A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
I went down a rabbit hole this summer researching romance novel covers and painting fanart in this style and
this is an EXTREMELY fun style to work in, and also
many of the most iconic romance novel covers you’re probably picturing when you think “classic painted romance novel cover” were produced by one prolific, masterful artist
Her name was Elaine Duillo, and she had a long and extremely productive career spanning from the mid 60’s to her retirement in 2003. She worked mainly in acrylics.
She did illustration work in other genres as well, but she really found her niche in romance novels. She pretty much redefined the aesthetic conventions of the genre, popularizing male models and male nudity and sexualizing men to cater to the female gaze in a way that simply wasn’t the norm before her work. You know Fabio? she’s the one who started using him as a model, and essentially launched his career. And honestly, just look at her work:
When you need to work in an atmosphere where a stray spark could cause an explosion, you switch out your steel tools for copper alloys since it conducts heat much better and thus won’t spark easy.
They called her Brownie Mary, and she called the young gay men she helped her kids...
In photographs, she looks like a scout leader about to ask if you’ve had anything to eat today. It takes a moment to see that often, just out of focus, her fingers are holding a joint and her vest is covered in risque pins, including an embroidered cannabis leaf.
Mary Jane Rathbun, jailed thrice and the reason for California’s groundbreaking action on medical cannabis, was better known as Brownie Mary, the patron saint of AIDS patients. More than twenty years after her death, it’s not hard to understand why this grandmotherly figure remains one of San Francisco’s most beloved activists.
She’s been called the Florence Nightingale of HIV/AIDS. She was famous for bringing her magic brownies to gay men and others suffering from wasting syndrome, a name for the deleterious effects on appetite caused by the stigmatized retrovirus.
Much like Nightingale’s work on hygiene and compassionate care, Brownie Mary’s legacy lives on in the recipes and procedures still used today in medicinal edible production.
Rathbun’s illicit distribution began in the early 1970s, when she was in her early 50s, while she worked at an IHOP in the Castro, 37 years before government-approved research finally proved that her hypothesis about distributing ingestible cannabis to AIDS patients was worth investigating. (Read more at link)
Brownie Mary helped save my life from AIDS wasting in 1996. She was adorable! We met at Dennis Peron's Cannabis Cultivators' Club on Market Street in San Francisco, and when she came around you knew you were in for a blessing. [Image: Brownie Mary Rathbun and Dennis Peron]
Her baked goods were freaking atmospheric. Because of her and Dennis and John Taylor's Flower Market and a lot of good folks, I got enough weight back to get on the brand-new HIV drugs just under the wire, and 25 years later I'm still here to write about it and say thanks.
In 1998, the Cannabis Cultivators' Club asked me to play Brownie Mary on stage to open her birthday celebration at the Club - as it turned out, her final birthday. I worked up a solo flute take to The Association's "Along Comes Mary" and ripped TF out of it. She lit up the stage like she lit up our hearts.
From High Times: "An insight into her indomitable character can be glimpsed in this vignette from August 25, 1992. The Sonoma County district attorney tried to charge the then 69-year-old with two marijuana possession felonies. Her response was concise: 'If the narcs think I’m gonna stop baking brownies for my kids with AIDS, they can go fuck themselves in Macy’s window.'"
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