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Cursed Child
JK Rowling Releases New Details about Ron & Hermione's Relationship
In a recent interview conducted by Emma Watson, where she served as guest editor for Wonderland magazine, new details have come to light by Harry Potter author JK Rowling: she never wanted Ron and Hermione together.
As originally reported by Hypable, the information in question came from The Sunday Times.
Rowling says that she should have put Hermione and Harry together in the Harry Potter series instead of Hermione and Ron, according to the publication's headline, which reads, "JK admits Hermione should have wed Harry."
"I wrote the Hermione/Ron relationship as a form of wish fulfillment," she says. "That's how it was conceived, really. For reasons that have very little to do with literature and far more to do with me clinging to the plot as I first imagined it, Hermione ended up with Ron."
"I know, I'm sorry," she continued, "I can hear the rage and fury it might cause some fans, but if I'm absolutely honest, distance has given me perspective on that. It was a choice I made for very personal reasons, not for reasons of credibility. Am I breaking people's hearts by saying this? I hope not."
Watson didn't seem shocked by these comments and agreed with her. "I think there are fans out there who know that too and who wonder whether Ron would have really been able to make her happy."
Personally, I always saw Hermione not ending up with Harry Potter but with older Weasley brother Fred - whose relationship is not adequately explored in the films. Do you agree with Hermione ending up happily ever after with Harry (or another character)? What do you think of Rowling's revelation Romione?
Posted by Katy on Saturday, February 01, 2014
Labels: hermione granger, jk rowling, ron weasley
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Thu., February 18, 2016
Terex tax deal with Cedar Rapids not dead, but still months away
Fountains development, Terex still haven't finalized lease
The Fountains development in northeast Cedar Rapids, Iowa, on Thursday, Feb. 18, 2016. (Jim Slosiarek/The Gazette)
B.A. Morelli
Cargill rail yard stalls as court case rolls on
Cedar Rapids authorities grappling with youth violence during coronavirus pandemic
Cedar Rapids essential workers manage coronavirus risk to get the job done
Freedom Festival canceled for 2020 due to coronavirus uncertainty
Cedar Rapids mayor urges wearing face masks in public
All articles by B.A.
CEDAR RAPIDS — A tax incentive deal that could facilitate Terex and 50 engineering jobs remaining in Cedar Rapids could still be months out.
In December, Cedar Rapids City Council voted 5-3 for city officials to negotiate a development agreement worth up to $506,000 in tax breaks with The Fountains, an up-and-coming retail-office park at Edgewood Road and Blairs Ferry Road NE.
The Fountains agents were negotiating with Terex, a construction equipment manufacturer, to relocate staff from 909 17th St. NE to its new office building, while Terex sought lower rent and new furniture, which could be made possible through the incentives.
A deal was expected to be brought up for approval at the Feb. 23 City Council meeting, but that isn't happening.
"The Fountains development agreement is not on the agenda for revision in February as originally forecast, and it doesn't appear it will be on next month either," Mayor Ron Corbett said.
The Fountains-Terex deal has become somewhat of a local soap opera.
The City Council got into a testy discussion about whether it would set a bad precedent for future tax deals because it didn't appear to add much tax base, while others including Corbett argued Cedar Rapids needed to fight for its jobs rather than lose them to Marion.
The deal undercut Terex moving to a building being vacated by Berthel Fisher at 701 Tama St. in Marion, which was not offering tax incentives. Terex wrote a letter to Cedar Rapids officials saying it needed the incentives to stay in Cedar Rapids.
Marion Economic Development Corp. President Nick Glew penned a letter criticizing the deal, saying it would set a "dangerous precedent" and weaken how tax incentives are used by local governments.
In yet another twist, in January, Chinese company Zoomlion Heavy Industry Science and Technology made an unsolicited takeover bid, offering $30 per share for the Westport, Conn.-based Terex Corp., which also has crane manufacturing operations in Waverly. The proposal would value the deal at about $3.28 billion.
David Castelluccio, The Fountains property manager for Ahmann Design, said negotiations with Terex are still active and they are "completely unaffected" by the possible sale.
"We are still in negotiations with them," Castelluccio said. "There's really no hold up."
Jennifer Pratt, Cedar Rapids community development director, said the city is ready to move forward with a development agreement, but is waiting for a finalized lease between Terex and The Fountains, which the developer has indicated could take a couple of months.
"We don't want to bring this back (to City Council) until there is a lease," Pratt said. She declined to discuss the terms of the agreement that would go to the City Council.
Cedar Rapids already signed a five-year, 100 percent tax incentive agreement worth about $3.7 million for the $34 million The Fountains development in 2012. The new deal would be in addition, possibly extending the life of that deal but also adding new requirements for the planned six-building complex.
Terex came to the Cedar Rapids market in 1999 after purchasing Cedarapids Inc., which opened in 1923. At one time, Cedarapids employed some 900 employees in the Cedar Rapids, including 640 production workers. In 2009, Terex announced plans it would end its manufacturing operations and eliminate 170 local jobs, leaving the 50 engineering jobs that still exist.
RAGBRAI called off for 2020 due to coronavirus
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Dr. Dustin Arnold: 'Clear minds and quick hands and we'll get through this'
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


The straight build is 100% complete, weapons included. However, after looking at the finished product, I am pondering if I should take the few extra steps to do some paint detailing on it.
Like the thrusters on the legs. I can't believe it came in white! So wondering if it is worth the trouble to hit it with some gray.
Despite the huge amount of foil stickers (common for its time), the design is decent and the proportions are sharp. More anime-accurate than the stylized MG and RG models if that is your preference.
Well, if I am going to do some painting and topcoating then it will have to wait. Portland is currently experiencing a late/super early white Christmas with record snowfall so I can't work outside.
Almost done with the 2005 HG Destiny Gundam. Should be able to get a review done before the end of the week. I was thinking of topcoating this model too but with all that foil sticker, I think I'll just skip that step.
Just got the weapons to go!
I came to work one day and found a paper bag with these two inside on my desk. They were left for me by a fellow coworker who was leaving. He asked me before if I wanted them because he knows I was into Gunpla, but I refused and suggested he should sell them instead; I already have a huge backlog that I am not really chipping away at. Looks like they ended up in my hands after all. He believes that my Gunpla skill will actually bring out more of the Gundam. While I don't find that true, I was still motivated and encouraged by his words. Even if I don't get around to building them, these two will still be a memento of my coworker for me.
MG Destiny Gundam EBM Review!
Alright… now that the jokes are over with, here's something that can hopefully make up for the long absence which I will talk about in another post. My first Master Grade review in… *drum roll* OVER HALF A YEAR!
This is a complete review, straight with a two-part omake! 250+ photos so take your time! Here it is- MG Destiny Gundam Extreme Blast Mode!
I have a lot of catching up to do on other blogs so I'll be coming around to say hi sooner or later. I thank you all for waiting this whole time and I truly appreciate you all for sticking around! THANK YOU!
The remainder of whatever needs to be assembled- Destiny Gundam's weapons.
Destiny Gundam is All That!


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Tag Archives: Neil Hagerty
Harmolodics
March 6, 2006 MusicAmerica, Iggy Pop, musician, Neil Hagerty, ornette colemanTom
Aged 13, free jazz was something I couldn't understand. It sounded to me like Iggy Pop's description of punk rock: it sounded to me like "a load of trashy old noise".
I hadn't realised that it was in fact "the brilliant music of a genius".
That genius, Ornette Coleman, is one of the key proponents of free jazz and the inventor of harmolodics, a music theory associated with the avant-garde music scene, dedicated to freeing composers and performers from the rigid structures and rules prevalent in the western tradition.
It is a theory employed in rock music too. Yes, this is about Royal Trux. Talking about harmolodics, Neil Hagerty says:
"harmolodics is not a comprehensive controlling or rigid philosophy (at least not to rock and roll) but almost a substitute for that language and efforts to control music (which is an entirely abstract thing) and make a metaphor of it. It returns the composition back to the musician and allows each musician to select functions for their labours rather than solicit a class of intervention because of the misconceptions that always arise when music meets commerce."
Harmolodics, together with jazz as a whole, deserves recognition as one of the great gifts America has given to the world. It's about music without the rules, and it sounds all the better for it. For me, its influence on Royal Trux's music is magnificent: they forced me to listen to music in a new way. I still find it hard to completely understand it, but harmolodic theory lies behind some of my favourite music. So let's hear it for Ornette Coleman and harmolodics!
Recent music
November 29, 2005 MusicMark E Smith, Neil Hagerty, Neil Michael Hagerty, Shaun Ryder, The Howling Hex, You Can't Beat TomorrowTom
New-ish records I have been listening to recently:
The Howling Hex – You Can't Beat Tomorrow
This is Neil Hagerty's latest album and a sort-of follow up to All Night Fox. he kept the band name this time, but the music is completely different. He's added some odd syncopated electronic percussion and more acoustic guitar than in All Night Fox. Certainly he seems to be going for a sound that resembles listening to a band from outside the Hall. Favourite tracks: Apache Energy Plan (this is a theme continuing on from earlier Neil Michael Hagerty albums, but I still don't know what it means); You Can't Beat Tomorrow; No Numbers.
1 out of 1 – Buy Here Download 'Apache Energy plan' from Drag City here.
The Fall – Fall Heads Roll
I really like this album. Mark E Smith sounds a bit more like Shaun Ryder than he used to, but that doesn't detract from the fact that he's managed to produce a tight, thumping album. Out of 'new Fall' records, this is one of the best. The big single: I Can hear The Grass Grow is pretty melodic, but then it's a cover. Actually, the version I have on my Complete Peel Sessions is markedly better. Anyway, both of these albums are perfect listening for the fade to winter: they inject a little bit of summer into every listen. But just a tad.
1 out of 1 – Buy Here


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SHINING BRIGHT
Solar power may be cheaper than coal in India by 2020
Getting competitive.
Image: Reuters/Amit Dave
Itika Sharma Punit
The price of solar power in India fell at a faster-than-expected rate this year. Now, some experts suggest that by 2020, renewable energy in Asia's third-largest economy may become up to 10% cheaper than coal power.
Earlier this month, the Ministry of New and Renewable Energy awarded a tender for a 500-megawatt solar park in the southern state of Andhra Pradesh to US-based SunEdison at Rs4.63 a unit—the lowest rate so far in the country.
"Today, in India, solar prices are within 15% of the coal power prices on a levelised basis. While this may not fully capture costs such as grid integration costs for solar, our analysis suggest that even after considering the same, solar prices would be competitive with coal," market research firm KPMG said in a recent report titled "The Rising Sun" (pdf).
The chart below shows the levelized cost of energy on the consumer side in 2020 (in Rs/kWh):
Estimated levelised cost of energy at the consumers' end in India in 2020.
Image: KPMG
According to KPMG, the growing scale and competitiveness of solar power could impact local coal prices; the firm predicts that this change will become visible in 2017, and will accelerate after the year 2020.
"Post 2022, coal prices could begin chasing solar prices, and not vice versa as we see today," KPMG said in the report. "Eventually, coal may have to respond by reducing its cost structure and an equilibrium is likely to develop, but this transition could be challenging for the coal sector if early preparation is not done."
The chart below shows how solar power could influence domestic Indian coal pricing from 2020 (in Rs per tonne), as per KPMG:
Solar power might influence domestic coal pricing in India from 2020.


2 Seat Chair Style (Model Unknown) Patio Swing available product is Cushion Replacement.
The cushions are produced with 100% Sunbrella® fabric and custom-made to fit 2 Seat Chair Style (Model Unknown) Patio Swing. Sunbrella® has a 10-year limited warranty.


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Restul e tăcere é um filme de drama romeno de 2007 dirigido e escrito por Nae Caranfil. Foi selecionado como representante da Romênia à edição do Oscar 2008, organizada pela Academia de Artes e Ciências Cinematográficas.

Elenco

 Marius Florea Vizante - Grigore 'Grig' Ursache
 Ovidiu Niculescu - Leon Negrescu
 Mirela Zeta - Emilia
 Mihai Gruia Sandu  - Iancu Ursache
 Valentin Popescu - Catargiu
 Nicu Mihoc - Anton Vorbula

Ligações externas

Filmes em língua romena
Filmes da Romênia

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


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Noctiviganti: The Blog of Author Christopher Scott Thompson
Paganism, Anarchism, Dark Fantasy, Martial Arts, Poetry and Mysticism
Tag: gothic
The Caesar Stones
Book of Onei
The Book of Onei is an antinomian dream grimoire, providing deceptive yet true information about the art of Oneiromancy or dream magic in the form of poetry, fantasy, and intentionally ambiguous instructions.
The eyeless hermit waits in the desert and tends the Caesar Stones. You may appeal to them for guidance.
I've walked across this desert now for days.
The eyeless hermit waits beside the lake
Without a drop to soothe a pilgrim's ache.
The young girl asks me if I want to speak,
And I approach him, though my tongue feels thick.
He has no words. His teeth just hiss and click.
The Caesar Stones reveal themselves. A voice
Calls out across the salt flats: "Find me here."
The hermit laughs. The maiden starts in fear.
– from the Book of Onei, Part III: The Powers of Onei
Image by Henry Fuseli
August 5, 2018 April 30, 2018 gilbridedark, gothic, occult, Onei, poetry2 Comments
The Secret of Solomon
A mighty and terrifying dragon or traveler between worlds who can change shape and appear as male or female, dragon or human, or even as a pile of books. A powerful teacher of dream alchemy.
She looked at me- I call it she, although
No hint of human life was in its eyes-
And said, "I know you're scared, but do not rise.
"You've used the secret fire, but there is more.
We wish you to evolve." Her watchful face
Was wax-like, alien. I saw the place
She'd traveled from, and it was far- so far.
My chest was aching with a fear so cold
My blood felt sluggish. I had walked the old
And near-forgotten pathways. I had seen
My glimpse of burning wheels and turning gears,
And yet this creature woke my deepest fears
As easily as if she'd read the book
I keep sequestered in my hidden heart.
And yet, if she could teach the ancient art
Of changing roses into flying birds
And dreams to facts, and facts to other dreams-
I nodded slowly, and her cold eyes gleamed.
Image by Valere Bernard
July 8, 2018 April 29, 2018 gilbridealchemy, gothic, occult, Onei, poetry1 Comment
A pale, dark-haired fairy queen dressed in red, presiding over the wild celebrations of the Kind.
The elven queen's in red tonight,
The night is hard and wild.
Her eyes reflect a distant light,
It makes him glad to see the sight.
He giggles like a child.
"I warned you once, each seven years…"
She says. Her face is grim.
The kiss she gave him long ago
Means little now, but even so,
It matters most to him.
"I kissed you once. It seemed that we…
But then, you had such words."
She cannot shake his foolish grin
Despite her people, closing in,
As close as hungry birds.
"I'm sorry that we ever met."
She says it soft and low.
They say the Lady has no heart.
That's true enough, but it was art
That snared her, even so.
"I always try to stop myself.
It always ends the same.
And you, so fair and full of flesh-
But it was I who wove the mesh."
She looks away in shame.
"Enough of this. The land of dreams
Demands your mortal life."
She lifts her hand and lets it fall-
And with a sudden, hungry call
She turns and draws the knife.
Image by Giovanni Segantini
July 1, 2018 April 27, 2018 gilbridedark, goddess, gothic, Onei, poetryLeave a comment
The Blood Wisdom
A queen hanging from an apple tree on a plain of ice.
An apple tree upon a plain of ice,
Stands out against the sky. There hangs a queen,
Unclothed, but armed, among the leaves. Unseen,
The wheels of heaven turn. I feel their weight,
And in the cold I cannot catch my breath.
She grins at me. "It smells of sweat and death.
Blood wisdom's always like that. If you took
A cup of it you'd see it's dark as wine
And never sweet, but oh so strong. You'd find
Yourself upon an apple tree…" She laughs
And thunder rolls as if a mighty door
Had turned upon its hinge. "We've met before,"
That's all that I can say. She starts to keen,
A supersonic whine, as sharp and clear
As broken church bells. "Come and find me here."
This is the blood wisdom, and it smells of sweat and death.
June 24, 2018 April 27, 2018 gilbridedark, goddess, gothic, Onei, poetryLeave a comment
The dreadful, eerie dead. Those who would not or could not walk down into the Valley of Shadow.
Dead children gather at the quarters
And just stare at my house in silence,
As if the violence of their passing
Had wiped out all speech. Each of them has
Already attained the alien
Soulless quality of the angry dead.
I jump out of my bed and drive them
Off of my lawn. But there is no peace.
I didn't release them from what they
Suffered, and so they cannot move on.
In the quiet hours before dawn
The dead gather again with mindless
Grins. Vampire spirits, sharply-dressed,
Their eyes express a strange weightlessness.
But the pearl of alchemy is in
My hands. And though they perceive my plans,
They don't attempt to run. I transform
The dead dreams, and all the dead are gone.
Image by Franz Stuck
June 17, 2018 April 27, 2018 gilbridedark, gothic, occult, Onei, poetryLeave a comment
The Death Barker
A faceless guide who leads the dead into the Valley of Shadow. He doesn't speak, but only gestures grandly like a carnival barker for you to step down into the darkness. Nothing about him suggests that you should trust him.
No fear-
the slopes of death lead down
to utter darkness, and the clown
is faceless like the grave.
the fear is everywhere
it's in the rocks, it's in the air.
He only grins and waves.
the dead all weep and moan.
All love is lost, all life, all home.
The valley is so grim.
and yet they're all afraid.
They cannot die, and so, dismayed
they wander on the rim.
June 10, 2018 April 26, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, gothic, mysticism, OneiLeave a comment
Boneyard Goddess
Burn a black candle and visualize the long-haired goddess of the graveyard, she who crouches on a tomb with her face in shadow. Recite this charm to dream of the dead.
Goddess of the boneyard, hear me
Through these ghosts that hover near me.
Clear the way through clay and water,
Death's companion, wisdom's daughter,
Clear the way that I may travel
Through this sand and rock and gravel,
Through this soil as black as midnight
To the place that knows no sunlight,
Only starshine always gleaming,
To the dead where they lie dreaming,
Bound by death's white silken tether.
They and I have work together.
Thou and I have work together!
Image by Carlos Schwabe
June 3, 2018 April 26, 2018 gilbridedark, dream, goddess, gothic, Onei, poetryLeave a comment
The Veiled One
You're going down into Death, down into the power that made Time!
I myself am afraid of it.
The Veiled One is an ancient and terrifying old woman, "veiled" in the sense that her facial features cannot be clearly seen. In this, she is like one of the Legion, the Archons who control the world through the control of dreams.
She is the keeper of the Book, and she bestows it upon whomever she chooses. She can also teach many secret skills, but all of her wisdom is dangerous in one way or another. She stirs a whirlpool or cauldron made of swirling stars and galaxies. There is a black hole at the center of it.
Image by Alfred Kubin
May 27, 2018 April 26, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, gods, gothic, OneiLeave a comment
Under the Bright Dark
Do not hold on to that which cannot be used to destroy the world.
-The Livik
I was under the dark when the wind came down,
And the stars were drunk, and the ocean cried.
I walked alone. Though I had known
In time, I hadn't tried.
The world, disordered, spun as fast
As if it meant to break.
I liked it there, and didn't care
To suffer for its sake.
I've lived for years just mesmerized
By lights, like falling stars.
Out here beyond the world, I've watched
The angels and their wars.
I said the words that seemed the best
And watched my temples fall.
Those other lives I could have lived
Just don't exist at all.
– from the Book of Onei, Part II: The Lore of Onei
April 29, 2018 January 4, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, pagan, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
The Country of the King
When your faith descends from heaven
When you find you cannot fly
When you lose the strength to bargain
With the powers of the sky,
When the things they keep demanding
Seem impossible and grand
You can come into the country
Of the powers of the land.
They have drunk from deeper waters
And their holiness is dark.
And to them the light is precious,
So they value every spark.
They are not inclined to question
What you've done or where you've been-
Though you've wandered far from wisdom
You can always come again.
There is gold beneath the mountain
There is treasure in the sea,
There's a chalice and a fountain
Granting things that cannot be.
There are palaces and temples
In the cities on the plain
Made of bone as smooth as marble
Where the windows run like rain.
There's a grove of golden peaches,
There are apples, green and red,
There's a hierophant who teaches
From the gospels of the dead.
There are kings and queens, created
To be gods before the Fall-
Though you wandered there for ages
You could never see it all.
And your anguished hope of heaven,
Once a parched and withered thing,
Will be branches red with berries
In the country of the king.
Image by Dora Wheeler
April 22, 2018 January 4, 2018 gilbridedreams, fantasy, gothic, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, pagan, paganism, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
Darkness and Silence
If you want knowledge, seek out darkness and silence.
I glance behind me, but there's no way home.
The waves are foaming like a rabid dog,
Like monsters, always watching. On my bones,
On every branch and rock and fallen log,
The ice lies thick. The silent heavens sleep-
Unreadable, malicious. Earth is still.
She won't disclose the secrets that she keeps.
Night creeps a little closer. From the hill
I hear the howl of wolves. I feel the eyes
Of basilisks upon me. Lions roar.
Don't question heaven. Do not leave your door.
Dream necromancy is dangerous, especially if the spirit discovers your secret name.
Animal masking allows you to contact the cthonic powers.
To honor the gods, fumigate small images of them by hand in a cloud of incense.
The gods crave meat; the meat craves fire.
There are two types of death in dream. The dead force is like a black hole – without consciousness, dead and soulless although capable of movement. The live force is the exact opposite.
The universe is like the desert: a vast empty space made up of tiny particles lit by a blazing light.
There is no final invitation to Onei. You must find your way each time.
The pattern will always assert its essential points. Only a certain level of play exists in reality, and that which is destined cannot be prevented.
Some genii loci will abandon their home if it is clear-cut or otherwise abused. It becomes a soulless place.
There are time travelers who visit different eras by possessing dreamers as they sleep. If they come upon you in a night wandering dream they will try to stop your throat so you cannot get the words out, but if you force the words out you should be able to say your protective charm.
The whole world is filled up with gnosis. It is people who must become free in order to fill up gnosis.
Image by John Bauer
April 15, 2018 January 4, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, Gnostic, gothic, horror, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, pagan, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
Lore of Onei
The door to Sana Delayo is always open.
The Blue Pearl- a blue pearl of spiraling energy, capable of dissolving or transmuting any demonic power. Roll it in your hands to dissolve a nightmare.
The City- a magical city ruled by the Red Queen. The scene of many otherworld wars.
The Compass- an oracle owned by a king of Onei who was an ally of the Red Queen during the War of the Book. It is an old compass on a shipwreck mounted on a magnetic stone. It always predicts evil, and it makes sure that its own prophecies come to pass.
The Dark Tower- a gnostic prison where the Red Queen was once held prisoner. If you ever find it, you will discover that you have always been there. The bottom floor of the Dark Tower contains everything in mundane life, but merely spending time there causes you to forget where you really are. To escape the prison, do not run from wind or water. Allow the storm to destroy your dream.
Gnosis- true and sacred knowledge acquired from Onei.
The House- a vast, rambling house with countless rooms. Often attacked by malevolent forces. The attic is haunted.
The Kind- the fairies or elves. The folk of Onei.
The Naught- the other side of dream and death, a limitless soaring bliss or light. The Void. The divine darkness.
The Mysterium- magical power, a current of electricity or intoxication. It spins or spirals, either clockwise or counterclockwise. It can be dark or light. It can dissolve loops and knots and destroy nightmares. It can possess you, either in Onei or the waking world. It can destroy the world and break through to the other side. It can appear as rising floodwaters, tsunamis, tornadoes, waterspouts or in other symbolic and terrifying forms. The mysterium can destroy all structure, all order. When the true power of the mysterium is unleashed, it can annihilate anything and everything, revealing the Naught.
Night Wandering- oneiromancy, the art of mythic dreaming.
Onei- the dream realm. It sends its messages by chance, yet it can be courted in trance. If you want knowledge, seek out darkness and silence.
A Power- a significant entity in Onei, such as a god, saint, angel or demon.
The Prime- warriors of the Kind. A regiment in the Red Queen's armies. The Prime has an initiation test consisting of strange riddles. If you answer perfectly, you pass. If your answers are almost correct, you fail. If your answers are completely incorrect, you have a second chance to pass by going on a quest.
Sana Delayo- another word for Onei.
The Secret Library- a library on the rim of the Valley of Shadow, containing books on any and every topic from multiple different realities. The keepers of the library were cruel men, torturers and slavers, but the slaves rebelled and killed them, then disposed of their bodies in a lake. Not all of the masters were killed in the battle, and the survivors later counterattacked. The fate of the Secret Library remains uncertain. Later glimpses suggest that at least some grim powers may still be present there.
The Valley of Shadow- an infinitely deep valley of total darkness into which the dead must walk, led by a faceless guide with the mannerisms of a carnival barker. Many are too terrified to step down into the darkness, so they wander along the rim of the valley, angry and confused. If you go down into the darkness you can break through to the other side. The Valley of Shadow is the womb of the Naught.
Dream Quest– A journey or quest that occurs within a dream or series of dreams, for the purpose of achieving some mythic task or acquiring gnosis.
Answer all riddles; complete all quests.
Image by Wilfred Gabriel de Glehn
April 8, 2018 January 4, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, Gnostic, gothic, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, paganism, spiritualityLeave a comment
How Doubt Left the Empire
The Empire of the Adoration, also known as the Qalina, grew up out of the chaos left behind them by the Sons of the Crow. The Sons of the Crow destroyed the City of Wisdom and the City of the Gods, then disappeared into the Blue Desert for several years. They came out of the Blue Desert to destroy the City of the Sublime, where the worshipers of the Sublime had rebuilt their temples. They retreated for seven years into the Brokentooth Mountains, then came down again to burn several more cities.
The Flagbearer and his followers had stopped them, but the Flagbearer had been burned alive, because the priests of the Adoration did not trust his purity. Then the Temple of the Adoration became the ruler of the ruined lands, and imposed its teaching on every community. The Qalina was its High Priestess and its absolute ruler, and her followers believed in the legend of the Adoration: how it was he who brought the sun from the depths of outer space and installed it above the primal waters, how he pulled the ghosts of which people were made from out of the heart of a dying star in order to populate his new-made world, how he imprisoned the Chaos Worm beneath the same primeval ocean before calling up the islands and continents from beneath the waves, and how he saved his beloved people from being murdered by the vengeful stars, before imprisoning the stars in their cells in the firmament.
All believed, and no one questioned. But there was one who doubted, not the faith itself, but his own ability to live up to it. People called him the Doubtful, and they used to chase him through the streets and throw things at him. The priests would question him when he came to the temple, asking him why he doubted the faith. But he would deny that he doubted, saying only this:
Though he split the land from the water,
Though he put each star in its own true place
Though he spared us all from the slaughter
I fear his face.
"Fear and wisdom are closely connected," said a kindly priestess, washing the offal from off of his face. "You have the makings of a priest." But he shook his head, and the expression of fear on his face contained a tincture of a doubt, and so the priestess drove him out.
From the depths of his terrified heart, the Doubter bargained, holding his hands up to heaven in a pouring rain. He wanted to serve the Adoration, and he wanted to love him, but the possibility of the one seemed to render the other meaningless. No man can bargain with heaven, so his prayers were not answered. The priests of the Adoration demanded a goodness of which he knew he was not capable. This would not have hurt him, except that he knew his neighbors, and though all of them were pious, none of them were capable of true goodness either. This one was an adulterer and this other one a gossip, this one cheated at card games and still another was a drunk. And as for the Doubtful, he had killed a man, though it was a long time ago and in another city far away.
He knew his own crime was a heavy one, but the church demanded a facade of piety, and this was something of which he did not feel capable. And so he sank deeper into doubt and despair, wandering along the roads of the Qalina and sleeping wherever the night surprised him.
He awoke one morning on the side of the road, as the cold light of a white dawn drained the darkness from the sky. There was a black crow standing on top of him, perhaps considering if he was dead enough to make a meal.
"Don't take my eyes," he said. "I am not yet ready."
The crow cawed once at him and flew away, but the Doubtful was disturbed by what he had seen in its eyes. For just a few seconds, before the crow flew away, weird images had flickered there like dim reflections: a blind old woman singing in a lifeless desert as vast as the world, a madman tracing the cracks in a human thighbone between the walls of a ruined city.
"What did I see?" he asked aloud, and he heard a laugh.
"You saw a bird," said a man, "for there was nothing else to see."
The man was walking along the roadway with a stick in his hand, and his eyes were bitter and mocking. "You are not a believer, I see," the man said.
"I am not. But neither am I an unbeliever." The Doubtful stood up, brushing the dust of the road off his clothes as well as he could.
"Allow me to guess," said the man. "They cast you out, because you would not worship their ridiculous god."
"I never found their god ridiculous," said the Doubter. "I found him terrible beyond all hope. What god could be so ruthless as to demand goodness of men?"
The passerby laughed. "That is droll, I'll admit. But this goodness they ask of you is as meaningless as their god. You need not cling to these shadows and dreams. Accept the reality of what is in front of you, and seek no other."
"Yet I doubt that too. You ask me to trust my eyes and not their dreams. I know no cause for trusting either."
"Then you are far more lost than I. One must know where to stop doubting."
"I don't think I believe that," said the Doubter, and the other man shook his head and walked away.
"The trouble is not that you couldn't see," said another voice, "but that you couldn't play with the things you saw. Don't you have any dreams of your own?"
The Doubter looked in every direction, but all he saw was the crow, perching nearby on the branch of a silver birch tree.
"I must have dreams of my own," he replied at last, "to be hearing you speak."
Then the crow on the branch stepped out of his crow skin, and revealed himself as the magician called the Three Times Exiled. He grinned a grin from the branches of the tree, and the Doubter grinned back although he did not know why.
"Where are you from?" he asked. "For you are no mortal man."
The magician bowed, and said these words:
I've lived here on the borders of the night,
Where dark divides from light.
I've walked the marches made of fire and snow.
"I am only a visitor from the Country of the King, where no one believes anything but everything is real. You may join me there if you like." And then he sang this song:
"Why should I believe that?" asked the Doubter.
"You should not."
The Three Times Exiled jumped down from the branch, and the ground where he landed sprouted bells on stems, waving like flowers in a summer breeze. The sound of music filled the air
"Neither believers nor unbelievers will ever find it. I don't ask you to trust what others see or claim to have seen. I don't even ask you to trust what you see yourself. I ask you only to play."
The Three Times Exiled waved his hand, and a light burst forth from the Doubter's forehead and swept the world like a cloth washing paint away. The landscape around them became a world of wonder. But it was not exactly as the magician had described. Instead of a city made of bone there was a plain of windows, scattered here and there for hundreds of miles. Some of them were set into the ground and some rose up straight out of it; some of them floated in the sky and some moved from place to place. And every window looked out upon a different world, some of them fiery places and some of them snowy, some of them mountains and forests, others temples and palaces. The possibilities were so amazing that the Doubter merely gaped, and did not even notice that the magician had gone.
"This is different than what you sang of…" he began, but then he saw he was alone. For only a moment, he stood dismayed. Then he walked off into the World of Windows and was seen no more.
Image by Frederick Sandys
April 1, 2018 January 4, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, magic, myth, occult, pagan, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
When the sun and the moon still gave no warmth, and maneating giants still roamed the earth.
There is a book in Onei that contains all knowledge, including the knowledge of first things. If you are given access to the Book it can be a blessing or a curse.
I opened up the Book to find the place
That spoke of ancient things. My hands were cold,
My lips were purple. And the lamp was old –
It guttered angrily and cast off smoke
That stained my fingers black. I found the page
And what it said was this – "There was an age
In which the sun and moon, though dimly white,
Gave off no heat. Like lifeless rocks they hung
Above a world where primal darkness clung
And in that darkness, there were moving things
Like giant, hungry shadows. In the deep
That ancient chaos still remains asleep."
Image by Sidney Sime
March 25, 2018 January 2, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, horror, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, pagan, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
Sorrow of the Gorge
A shock of light above the gorge,
One moment of the sun.
The cliffs are like a closing mouth
Of frozen rock, and north and south
The frigid waters run.
I pause and glance ahead. The path
Is vertical and thin.
An ancient, rusted chain is here,
I wrap it round my hand in fear.
It bites into my skin.
The roots and boulders, tangled thick
As fingers intertwined,
Jut out as sharp as broken bones.
I cross a heap of ancient stones
And pour out half my wine.
"Come out and taste the wine," I call,
"Come out and drink your fill."
The wind comes roaring through the trees
And something in me dimly sees
The spirits of the hill.
I light an incense-stick and bow.
"I know it's cold up here.
The world has changed, and we have come
To hate the things we started from,
The magic and the fear.
"The face of death is hid behind
This horror we have made.
But fools prefer what's clear and bright.
They turn their backs on every sight
Of mingled light and shade.
"Still, there are things we owe the ghosts.
And some do not forget."
A mournful bird came floating by.
The mountain ghosts did not reply.
They haven't answered yet.
Image by Eugen Bracht
March 18, 2018 January 2, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, horror, magic, myth, occult, pagan, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
A Journey to Onei (3)
"The Book of Onei is not The Book," my father once said. I remember him still, walking beside me on that sunless beach – but was it before he had died, or after? "The Book of Onei is only a guide, a book of riddles that don't always lead to any answers, a book of truths within lies. I have been to Onei many times, but I have never been to any of the cities or nations mentioned in the Book of Onei, nor have I seen their ruins, nor met their citizens. As far as I can tell they do not exist, and most likely they never existed – not even in Onei."
"Then what is the Book of Onei?" I asked him. "Is it just a fraud?"
"The Book of Onei is both a key and a lock," he said. His face was haunted, as if he always listened and always waited – perhaps for a footfall. "Those stories mean something, but I do not know what. The Book of Onei hints at something, but I am afraid to ask."
"Perhaps all this darkness is just a means," I said, and yet he would not hear me and would not answer.
"So what is The Book, then?" I asked him.
"It contains all knowledge, all knowledge on any topic. It contains the secrets of the Primal Darkness! It is the gift of the Veiled One, the most ancient of all the Powers in Onei."
"Did she give it to you?"
"And why would she have done that? I snuck in to the library, the Great Library of Onei, and I stole what I wanted. I walked out with the Book of Onei in my coat pocket! What power would give me any aid or comfort?"
"Maybe that isn't something she would even care about. We know nothing about her. Perhaps the Book of Onei means nothing to her. Perhaps she wanted you to have it. Perhaps if you had ever made use of it, she would have shown you The Book."
Still he did not answer, would never answer. He only looked at the ocean, at the light that flickered across the dark waters, and recited a poem:
"I'm Prometheus," he told me,
"I'm the traitor and the thief.
But his eyes were still defiant
Through his horror and his grief.
Then the eagle stuck its beak in
For the hundred millionth time,
And I watched in guilty wonder.
Was I worthy of his crime?
Have I used the gift he gave me?
Have I kept the embers warm?
Have I fed the god inside me
Striving daily to be born?"
And now here I stood, deep beyond the Borders of Onei, among the gorges and mountains. How far would I travel, how many mountains would I have to cross, until I discovered the secret? Was there even a secret to be uncovered, or only lies within lies?
I dug into my bag and found the Book of Onei, opened it up to a random page and read a poem about these mountains.
– notes found in the handwritten original of the Book of Onei
Image by Andreas Achenbach
March 11, 2018 January 2, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, horror, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, pagan, poem, poetry, Prometheus, spiritualityLeave a comment
When the Sons of the Crow Came Down on Onei
When the Sons of the Crow came down on Onei, the terror of their first appearance was like the rising of a blood-red star. Their eyes were feral and vengeful and they were clothed in rags, black tatters like the wings of crows. Their fury lit first upon the City of Wisdom, which they destroyed completely in seven days. Men said that the Sons of the Crow were the fools of the wasteland, driven out from the City of Wisdom and returned now to take their vengeance, but none could say for certain. The Sons were like howling furies when they went into battle, and the wise could do nothing but die before them.
The Sons of the Crow were led by a prophet, a man who wore a long black crow's mask to hide his face. The name of the prophet was Eyes Like Flowers, and the heads of huge sunflowers spilled out from the eye-holes in his black mask, so that none could tell how he could see.
There was a story about Eyes Like Flowers, but none could say if it was true or not. According to the story, the prophet was originally a common criminal, arrested for inciting a riot in the streets of the city. When the wise men of the city declared his death sentence, he only laughed strangely at them but would say nothing. They tied him to a stake and prepared the bonfire, and the man who would soon lead the Sons of the Crow began to sing. His voice was like the harsh screech of a cawing crow.
When my eyeballs bloom like flowers
And my hands go forth to war,
When the bell that tolls the hours
Cracks and falls and rings no more…
According to the legend, Eyes like Flowers became a prophet as he sang the song. Gigantic sunflower heads burst out through his eye sockets, and his eyeballs fell out just like little glass marbles. His hands burst into flame even though the city Headsman had not yet lit the match, and the bonds with which they had tied his wrists burned black and snapped off.
The clock on the great brass tower in the center of the city, a beautifully complicated mechanism of gears and dials, had just been ringing the hour of noon. As Eyes Like Flowers sang the words of his song, the bell in the clock-tower suddenly cracked, falling to the ground in an explosion of bricks and splintered wood.
Across the length of Onei, on the Blue-Green Ocean, a hot wind began to blow. The sun blazed like a malignant eye, and the drought began that destroyed the Pearl States. By the end of that decade, large sections of the Blue Green Ocean had been boiled away to desert, gleaming whitely like a plain of salt.
As Eyes Like Flowers sang his song, the Wise – who had been watching his intended execution from a nearby balcony – had their crimes laid bare before the people of Sophia, appearing as flickering images on the passing clouds. Qaran the Luminous, the great philosopher, was exposed as an embezzler of the city funds. Tendress the High Priestess was shown taking bribes from the wealthy to preach whatever they wanted her to preach. Setnel the Astronomer had stolen another man's greatest discovery, then had his rival denounced as a fool and driven out into the wasteland.
It went on and on, and the people of the city were enraged by what they saw. The rioting that followed lasted for three days and four nights. Eyes Like Flowers disappeared, only to return at the head of his black-clad horde some ten years later. But all of this was only a legend, because no one outside the Sons of the Crow could say for certain, and the Sons of the Crow did not answer questions.
What is known is this. The prophet who was known as Eyes Like Flowers wore a crow mask with a long black beak, and long tattered robes that looked like crow's wings. In the eye-openings of his mask, there were giant sunflowers. When the Sons of the Crow came out from the wasteland, he got up in front of them and sang this song:
And are we not of the sons of the crow,
Who worship a hidden creed?
Or those who seek but do not know,
And hear, but do not heed?
When they heard these words, his followers howled, and the frenzy of their bloodlust blotted out all other sounds. Man and woman, young and old, the Sons of the Crow held their spears on high, while their commanding officers held curved white scimitars. The Wise of Sophia sent out their army, but the army was massacred before the gates of the city. Those gates were barred, but the Sons of the Crow laid siege to the walls. The people of the back streets rose in rebellion, slaughtered the guards that held the gates, and threw them open to the Sons. They say the light from the flames could be seen in Qotar, but Qotar is more than two hundred miles away from what are now the ruins of the City of Wisdom.
That too is mere legend, but this is not: when the Sons of the Crow came down on Onei, the terror of their first appearance was like the rising of a blood-red star. From city to city and from land to land, the Sons of the Crow brought blood and fire. No one knew what they wanted and none could say what they believed, for their Prophet spoke only in riddles and poetry. To the High Priest of the Adoration in the Plain of Day, Eyes Like Flowers sang these words:
I climbed a staircase to the land of birds
And told them what I'd learned.
They didn't care.
To birds, the world is made of clouds and air.
And then he inexplicably spared the Temple of Adoration from destruction by his horde, though the Temple of Wisdom was torn brick from brick and its priests impaled before the ruined walls.
Believing that the worship of Adoration must be favored somehow by the Sons of the Crow, thousands and thousands of people converted to that creed, and the whole land between what was once Sophia and what would someday be the Qalina became a stronghold of that faith. The Sons of the Crow did not always march, but disappeared into the deserts and the mountains for years at a time, reappearing to burn and kill. Yet when they did so, they showed no favor to any, burning the cities of the Adoring just as readily and as ruthlessly as any other.
When the fear of the Sons of the Crow had become too great to endure, and the fact that they favored no faith had become too obvious to ignore, a prophet arose from among the ranks of the Adoring. He was known as the Flagbearer, and he carried a flag before him into battle instead of any kind of weapon. All his followers did the same. The followers of the Flagbearer refused to fight, but only carried their flags ahead of them and stood before the Sons of the Crow. They died in their thousands, surrendering their own lives willingly as a shame and a rebuke. When the Flagbearer stood before Eyes Like Flowers, the mad prophet broke down and wept, singing these words as he fell to his knees:
We come to you with broken beaks
And wings like crippled birds.
It's better not to even speak
Than lose the weight of words.
Then all of the Sons of the Crow dropped down to their knees, and their spears and their scimitars fell out of their hands. Their eyes were wet with sorrow and remorse, and the terror of their own damnation. But the Flagbearer replied with kindness:
On bended knee I sought the source
Of all that moves above,
And only when I knew remorse
Decided it was love.
The awful kindness of the Flagbearer shamed the Sons of the Crow so that they took their own lives, unable to live with the horror that they had made. And so the Flagbearer saved the lands that would become the Qalina, the Empire of the Adoration. Yet he was not to be honored, for the priests of the Adoration could never trust him. He had no blood on his hands, but the shame he inspired, the example of a thrilling and terrible love, had destroyed an entire army. And so they had him burned alive, and his followers scattered to the corners of the earth.
There were those who disapproved, but one old man who witnessed the execution nodded solemnly as the flames rose high. As he turned away from the pile of ashes, he was heard to say this:
He told me he could teach the art
The world was built upon.
And yet, within my secret heart,
I smiled when he was gone.
Image by Vasily Alexandrovich Kotarbinski
March 4, 2018 December 31, 2017 gilbridedark, fantasy, gothic, horror, magic, myth, occult, pagan, poetry, spirituality2 Comments
The Powers of the First Darkness
Alone at night, I hear the doorknob turn,
The hinges creak- and standing in the light
Are cold and silent men. I stand in fright,
And one by one they float in through the door.
Their suits are charcoal gray, their ties are thin.
On every mouth, a Mona Lisa grin.
Their eyes could just as well be balls of glass,
Their faces stuffed and mounted. Waves of dread
Pass over me and through me. Like the dead
There's nothing there at all- an absent space
Just papered over by a face as clean
And free of comment as a pure machine.
"We've found him," says the first one
And I turn, to try to get away. The power comes
And lifts me off my feet, completely numb
From crown to sole. Cold, drunken currents flow
And hold me in a field of fearful awe.
They know the truth. I disobeyed the Law
And now the consequence has found me out.
"You should have kept your mouth shut," says a voice,
"Or joined the Legion while you had the choice,
"But chronicling our secrets…" As I scream,
Their faces start to glow. They circle in
Like feeding sharks. But, though I may have sinned
I still remain defiant. Down below,
In Death's primeval waters, there is lore
Of hidden things that none have known before,
And I can steal it if I slip the trap.
The horror closes in. My fingers make
A sign of power, and I bolt awake.
My wife's asleep beside me in our bed.
The kitchen light is flickering. Outside,
The city sleeps. And I am still alive.
– from The Book of Onei, Part 1: The Art of Night Wandering
February 25, 2018 December 28, 2017 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, horror, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, pagan, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
The Three Types of Dreamer
Lightseers- night wanderers who most easily or frequently contact celestial and benevolent entities.
Earthseers- dreamers who dream true things, but of Earth and not of Onei.
Darkseers- night wanderers who most easily or frequently contact cthonic and horrifying entities.
It's not that the blue-green mountains don't appeal.
I can feel their majesty,
Their sense of distance.
It's just that there's also something else-
For instance,
The something wicked that this way comes
In the witching hour,
The drunken trembling of branch and stem
And the formless Power.
And if I should sometimes prefer
To attach myself
To some beautiful chaos-
I can pay what it costs.
Image by Albert Pinkham Ryder
Offering Prayer
Burn the appropriate candle and recite this prayer when you leave an offering to the powers:
This hungry pit shall open wide
And gorge on meat and wine.
These flames will burn as night-clouds turn
To watch this work of mine.
This shaft will gape so none escapes
Its toothless maw tonight.
While blue-white stars look down in awe
To see the flames so bright.
Oh gods of endless space and sky,
Oh gods of underneath,
Oh gods who live and gods who die
And gods who wait beneath,
Accept these morsels from my hand,
Drink deep, and eat your fill.
I seek no benefits tonight
Unless you share my will.
February 11, 2018 December 28, 2017 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, horror, magic, myth, occult, pagan, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
To the Keeper of the Gate
A prayer with offerings to gain entrance to the Borderlands:
Phantoms of the forest gather
In the shadows of the trees.
Hidden voices whisper, whisper.
I have come for all of these.
Praises to the guardian spirit,
Keeper of the in-between.
There are ways that I must wander,
And you know what ways I mean.
Here beneath the bone-white birches
And the blue-green spruce and pine
I have brought you bowls of chicken,
Goblets filled with rich red wine.
Spirit of the borders, hear me.
Throw the doors of twilight wide.
Tell the skulls that guard the pillars,
Grant me leave to pass inside.
Image by Arnold Böcklin
February 4, 2018 December 28, 2017 gilbridedark, dreams, gothic, horror, magic, mysticism, myth, pagan, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
Crossing over into the borders of Onei, I saw a thick and shadowy forest. It's always like that, by which I mean there is always a barrier – not that there is always a forest. And this forest was deep, as deep as the waters of a still, black lake without a wind to ruffle its surface. I heard no birds, felt nothing but a malevolent watchfulness. At the edge of the trees there stood a pair of pillars, guarded by two grinning and silent skulls. The dead stared back at me in blind resentment. I was alive and they were not, and that's more than enough.
The guardian sat there dressed in red, its face obscured behind a cloud of smoke. It nodded solemnly as I approached, waiting to see if I knew the invocation. The heads in the pillars had failed to give it, which is ironic of course. You compose it yourself.
I opened my copy of the Book of Onei, turned to a blank page, and began to speak. The words of my invocation appeared on the page in red and black. I know I said that I could hear no birds, but as soon as I had finished speaking a great flock arose, flying in rapid and violent circles about the nimbus of the sun.
The guardian stood, its robes the color of a thick red wine. It made a gesture with its hands, an ancient symbol I had never seen before but which I recognized immediately. What it meant was "proceed," and it obliged the heads to stop their silent laughter.
It had no such power over the forest, which continued to brood in malicious silence. I knew my own tendency toward a violent melancholy and didn't take it personally.
In a clearing between the trees that night I dug a pit with my hands, a place for offerings to the underworld powers. The pit was like a gaping mouth, a waiting throat, opening wide in eager wetness to devour the world. I lit a fire in front of it, honoring the powers of the empty heavens. The celestial deities, the stars and planets, the vast, blue void with its howling winds – I made my offerings to all that beauty, all that horror and all that wonder.
And then I crouched in silence, waiting for the spirits to render their judgement. I remembered a dream. The night when the Host came was a terrible night, perhaps the night that had driven me here. There is no horror like that horror, unthinking and childlike, the knowledge that there is something beyond death – and that it knows who you are. They almost had me that time, but I turned out to not be as powerless as the Host believed me.
I had my knowledge, the lore my father had stolen from Onei. He gave that power to me, though he had never dared to use it himself. I made a sign with my fingers, I broke the glamour of the wrathful dead…
And that was my answer from the forest spirits:
"The darkseer needs no permission to journey on into Onei."
January 28, 2018 December 28, 2017 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, horror, magic, occult, spiritualityLeave a comment
A Vade Mecum
1- Seek out darkness and silence.
2- Drift on the river of sleep and daydream.
3- Hear what the voices tell you; see what you see.
4- Record all glimpses of Onei, in daydream or nightdream.
5- Answer all riddles; complete all quests.
As hard at it can be to enter Onei intentionally, it is always possible to walk the Borderlands – the place in your mind between sleep and waking, between Earth and Onei. Spirits, dreams and messages from Onei will find you there.
Each night I lock the doors and close my eyes
To watch the rivers rise.
I've tasted all those memories- I know.
Though there are things that I can never mend,
If I could choose again
I'd take the path I took so long ago.
Image by Lucien Lévy-Dhurmer
January 21, 2018 December 28, 2017 gilbridedark, dreams, gothic, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
The Spider's Song
In the city of Sophia in the land of Onei, only wisdom was valued and the foolish were outcasts. The wise used them only for pulling carts or breaking stones, but those whose foolishness was too offensive to the wise were driven away, forced out into the rocky wasteland on the borders of the Plains of Day and Night. Sometimes the lights from their campfires could be seen in the distance, but this sight made the wise uneasy and so they often chose to leave their shutters drawn. All over the splendid city made of colored glass and hammered bronze, onion-domed towers and lofty pinnacles, the night was dark, but in the rocky wasteland outside the city there were lights like distant stars. It was almost as if the wise were frightened of those campfires, which grew more numerous every year.
Such a fate was Aphron's, son of the philosopher Qaran the Luminous. He had always been foolish, a drinker of strong wines and a sleeper at noon, but his father's reputation for wisdom was so pronounced, even in a city as wise as this one, that he had managed to reach his nineteenth year before anyone dared to speak against him. When the outcry to banish Aphron came at last, his father Qaran took him aside and sought to prepare him for what lay ahead.
"My son," he said, "you are not wise, but there is no need for you to become one of those who cluster around the campfires at the edge of the city. For there are two paths to wisdom, and one is close at hand. If you go out past the rocky wasteland and into the Plains of Day and Night, you will come to the Starry River. Cross that river, and seek the priests in the Plain of Day. They will teach you the wisdom of faith and service, and you may return here as a priest."
So Aphron set off, and his path took him out through the rocky wasteland and past the ashes of the discarded cooking fires. None of the foolish were to be seen by day, and rumor had it that they shunned the daylight, seeking to hide their shame by burrowing and digging, living in caves like furtive animals. It took Aphron three days to cross the rocky wasteland, but he never saw any fools there, only their campfires after sunset. When he made an effort to approach a campfire, it would wink out like a closing eye, leaving the night in a more total darkness. So Aphron concluded that the fools had rejected him, knowing him somehow to be a seeker of wisdom. He pressed on into the Plain of Night.
The Plain of Night
The Plain of Night was a terrible place, where the sun never rose and the moon never shone, like the moonless nights preferred by thieves and reivers. No path showed the way through that dark, flat plain, but for as long as Aphron walked upon it he heard noises in the nearer distance. Stealthy footsteps crept slowly up on him, seeming to be preparing an ambush, but no predator ever struck. Sinister whispers seemed to breathe conspiracies, but he could never make out the words they were speaking. The fear of walking through constant danger was far worse for Aphron than an actual attack, for as a frequenter of taverns and wine houses he was no stranger to sudden violence, and he carried a long, flame-bladed rapier at his side. He clutched the hilt and prepared himself, but no attack ever came.
Without any sign of sun or moon, he had no idea how long he walked, but at last he came to a shining river, faintly silver with the light of all the constellations that seemed to glow from beneath the waters. Aphron could not decide if there were stars in the water, the night sky of some other world perhaps, or if it was only a reflection. When he compared the constellations in the Starry River to those in the sky above him, they did not seem quite the same, but he was at a loss to say exactly how. Remembering that he was a fool after all, he gave up wondering, and looked for a place to cross the river.
There was a ferry-man on the riverside in the silvery darkness, sitting and playing dice with no one and drinking dust from an old clay cup. When he looked up at Aphron and spread his hand for the fare, his smile looked as evil as a death's head grinning, and his skin was stretched so tight over his bones he might as well have been a skeleton. But after Aphron had paid the fare, and the two of them had gone halfway across the river, his flesh filled out. His malicious grin became a somber frown, he grew a long white beard, and his eyes became bright and blue, though they stared blindly ahead of him. A moment later, they passed into daylight. Before the ferry-boat had crossed the Starry River, both sides of the bank had been the same black landscape. Now both of them were all but drowned in sunlight, and the Plains were a wonderland of grass and flowers, while the air was so fresh it tasted like honey. The ferry-boat landed on the Plain of Day, and Aphron walked in search of the priests who live there.
The City of the Gods
The City of the Gods in the Plain of Day was home to many temples, and the creed they taught was one of love and service – love for the gods, and service to humanity. The priests of the Plain of Day were not corrupt, but genuine servants who strove only to stand as interpreters between the earth and heaven, and who trained the priests of the many cities of Onei in the subtle intricacies of the celestial language. Aphron the Fool sought out the temple of Wisdom, for the goddess of Wisdom was the goddess of his city, and no man who had learned her mysteries would ever be accounted a fool.
"The highest wisdom," the priest told him, "Is the wisdom of discernment, which will allow you to serve both god and man. And the key to discernment is to learn the flavor – the taste and the texture of wrong and right. First I will feed you the wrong."
The priest gave him something that looked much like chocolate, the richest and darkest of chocolates, but its taste was sour. It was the taste of his mouth on a long and hateful morning after too much wine the night before, the sweat of an anonymous lover's unloved flesh, the iron-like stench of blood on his blade after a misspent word.
"I know this taste," he said. "And it is poisonous. Because of these flavors I was sent into exile."
"Then consider that your first taste of wisdom. Now I will feed you the right."
What the priest fed him now was like an amber-colored honey, the taste of goodness and piety, the taste of loving kindness. For many days he feasted upon it, because the taste was new to him, and at first it seemed to Aphron to be the greatest joy he had ever known. For one month and then three months and for one year and then three years, Aphron fed only on the honey of righteousness. But then in time it began to pall. The taste it left in his mouth was so sweet as to be nauseating, and he longed for something more solid to feast upon.
"Honey is sweet," he said. "But it is not satisfying."
The high priest sighed, and opened a door that led out of the temple. "In that direction is the Blue Desert. If you can cross its sand dunes and survive its dangers, you will come in time to the Cliffs of the Sages. They teach the other path to wisdom."
And the high priest would not look at him, but would only point ahead at the Blue Desert with his face averted, as if Aphron had disappointed him or possibly shamed him somehow. So Aphron set out on the road again, two times an exile.
The Plain of Day was filled with temples, and Wisdom was only one of them. There were temples to all of the gods on the Plain of Day, from the lordly and wrathful Thunder Wolf to the Huntress with her bow and arrows. He stopped at none of them, though a man could learn wisdom by studying at any of them. The path of the priests was not for him.
The Blue Desert
On the third day after he left the Temple of Wisdom, Aphron reached the end of the Plain of Day. Blue sands of a darkly luminous color stretched out to the edge of the horizon and beyond, like an ocean without a drop of water in it. Aphron walked on into the Blue Desert without giving the City of the Gods another thought.
The Blue Desert was a dangerous place. The sands in the Blue Desert had a mysterious color, that deep yet still luminous color of the last minutes of twilight. This color is usually seen only in the twenty minutes or so before true nightfall, when the sun has gone down completely but the sky has not yet forgotten what the daylight used to be. It is the color of melancholy, the type of melancholy that is aesthetically pleasing, an emotion as hypnotic and fatal as the eyes of a cobra.
As he crossed the Blue Desert on foot, Aphron succumbed to that melancholy, suddenly swept by a terrible longing that yet seemed indescribably beautiful to him. He was thinking about a former lover from the City of Wisdom, a great beauty whose eyes had shined with much the same color (or so it seemed to him now). He suddenly decided he must have been in love. He couldn't know this, of course, but they had already driven his former lover out, to join the other fools whose campfires dotted the rocky wasteland. This twilight-eyed beauty was far from tortured by thoughts of Aphron (being rather more concerned with immediate survival), but Aphron was suddenly tortured by thoughts of them.
If torture is really the right word for it, that is – because it had much to savor in it, this emotion of yearning and loss and poignant memory. He thought about their blue eyes, the same blue as the sands, and the soft waves of their long wheat-colored hair. He thought about the way they smiled at him when he came into the tavern, and the way they sang for him when the two of them were alone. These thoughts were painful – among the worst pain he had ever experienced – but he would sooner have given an arm than give them up, and that is never true of anything we do not crave. Aphron craved his own suffering, and for as long as he craved his suffering, he wandered aimlessly through the desert.
No one can say how long he wandered there, but Aphron was a fool – and no fool ever kept the face of one lover before his eyes for very long. He savored the beauty of his own suffering for a time that felt terrible, and he could have sworn that it was a hundred years – and then another old infatuation crossed his mind, a red-headed fruit seller he had met for just as long as it took him to buy some peaches. As soon as he thought of this fact, he laughed, and as soon as he laughed at his own foolishness, the blue sands lost their power. The Cliffs of Saint and Sage were right there in front of him, a walk of no more than a few hours.
The Cliffs of Saint and Sage
When he arrived at the cliffs, their height was terrifying, but he could see that there were people who lived on them in caves like birds. There were piles of bones below the cliffs, as of people who fell, but he couldn't tell if they were the saints and the sages or merely would-be visitors who had tried to climb up to them. There was no way to reach the caves except to climb the cliffs, so Aphron disregarded the risk and began to climb.
Three times he almost fell and joined the bleached bones at the bottom, but each time he caught a hold and continued to climb. He reached a cave before nightfall, and the old hermit who lived in the cave was clearly a sage. He looked on Aphron with eyes that burned, and gestured for him to crawl into the cave.
"I have long awaited you," he said. "Twice-exiled Aphron the Fool. You rejected the path of the priests, because the priests know nothing except right and wrong. Wrong and right are merely opposites, and the path of the sage is to transcend such opposites. By rejecting the path of the priest, you have begun the journey. To complete it, you must wear this hair-shirt, and live in this cage on the side of the cliff. When you no longer know of hot and cold, like or dislike, good or bad, you will have become a sage."
So Aphron lived in the cage on the side of the cliff, praying and meditating and starving and itching. He understood the purpose of it – which made him wonder whether he was really such a fool as he had always been told – but the hair shirt scratched him and burned him, and the cold winds that swept the side of the cliff made him shiver, and the occasional bird's egg the hermit fed him was less than nourishing. He felt his mind changing as the days wore on, but not in the way the hermit intended. He wasn't piercing the veil between right and wrong. He wasn't transcending his preferences. He was only becoming strange, sinking down into a deeper foolishness in which he thought he could begin to understand the language of the spiders, the music that sunlight makes, and the logic of the clouds.
The hermit pulled his cage in one day for the purpose of feeding him, saw the crazed look in his eyes, and began to beat him with an old bone. Aphron chose not to resist this violence, but it did make him wonder. How was it that a sage could become so angry?
What the Spider Said
As he lay in the bottom of the cage on the side of the cliff, a black widow spider crawled up to him. The spider said this: "Soon to be thrice-exiled, you are one of my kind, a follower of the third path. For there are priests and there are sages, but there are also magicians. The priest serves the community through prayer and sacrifice, through articulating its deepest values, and by mediating between god and man. The sage, on the other hand, makes men into gods, by teaching them the wisdom to stand as high as heaven. The magician does neither."
"Then what does the magician do?" asked Aphron. And the spider sang:
In the ruined walls of Carthage
There's a man who sits alone.
He can tell you what your dream is
From the cracks along a bone.
In the Empty Quarter, keening,
There's a woman, old and blind,
And her milky eyes are staring
Through Saharas of the mind.
They will show you how to do things-
How to rule the wind and storm.
But you'll find yourself a stranger
In the place where you were born.
As the spider completed this mysterious song, the hermit heard him, and came rushing forward with a little knife. "You've been listening to the spiders," he said, "Just like the others!" And the hermit cut the rope, sending Aphron the Fool to his death far below.
Or such was his intention. For while most of those who heard the spider's song had gained too much wisdom, leading them to contemplate their own deaths with a fatal dispassion, Aphron had only become more strange. He had achieved the foolishness of poetry and of the wandering stranger, and the laws of the world held no weight with him. He changed into a crow with a flick of his thoughts, flew out between the bars of the cage, and disappeared into the open sky.
"Where are you going?" yelled the hermit, waving his knife at the departing bird. "Where are you going, you fool?"
"I fly for Carthage," croaked the bird.
Image by Jan Toorop
January 1, 2018 January 1, 2018 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, occult, poetryLeave a comment
Magic Harp-Strings
Clouds roll across a purple sky.
The witch pours out a cup.
The orange coals of incense burn.
She knows the goblins, how they yearn
To come and eat us up.
The wind cries out as if it's drunk.
The gods will soon be here.
The witch prepares a plate of meat.
The spirits come, and as they eat
She turns away in fear.
The Presence takes her, and her eyes
Roll up into her head.
Like passing clouds the spirits trace
Their shapes across her dreaming face,
The scriptures of the dead.
The gods are here, they're always here,
Although they are not seen.
They walk across the purple skies
Or in a witch's staring eyes
Or somewhere in between.
– From The Book of Onei, Part I: The Art of Night Wandering
Image by Franz Von Stuck
December 12, 2017 December 28, 2017 gilbridedark, dreams, fantasy, gothic, horror, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, pagan, philosophy, poem, poetry, spiritualityLeave a comment
Journey to Onei
Notes found in the handwritten original of the Book of Onei
I was nearly forty years old when it first came over me, the strange feeling that I no longer knew myself. I was sitting in my own house at three in the morning, thinking back on the life I had lived. You start off with so many choices and then you start to pick between them, and every time you choose one path instead of another all your options start to narrow in. You become who you are, and it's easy to forget you could have been a lot of other things. You could have been once, but you no longer can. Now you are whatever you decided to be, and there are no more open vistas.
The whole house was asleep. You can only have thoughts like that in the first place when everyone else is asleep, because that's the only time when your mind is free enough. It's the only time when no one needs you.
I looked up at the fan blades as they turned and turned, and their long shadows flew across the ceiling like angelic messengers moving rapidly before the sun. My wife and my little daughter lay asleep in their beds, but I hadn't slept in at least three days.
What I was thinking as I was lying there is that yearning is everything. The whole structure of the universe is based on it. The craving for fulfillment is in every seed, reaching up for the untouchable sun. It's not an anomaly; it's right there in the blueprint. So when a little girl yearns for her mother, or a man for his lover, or a mystic for the god she serves, it's not some pathos to be cured. That suffering and that yearning and that loss is the fire of creation.
"Maybe we should take a trip to the mountains," my wife had said that morning, lying with her head up in the crook of my shoulder. She was trying to comfort me, trying to give me something to look forward to. But I wasn't sad, exactly.
"We are what we are," I answered her. "And we can't pretend. The dead come easily to us and the angels don't. How often do you see the shining ones? How often do you see the dead? You know what we are as well as I do. We are darkseers, not lightseers. I've been thinking a lot about the basement lately."
"I don't like it when you talk about the basement," she said, and pulled back to look at me. The basement is where the door is.
So there I was, sitting up awake and alone at three in the morning, not at all certain how it got this way, how I ended up who I am. I watched the fan blades as they turned and turned, and a strange memory came over me. A strange hunger began to grow inside me, not completely unfamiliar and yet almost forgotten. I stood up silently and slipped my shoes on and went downstairs, moving quietly so as not to wake my wife up. Not only was the door down there (though it had long gone unused) but the book was too – The Book of Onei, my father's crime.
The steps creaked as I walked on them, and the dead things whispered. The basement was where he had kept them bound, and they wouldn't like my interference. But what else can you do with the dead? After all, you can't kill them.
I took a match out and I lit the lamp, and rummaged around in boxes until I found the book. The door in the corner shuddered angrily, but I took the book out anyway.
The ancient chaos, the primal darkness. That was the answer to it all. My father had stolen this book from the Great Library of Onei, and the weight of that shadow had hung over us like an evil cloud. But I wasn't convinced that what he did was wrong. Who are the Great Ones to withhold this knowledge?
The dead responded a few nights later. I had brought The Book of Onei up from the basement where it had slept for years. I had read aloud from its forbidden pages. I had begun to compose a few poems of my own about the dreams and the darkness, loose tributes to demonic geniuses such as Li Ho and Meng Chiao. I had even added a few of them to the Book of Onei.
In reading from the book and in composing those poems I had upset a fragile peace. The things in the basement slipped their bonds, which were only ever made of a certain mindset – a mindset I had not maintained. They came floating up after me late one night while I lay there staring at the ceiling in the lonely hours, believing myself to be wide awake.
My daughter stirred in her sleep and moaned. My wife opened her eyes. The whole house was permeated with a sickening dread, the presence that makes your skin crawl and the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The light in the kitchen blinked on and off. Deep in my stomach, nausea stirred.
"You're going to do what your father did, aren't you?" said my wife. "You're going to go through the door."
I nodded in the darkness of early dawn. "I've done it before," I told her. "Before you and I were together. But I haven't seen Onei in years."
"You're going over there to steal something."
"Yes, of course. That's what my father did, and it's what I'll do too. The things in the basement are getting restless, because they can sense the way I've been feeling lately. My father always said it was an evil book, that it had cursed him ever since he took it. But that's not what I believe."
"Why not?" she asked, a little harshly. "You're endangering us all!"
"I think it scared him so much that he misunderstood it. He always told me that the dead things followed him over from Onei when he brought back the book, and that they were always warning him not to read it, not to use it, not to learn from it. But the primal darkness is the source of wisdom. He stole its secrets and then feared to read them, so he bound the dead up with spiderweb thoughts and left them down there to haunt his dreams. They made his last years one endless nightmare. I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want it to happen to my daughter either. She'll inherit the book."
"You could return the book," she pointed out. "You could bring it back to the Great Library of Onei. Then the dead would leave us alone."
"I'm not even sure that's true. There is such a thing as retribution. And that would only make what he suffered completely meaningless. Prometheus didn't give the fire back."
"And look what happened to him! So what exactly are you going to do?"
"I'm going to learn how to use it. My father was never able to use the book, because he didn't understand it, he didn't know why it was so important to the dead. That is the knowledge I intend to steal."
She was silent for a long time. The sun rose outside, and in the pale light my daughter stirred. She would soon be awake.
"How long will you be gone?" my wife asked. Her voice shook a little.
"Not long at all. I'll be back before the sun finishes rising."
"Or else you won't be back. Not ever again." I didn't answer her that time. There's no answer to the truth.
So I went down to the basement again and I heard the voices, whispering the things they always whisper, the threats and the warnings. I walked through the gauntlet of the voices as if they could not daunt me, although I was going into their place of strength. I had the book in my backpack. The door at the end of the basement jumped angrily as I approached it, rattled a few times, then settled in. I put my hand on the doorknob, said a prayer to the protecting powers, and paused for a moment in silent thought. Then I walked through into the land of Onei.
December 5, 2017 December 28, 2017 gilbridedark, dreams, gothic, horror, magic, mysticism, myth, occult, pagan, paganism, philosophy, Prometheus, spiritualityLeave a comment
Form Is the Illusion
Free PDF: Enclose and Command
Announcing The Book of Onei: An Antinomian Dream Grimoire
New Book: Lessons of the Broadsword Masters
Powers Glimpsed in Onei
lornasmithers on Powers Glimpsed in Onei


text:
Nomore anxious periods...Agriculture Minister Anxious Masuka
Zimbabwe Finally Restores Food Self-Sufficiency After Two Decades
4th March 2021 News Headlines
By Alois Vinga
AFTER almost two decades of grappling with drought induced hunger, among other causes, latest statistics on impending harvest projections released by government indicate the country has broken the previous poor harvest records.
Presenting the state of preparedness for the 2020/21 harvesting period, Lands and Agriculture Minister, Anxious Masuka Tuesday told Cabinet Ministers that a bumper harvest was expected following a season of good rains.
"An estimated national production of 2.5 to 2.8 million metric tonnes of maize and 360 000 metric tonnes of traditional grains has been based on the promising bumper harvest in 2021," he said.
The projected harvests are way more than the 2020 yields which stood at 907 628 metric tonnes.
Traditional grains in the same year were at a low of 152 515 metric tonnes.
Deliveries to the Grain Marketing Board are expected to be at 2 million metric tonnes of cereals made up of 1.8 million metric tonnes of maize and 200 000 metric tonnes of traditional grains.
"As a result, the Directorate of Agricultural Engineering, Mechanisation and Soil Conservation has been re-established, with a dedicated Department of Post-Harvest Technology and Storage Engineering to safeguard harvests," Masuka said.
Information and advice on best grain storage practices will thus be produced and disseminated through pamphlets, national television and radio programmes, bulk SMS and field days will be provided.
Regarding the supply of combine harvesters for the efficient and timeous harvesting of grain, an additional 72 and 21 combine harvesters will be mobilised.
Furthermore, a total of 200 shellers, which will be made available through the Land Bank Special Purpose Vehicle, Agricultural Rural Development Agency and GMB on a cost recovery basis, will be produced by the local industry for use in harvesting 200 000 hectares for the 120-day harvesting period.
In the period before the turn of the millennium, Zimbabwe maize production contributed a share of around 6 % to Africa's output exporting an estimated 400 000 metric tonnes annually.
The current yields will go a long way to transform the country's yesteryear situation where a total 7.7 million people were declared food insecure.


The Highgrove leaf collection features exquisite pieces of jewellery made from real leaves.
This charming brooch a silver beech leaf is coated with layers of pure silver, enhancing its natural beauty and adding some subtle sparkle.
Made in the UK, this brooch takes inspiration from the trees around the Highgrove Estate.
A stylish way to add interest to your clothing, this lovely piece is supplied in a black gift box.


text:
Why I aborted three pregnancies in four years -Wife tells court
A caterer, Ayodele Oluwakemi, on Friday prayed an Agege Customary Court in Lagos to dissolve her four-year-old marriage because her husband forced her to terminate three pregnancies.
She said that there was also no love lost between her and her husband, Famurewa Oladimeji.
Oluwakemi, 28, residing at No. 5, Adekanbi Taylor Close, Okeira in Ogba, Lagos, also stated that her husband was irresponsible and did not care for her and their three-year-old daughter.
The petitioner also told court that her husband abandoned her and the daughter.
She said, "My husband lies a lot. Initially, when I met him, he lied that he was working, which I found out later was all lies.
"Whenever I ask him for money, he keeps giving me excuses and refuses to drop money.
"Later, I became pregnant for him and my husband forced me to abort it, saying he was not ready financially."
Oluwakemi disclosed that she had aborted three pregnancies on the insistence of the respondent, whom she described as highly irresponsible and lazy.
She said, "He never had an apartment of his own and kept collecting money from me until I insisted he got a proper job or business.''
The petitioner said that when she conceived of their only child, her father refused her husband's marriage proposal, until he got an apartment of his own.
She said, "Whenever I call him, he always told me that he will call me back, which he never did."
She begged court to terminate the marriage, saying that she wanted to move on with her life and also wanted the respondent to be responsible for the upkeep of their child.
READ ALSO: NUGS gets new leaders despite court litigation
Oladimeji, 34, a businessman, however denied the allegations but said that he no longer loved Oluwakemi, pleading with court to dissolve the marriage.
He alleged that when Oluwakemi took in for him, her father threatened to kill him.
He said, "I accepted to take up responsibility when my wife became pregnant. My family and I went with the marriage proposal but her father refused to attend to us.''
Oladimeji said that he felt his wife's father refused his proposal because he didn't have a good job.
He said, "My wife's parents do not accord me the proper respect as their daughter's husband. They disregard me and call me all sorts of names.''
He said that his father-in-law had prevented him from seeing his child.
He said, "My father in-law threatened me to stay away from my wife and also stopped me from seeing my child.''
The President of the court, Mr Phillips Williams, admonished the estranged couple and scolded the petitioner for terminating three pregnancies.
Williams adjourned the case till February 28 for hearing
Source:kemifilani
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'Excuse me, it's my money': Deepika Padukone hits back at reporter for asking if Ranveer invested money in Chhapaak
While Deepika Padukone, Meghna Gulzar and Vikrant Massey are busy promoting Chhapaak, the trio has been making news for various reasons.
By : Shefali Jha
Jan 4, 2020 11:22 IST
Deepika Padukone, Ranveer SinghInstagram
Chhapaak, starring Deepika Padukone and directed by Meghna Gulzar, is the story of an avid-attack survivor. The movie is scheduled to release on January 10. While Deepika Padukone, Meghna Gulzar and Vikrant Massey are busy promoting the film, the trio has been making news for various reasons.
Firstly, it was the absence of Deepika Padukone's Ranbir Kapoor 'RK' tattoo from her neck which sparked a debate around whether she had gotten rid of it. Speculations on whether Deepika Padukone would keep the RK tattoo intact even after getting married to Ranveer Singh have always made news.
From Met Gala to Cannes 2019, we have seen the RK tattoo being hidden by makeup artists on several occasions. In the latest pictures of Deepika Padukone flaunting a limited edition, hand-painted Sabyasachi saree, the tattoo was missing. This left us wondering if Deepika has finally decided to get it removed.
Deepika Padukone in ChhapaakTwitter
In a recent chat, Deepika answered some of the most asked questions about her on Google and reacted to removing RK's tattoo from the back of her neck. When Deepika was asked how she removed the 'RK' tattoo, she did not say a word and just winked at the camera.
At the launch of the title track of the film, Deepika was asked if husband Ranveer Singh had put money in her film. Deepika shot back saying, "Excuse me, yeh mere khud ke paise hain. Kisne bola yeh? Excuse me, It is my own money." Meghna Gulzar added that it would be wrong to assume that Ranveer Singh had put money into the film.
Talking about how she never felt that the film was a risky project, Deepika said, "People are saying that we have taken a big risk, but I don't think of this (film) as a risk. It is something that she (Gulzar) has lived with for so many years. As a human being and a director, she was ready to tell the story. She came to me with it and I instantly said yes to the film, so there hasn't been over-thinking or over-processing. I think whatever we have done to make this film was done very instantly and instinctively, and with a lot of heart. We want people to receive this film the way we have made it."


text:
Title Jane Elizabeth Vasey/Winnipeg Manitoba 1949/1982 Toronto Ontario.
Honoree Vasey, Jane Elizabeth, 1949-1982
Winnipeg (Man.)
Contributor Marlin, Catherine
Contributor's History / Reason for Honor VASEY, Jane Elizabeth / October 16, 1949 to July 6, 1982. / Born and educated in Winnipeg, Manitoba but did most of her music in Toronto. / Jane was my sister and I wanted to honour her because of her music. She received her degree from the Western Board of Music in 1970 and went to Toronto. She joined the 'Downchild Blues Band' in 1973 and played piano with them until one month before her death. / I also wanted to honour her for her love, -- for family, music and friends and her courage. She struggled with cancer for 7 years. The last 18 months of her life she was seldom without pain but somehow she remained cheerful and optimistic.
Contributor's Description The treble clef and notes are obvious musical references. The 88 refers to a song she wrote 'Trying to Keep Her 88's Straight' (Attic Records '79). / The quilt was machine appliqued and hand quilted by Catherine Marlin.
Measurements U - 54.5 cm x 62.25 cm x 65.5 cm x 62.5 cm
Cataloguing Notes [AEF 2015]: The following fields contain information directly quoted from the original documentation: Contributor's History/Reason for Honor; Contributor's Description; Data Sources. / Profession provided in original documentation: Musician. [KL 2015]: 2 inch natural muslin border, with legend "Jane Elizabeth Vasey / Winnipeg Manitoba 1949 / 1982 Toronto Ontario" hand embroidered in dark green cursive stem stitch, is machine pieced to interior triangle of light green cotton. On the interior triangle, a large treble clef of dark green fabric with small floral design is machine appliqued in dark green zigzag stitch. Hand quilting outlines clef and border and forms the number 88 at left and two musical notes at right. Knife edge finish, hand stitched. Reverse = unbleached muslin with white iron-on label, "Catherine Marlin November 1982" written in ink, at bottom edge.
Jane Elizabeth Vasey/Winnipeg Manitoba 1949/1982 Toronto...


A nuclear accident devastated the region near Chernobyl, Ukraine, on April 26, 1986. These images show the area around the nuclear power plant three days after the accident, six years later, and 25 years later. The other sections also show the area almost 30 years after the accident.
The Landsat 5 image from April 29, 1986, was the first satellite image of the accident. The data from Landsat were used to help confirm that an explosion had happened at Chernobyl and that the plant had been shut down.


This amazing woman...all I can say is WOW! From her lovely hair to her crazy beautiful eyes to her awesome tattoos...After the first 5 minutes, you could see her confidence grow and it never stopped growing. To make women feel good about themselves is the whole reason why I do what I do! This session goes down in my book of favorites for sure!