OUR MAD SAVIOR ...

make your survival mean something.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

by Anne Sexton.

[erosives]

*   WHAT  IS  THE  MEANING  OF  YOUR  LIFE?        /         𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑠  𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑠,   𝑙𝑖𝑙𝑦  𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑠,   𝑎𝑛𝑑  𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦  𝑚𝑎𝑐𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑑.     private  writing  by  róisín.

[erosives]

*   WHAT  IS  THE  MEANING  OF  YOUR  LIFE?        /         𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑠  𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑠,   𝑙𝑖𝑙𝑦  𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑠,   𝑎𝑛𝑑  𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦  𝑚𝑎𝑐𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑑.     private  writing  by  róisín.

[philomena-famulok]

©Philomena Famulok

mixed media, 2020

[jewahl]

[aghostinsummerclothes-deactivat]

Alice in Wonderland, illustrations by Tove Jansson, 1966.

[vorpels]

i  deserve  my  bitter  tears.     want  some?       –––      by  róisín.

[vorpels]

a  study  of  alice  +   countenance.

[vorpels]

revoide​          ––

                                                  charlotte  sits  in  bright  pool  of  late  sunshine,  her  pale  face  turned  to  the  light  and  her  eyes  closed  in  subdued  bliss.          back,  back,  back,   she  tilts  her  head  until  it  could  very  well  roll  right  off  her  shoulders,   those  long  golden  strands  to  spill  like  the  grecian  gods’  fleece  across  the  ground.          a  soft  hum  of  sorts  emanates  from  her.          and  a  smile  slowly  slices  itself  across  her  brightly  lit  face.          “     hmm.   beautiful?   entrancing?   incredibly  charming  and  unbelievably  clever?     ”          charlotte  pops  one  eye  open,  the one  nearest  to  alice,  and  blinks  away  the  bloody  red  left  behind  by  her  eye - lid.          her  teeth  flash  white  and  between  those  small  bones,  there  is  the  peek  of  her  pink  tongue  pressing  against  their  backs.          cheeky,  cheeky.          “     you  don’t  think  that  you’re  only  thinking  of  me,  are  you?     how  many  acquaintances  could  a  girl  like  you  really  have?     ”          she  asks,  though  her  voice  lilts  in  a  way  that  suggests  she  might  just  be  thinking  to  herself.          with  a  one  leg  balancing  ‘pon  the  other  knee,   charlotte  flicks  her  hovering  foot  languidly  at  the  ankle,  swaying  the  appendage  back  and  forth.     back  and  forth…

                 “  a  great  deal  many,   over  the  years,  ”       she  bites  back,   words  edged  by  a  sort  of  defensive  sharpness,   as  if  to  plead :    i  am  no  silly  little  girl,   i’ve  known  people.   i’ve  seen  people.   things  and  creatures  and  great,  daring,  monstrous  foes  that  i’ve  slain  i’ve  slain  i’ve  killed  and  i’ve  cut  down  and  i’ve  won    –––    pleading  the  recognition  of  her  imagined  role  of  champion,   or  at  the  very  least  her  competence.           BUT  IT  ISN’T  TO  SAY  THE  OTHER  GIRL  ISN’T  RIGHT.        few  tangible  faces  have  proved  frequent  enough  to  warrant  the  label  of  acquaintance  during  her  time  here,    most  unkind  and  near - villains.  but  she  rarely  counts  them.   hallucinations  of  friends  and  cohorts  are  close  enough  to  the  real  thing,   by  her  standards,   that  she  feels  it  appropriate  to  fudge  the  line  of  reality  and  dream.   if  she  were  not  to  do  so,   she’d  probably  have  withered  all  the  way  down  to  ash  by  now  on  account  of  the  suffocating  loneliness  a  place  like  this  seems  to  thrive  on. 

                  “  he  was  frustrating,  ”      she  continues,  shooting  her  gaze  towards  charlotte.       “  that’s  the  closest  word  i  can  think  of  to  it.   he  𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝  me.  ”        taking  a  deep  breath,  she  leans  herself  back  to  lay  against  the  little  support  offered  by  a  stiff  and  uncomfortable  bench,    the  very  cheapest  possible,   the  kind  where  splinters  press  through  thin  linens  and  graze  annoyingly  at  your  shoulder  blades,  as  well  as  the  backs  of  your  thighs.       “  i’m  very  sure  it  wasn’t  you.   you  look  nothing  like  him.  ”

[vorpels]

                             𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒    &    𝐌𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐘  𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘  IS  NO  FOREIGN  SENSATION,    it’s  nearly  comfortable,  now.   as  close  to  comfort  as  discomfort  can  be,   anyway.    but  as  a  person  with  little  desire  to  prolong  her  own  suffering,   she  does  so  hate  to  linger  in  it,   hazy  brain  doing  cartwheels  inside  her  skull  as  her  eyes  strain  to  stay  focused  on  the  tangible :    blades  of  grass,   simple  bugs   &    the  ants  that  have  made  their  way  atop  her  own  shoe,   the  reddening  of  the  sky    (  it  must  be  later  than  she  thinks,   or  are  these  clouds  bleeding?    𝖎𝖙  𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖙  𝖇𝖊  𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖗  𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖓  𝖘𝖍𝖊  𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖘.   )          –––            “  there’s      something  i  can’t  articulate  about  you  that  reminds  me  of  an  acquaintance  of  mine.  ”       certainly  she  hesitates  to  call  a  cat  a  friend  . . .    there’s  a  sure  way  to  prove  yourself  out  of  sorts.    out  of  your  head.   off  of  it?   chopped  off  or  otherwise.      “  it’s  a  little  bothersome.  i  wish  i  could  find  better  words.  ”

[   re:    @revoide​  ]

[vorpels]

stranger things alice is just jane ives so ill need to rework a little bit

[rosources]

—         ask meme      :      THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE THE TIME WAR,   MAX GLADSTONE & AMAL EL-MOHTAR.pronouns / tenses changed in some places.

twice is coincidence. three times is enemy action.

killing gets easier with practice, in mechanics and technique. having killed never does.

you know — just as i’ve known, since our eyes met — that we have unfinished business.

it’s been so long since i last started a new conversation.

we knew one another as one knows a childhood dream.

our glorious crystal future shines so bright i gotta wear shades, as the prophets say.

i’d walk a swath of rot through your verdancy, no matter how light i tried to step.

it grieves me to think you’d make a boring poker player. but then i imagine you’d cheat, and that’s a comfort.

let me tell you what you have told me, speaking plain: you could have killed me, but didn’t.

tell me something true, or tell me nothing at all.

there’s a kind of time travel in letters, isn’t there?

do i have you still? do i address empty air and the flies that will eat this carcass?

if we’re to be at war, we might as well entertain each other.

that’s what we treasure. that’s us, always: the volcano and the wave.

hunger, ___ — to sate a hunger or to stoke it, to feel hunger as a furnace, to trace its edges like teeth — is this a thing you, singly, know?

have you ever had a hunger that whetted itself on what you fed it, sharpened so keen and bright that it might split you open, break a new thing out? sometimes i think that’s what i have instead of friends.

this is a place i love, and hate myself for loving.

i was the only person on that tiny rock, and i made the world go dark.

i wanted to be seen. that need dug into the heart of me.

i was light, hollowed, hungry.

have you been lonely?

you place each stone expecting it may do many things. a confession is also a dare is also a compulsion.

i have observed friendship as one observes high holy days.

harvest is not a word for swiftness; the future harvests us, stomps us into wine, and we grow stronger and more potent together.

what i return to, the me-ness that i know as pure, inescapable self… is hunger.

i love cities. to be alone in a crowd, apart and belonging, to have distance between what i see and what i am.

shit. i’m sorry. i can’t keep up the joke. and it’s wrong to call you enemy.

i am more sensitive to your footsteps, i think, than anyone alive.

this letter is a knife at my neck, if cutting’s what you want.

i see you as a wave, as a bird, as a wolf. i try not to think of you the same way twice.

i have built a you within me, or you have. i wonder what of me there is in you.

you’ve whetted me like a stone.

i remember bright light, and then — hunger. hunger that was turning me inside out, hunger in the most primal way imaginable, hunger that obliterated every other thing.

i was only my own body, only my own senses, only a girl whose parents were running to her because she had a bad dream.

this feels like teetering on the brink of something that will unmake me. but i trust you.

there was, i am sure, a time i did not know you. or did i dream that me, as i’ve so often dreamed of you?

i want to be a body for you.

i sought loneliness when i was young. but when i think of you, i want to be alone together.

i want to be a context for you, and you for me.

i love you, and i love you, and i want to find out what that means together.

this is me, the truth of me: broken open, in the palm of your hand, dying.

you must feel it — the difference? we’re on the brink of something.

i would rather break the world than lose you.

i’ll be all the poets. i’ll kill them all and take each one’s place in turn, and every time love’s written it will be to you.

how could you die like this? how could you die at all?

sometimes you have to hold a person, though they’ll mistake embrace for strangulation.

[vorpels]

like this for a starter!

[vorpels]

AS  TIME  &  LIFE  PASSES  BY,     an  exploration  of  alice’s  mindset  regarding  adulthood.

                                age is a concepts that’s a little foreign to alice, aside from her understanding of what her mother and father were   ( absolute! complete! old enough to understand the world as it is with a certain grace and wisdom that only is deigned fit for grown ups )   –––    the adults she ended up handling in her more logical years as a teenager and young adult were absolutely abhorrent, with very rare exceptions. the only proper example for adulthood she was given were her parents, long before she ever faced the notion that parents are not all-knowing omnipotent god-like creatures. she was therefore cheated of that lesson, though of course made up for it in some ways. she understood the fact that not all adults are right and good and knowledgable. she knew a good deal stupid, and a good deal evil. but it left her in a sour position, where the type she wanted to grow to be was unclear. or rather, she knew she wanted to be good, and smart, but she didn’t quite know how … 

                                as alice is forced on her more nomadic lifestyle following the murder of doctor bumby, there is a sort of relief in physical isolation, at least for a while. the independence granted her is somewhat refreshing, as she’d been manipulated by others her entire life, and lied to, at that. there were two distinct fallouts from that formative experience, however, that negatively impacted her even as she gained a sense of freedom  ––  to begin, she was extremely hesitant to trust. even a merchant felt like a liar, let alone a well-intentioned passerby. it was, unfortunately, herself and herself alone who could prove trustworthy. asking for help was simply a non-option. secondarily, she seemed to understand less of the world than she had believed. she wasn’t without some smarts  ––  she’d, after all, been taught to read as a child and had been given at least some form of a head-start by her academically-minded father. but having gone without schooling, and having spent her youth in a catatonic state which allowed for little else than staring at the ceiling, she was left wanting, intellectually. ultimately, she found, she was neither good, nor smart. she was still a child.

                                  having neither trait that she knew to be marks of actually proper adults, young adulthood was a nightmare. it was spent searching and aching and wondering. she would read and read and hope to learn, and find herself frustrated at the steps back she’d take, regardless of the progress forward. her open-heartedness, though she was not a cruel person, still maintained its stunted nature, and she would go on years feeling very much like she was missing something. 

[vorpels]

never entering the alice tag again it’s literally 3/4 art of alice x bumby

[vorpels]

AS  TIME  &  LIFE  PASSES  BY,     an  exploration  of  alice’s  mindset  regarding  adulthood.

                                age is a concepts that’s a little foreign to alice, aside from her understanding of what her mother and father were   ( absolute! complete! old enough to understand the world as it is with a certain grace and wisdom that only is deigned fit for grown ups )   –––    the adults she ended up handling in her more logical years as a teenager and young adult were absolutely abhorrent, with very rare exceptions. the only proper example for adulthood she was given were her parents, long before she ever faced the notion that parents are not all-knowing omnipotent god-like creatures. she was therefore cheated of that lesson, though of course made up for it in some ways. she understood the fact that not all adults are right and good and knowledgable. she knew a good deal stupid, and a good deal evil. but it left her in a sour position, where the type she wanted to grow to be was unclear. or rather, she knew she wanted to be good, and smart, but she didn’t quite know how . . . 

                                as alice is forced on her more nomadic lifestyle following the murder of doctor bumby, there is a sort of relief in physical isolation, at least for a while. the independence granted her is somewhat refreshing, as she’d been manipulated by others her entire life, and lied to, at that. there were two distinct fallouts from that formative experience, however, that negatively impacted her even as she gained a sense of freedom  ––  to begin, she was extremely hesitant to trust. even a merchant felt like a liar, let alone a well-intentioned passerby. it was, unfortunately, herself and herself alone who could prove trustworthy. asking for help was simply a non-option. secondarily, she seemed to understand less of the world than she had believed. she wasn’t without some smarts  ––  she’d, after all, been taught to read as a child and had been given at least some form of a head-start by her academically-minded father. but having gone without schooling, and having spent her youth in a catatonic state which allowed for little else than staring at the ceiling, she was left wanting, intellectually. ultimately, she found, she was neither good, nor smart. she was still a child.

                                  having neither trait that she knew to be marks of actually proper adults, young adulthood was a nightmare. it was spent searching and aching and wondering. she would read and read and hope to learn, and find herself frustrated at the steps back she’d take, regardless of the progress forward. her open-heartedness, though she was not a cruel person, still maintained its stunted nature, and she would go on years feeling very much like she was missing something. 

[vorpels]

@reapire  asked:        "tragedy is the point."

                  “  and  that’s  what  the  𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬  tell  you,    is  it?  ”   words  are  pointed  and  cutting,   perhaps  in  an  effort  to  push  away  the  reality  of  his  sentiment,   the  weighty  notion  that  there  are  no  further  answers  out  there  besides  all  things,   all  loves,   all  people,    must  wither  eventually.   bury  themselves  in  time  and  be  lost.   to  leave  weeping  widows  in  their  stead,   mourning  friends,   daughters  with  scars  of  flame.   “  that’s  a  bitter  point.  it  makes  it  all  come  out  to  nothing,  then,  if  everything’s  just  set  to  suffer  anyway.    even  darling  𝖘𝖎𝖗  𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖉𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖍  offered  that  a  man’s  strength,  at  least,  can  thoughtfully  overcome  nihilism  with  some  time.   modern  philosophizers  are  so  bleak  . . .  ”

[vorpels]

working on verses today because i have a modern concept but also getting wrapped back up in skyrim obsession so a tes verse may be imminent as well