children

To gather around the fire and tell them the story

Of Zerah and Zulamith, whilst we twist the

Slender branches of the cherry tree into a throne

Fit for the brides of heaven to recline on,

Place at the altar a wreath of dead roses,

And hope that the silent fragrance borne to the shore

Is enough for the sea to give up the child

She drew to her heart in death’s storm.

…

And dare I tag anyone? @pollosky-in-blue perhaps you’ll like the story?

Does anyone else have this strange compulsion to try and - in a sense - store everything you read that moves you, everything you write, as though trying to piece together a cohesive person? almost as if the pieces you’ve collected of yourself could somehow make up for all the life you leave unlived ?

alright gather round, enthusiasts of shakespeare’s words words words. i’m gonna learn you a fun research exercise you can do in lieu of switching between the same four websites or even include in your research for essays and creative stuff. 

step 1. first up, you’re gonna need a play you like (or literally any work written between 1450 to let’s say 1700, but i baited you with shakespeare so.)

step 2. get you a word. it doesn’t have to necessarily be a difficult word that needs glosses. actually, it’s more fun if you take a word you think you know.

step 3: go here. see, you keep being told that the first dictionary was invented by samuel johnson in 1757. which isn’t wholly incorrect, this guy did set out to define all words. but lexicons and glossaries wayyyyyy predate johnson. the catch is, these were for difficult words. or words specific to a trade. this is actually interesting and tells us more than if all words were defined like the OED or smth. more on this soon. now type in your word and hit enter.

step 4: you will see a list of old, digitized, searchable lexicons. and it lists every instance your word is used. holy shit, you think. 

step 5: now here are some things you can assume. if your word occurs in the headword (the word being defined), then it’s a difficult word. for speakers of that time. if your word is used in definitions and explanations of other words, they were common words that didn’t need to be explained. easy words may also be on spelling books for children but again, not defined. 

step 6: okay, now what? you’ve learned the meaning of the word in context and its usage. now it’s time for conceptsssssssss. click on some translating dictionaries where this word occurs. these are more likely to have synonyms. now take a deep breath because you’ll see some wild connections. why is virginity the same as honesty of life? why does enjoy mean “to possess” something but also TO FUCK? co valences are so fun because essentially ON PURPOSE. THESE WORDS WERE CHOSEN ON PUPRPOSE.

step 7: wonder, and go back to your play. 

[just to put my credentials on the table, this is my field of research. so it’s 100% okay if you have objectively a better idea of fun. but one of my friends said this was like carbon dating words, so i’m operating under that illusion, baby.]

Behind the portraits

It was afternoon, a dark, wet afternoon. And I was sitting at the foot of the large oak wood bed, glaring at Marie Antoinette.

“Let them eat cake”

I glared more.

“I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my children. My blood alone remains: take it, but do not make me suffer long.”

I sighed and turned to Sappho, as if to ask her to help me in my predicament. But Sappho wouldn’t speak, she never did. My gaze shifted to the fluttering white curtains which veiled a painting of the Bal des ardents, illuminated by the old fashioned candles on the mantle piece. My frown returned as my eyes fixated themselves on the crockery in the background.

“When?” I questioned.

“January 28, 1398.”

“Joan, the duchess …?”

“The duchess de berri.”

“D’orleans…1407, isn’t it?”

It nodded.

“How?”

“Assasinated.”

“For the throne of the mad king.” I murmured and sank my head into my knees. After a few moments, I threw up my head and exclaimed, “I cannot go on like this anymore, I live as in a nightmare! Freedom I want and Freedom I shall have!”.

“Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: some things are within our control, and some things are not” The thing quoted.

Despair seized me; I let out a half wild, inarticulate cry and buried my head in my arms as tears drenched the sheaf of parchment in my lap. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the thing stare at me coldly. “Do you blame me?” I demanded. “Do you think me weak to shed tears like this?” It pursed up its dried, hag like mouth. “Tell me, Do you hold me responsible for all of this?”, I clenched its wrist and asked. It silently shook its head. “No”. I loosened my hold and let go as it gave me a look full of reproach. It shook its head again, “No, I do not place the blame entirely on anyone in this matter, but thou must know that thou hath not played an unimportant part in bringing this about.” “Oh, I know! I know! And that just makes my burden a hundred times more heavier to bear.” I said, as the picture of Andromeda’s anguished face as she watched Cetus ravage the coast of Aethiopia flashed across my eyes.

“Was she very beautiful?” My voice sounded wistful.

“Who?”

“Her. The daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia.”

“Yes.” The thing’s eyes lost focus. “Very.” It said.

I rolled the parchments and placed them in a small brass trunk underneath my bed. Marie Antoinette’s picture slipped inside too, but I was past caring.

“Why didn’t hope leave when it could have?” I enquired.

“Zeus willed it.”

“Didn’t Elpis want to leave?”

“Perhaps.”

“I am sure that the only reason the sprite stayed was because pandora shut the jar before it could escape. I wish it had.”

The thing shrugged.

“When do thy leave?”, It asked.

“Midnight.” I replied, trying not to let a suppressed paroxysm of sobs get the better of me.

Night fell, I lingered near Henry V’s portrait, fiddling with the tapestry. I looked out the window and saw the moon emerge from the shadow of a black cloud and throw light upon the vase of white roses upon the windowsill. “The moon looks like a careworn old face.” I remarked, more to myself than anyone else.

I looked about the room with a strange wistfulness as I drew the sheets close. Something seemed to warn me. “But about what?” I wondered. I was woken up at midnight by the thing knocking over the rose vase. “Is it time?” I asked, silently praying that it was not. It nodded. And then there I stood, beneath the elm tree and among the shadows.

Little did I know, that it was the last time I would set eyes upon the elm. I stepped inside the quaint carriage, huddling my trunk closer to me. I felt the chilly wind of the night nip my face. We had not made it ten feet across the old wooden bridge over the chasm, when I heard a sickening creak and felt the bridge collapse under us. The ropes had given way. The carriage toppled over, smashing my trunk open and spilling all of its contents. I plunged into the abyss along with the vehicle. Feeling that I was about to die, I frantically tried to hold onto something before we hit the ground. And what should be the thing my eyes finally beheld at the end of my life but the face of … Marie Antoinette?