Oh, Death Oh, Death Won't you spare me over 'til another year Well what is this that I can't see With icy hands takin' hold of me Well I am Death, none can excell I'll open the door to Heaven and Hell Whoa, Death Whoa, Oh death someone would pray Could you wait to call me another day The children prayed, the preacher preached Time and mercy is out of your reach I'll fix your feet til you can't walk I'll lock your jaw til you can't talk I'll close your eyes so you can't see This very hour, come and go with me I'm Death I come to take the soul Leave the body and leave it cold To draw up the flesh off of the frame Dirt and worm both have a claim O, Death O, Death Won't you spare me over 'til another year My mother came to my bed Placed a cold towel upon my head My head is warm my feet are cold Death is a-movin' upon my soul Oh, Death how you're treatin' me You've closed my eyes so I can't see Well you're hurtin' my body You make me cold You run my life right outta my soul Oh Death please consider my age Please don't take me at this stage My wealth is all at your command If you will move your icy hand The old, the young, the rich or poor All alike to me you know No wealth, no land, no silver no gold Nothing satisfies me but your soul O, Death O, Death Won't you spare me over til another year Won't you spare me over til another year Won't you spare me over til another year

Access to hundreds of rare occult texts! thanks to a generous donation from Da Vinci Code author Dan Brown, Amsterdam’s Ritman Library—a sizable collection of pre-1900 books on alchemy, astrology, magic, and other occult subjects—has been digitizing thousands of its rare texts under a digital education project cheekily called “Hermetically Open.” The first 1,617 books from the Ritman project have come available in their online reading room.

Dean Corso, a rare book dealer, is hired by renowned arcane book collector Boris Balkan, to seek out the last remaining copies of a book that holds the key to summoning the Devil. A 1999 adaptation of El Club Dumas by Arturo Pérez-Reverte.

POST WOOK // Contemporary Surrealism + limited edition everything by Natasha Chomko 

Astronomers are discovering that magnetic fields permeate much of the cosmos. If these fields date back to the Big Bang, they could solve a major cosmological mystery.

Cathédrale Notre-Dame honours the roots of Normandy at its Light Show and Illuminations project by having Norse runes appear on the cathedral.

Change everything you are And everything you were Your number has been called Fights and battles have begun Revenge will surely come Your hard times are ahead

Best, you've got to be the best You've got to change the world And use this chance to be heard Your time is now (Your time is now)

He's an archetype. Tyler works just like a superstition or a prejudice. He becomes part of the lens through which you see the world. Tyler survives across time by infecting one generation after another.

Doctor Wrong, (Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club 2)

“If the idea of illness can become an illness, what else about our reality is actually a disorder?” 

— Narrator (FX’s Legion; Season 2, Chapter 11)

The Evil Butcher

Three small children were gleaning in the fields. As they worked and played, they wandered off into the town. Walking about and exploring, the children forgot the time.

When it was late and the sun going down, the children were hungry, tired and lost. They came to a lighted butcher’s shop, knocked and said, “We are lost and hungry. May we eat and sleep?” “Oh, yes,” came the reply, “do come in.”

As they enter, the butcher takes a sharp knife, cuts them up, and puts them in a large salting tub. Seven years pass.

A knock comes on the door. Bishop Saint Nicholas appears, saying to the evil butcher, “Open your large salting tub!” The saint puts his hand on the tub and, appealing to God, says, “Rise up, children.” The little children awake and stand up. Their families joyfully welcome them home.

Ever since St. Nicholas has been the patron and protector of children.

🎨 Jaroslav Čermák (1831 - 1878) - Svatý Mikuláš , 1862, oil on canvas

The Hopi Message to the United Nations General Assembly submitted by Thomas Banyacya, Kykotsmovi, Arizona (10 December 1992) 

The Drummer; Planetary

He gets his name from the drumsticks he carries, which he habitually taps on surrounding surfaces, especially while accessing computer systems. It is uncertain whether this is related to his powers. 

The Drummer (Wildstorm) is a technopath. He's an informational black hole. He sucks up and processes information. He can read and manipulate information without a conventional computer interface and apparently has a physiological connection to surrounding information sources (such as radio waves, electronic signals, hard drives, etc.) His ability allows him to channel information and control tech that operates by signals.

Some have remarked that he is insane, which may be true; he sees the world as a series of information patterns. He can manipulate electrical signals and computer code (and possibly any other kind of information he can "see"), read the genetic codes of living beings, and can even see the information pattern of magic (which he refers to as the "cheat codes" of the universe.)

The Drummer is also a natural anti-surveillance system - recording devices do not function within about five meters of him, though whether this is a voluntary ability or not is, like so much else about The Drummer, unknown.

( Trippy Content 📹 Connection_Intercepted @ TikTok )

You wish to see the distant realms? Very well. But know this first: the places you will visit, the places that you will see, do not exist.

For there are only two worlds — your world, which is the real world, and the other worlds, the fantasy. Worlds like this are worlds of human imagination: their reality, or lack of reality, is not important. What is important is that they are there. These worlds provide an alternative. Provide escape. Provide a dream, and power, provide refuge, and pain. They give your world meaning. They do not exist; and thus they are all that matters. Do you understand?

— Titania, Queen of Faerie The Books of Magic (Neil Gaiman; DC/Vertigo)

Itadakimasu! 

Monstrous meals expertly crafted by Kumakoro @ Still Life Picture Book

( 📷 クマコロ@静物図鑑 @s_kumaco)

Ink 1 // Outline

I sat face forward on the hydraulic tattoo chair, an antique piece wrapped in worn black leather; my arms and chin propped up on the sculpted cushion that framed my face. With my back still and body relaxed, I waited, only to hear him say, “Alright then, explain it to me again. Let me make sure I get what I’m doing.”

I listen as he copies the outline of my design onto a large piece of tracing paper. Seated behind me, on a chair of, his own, was the only person who I trusted to get the job done. He looked sunkissed but weary, happy but tired. For over thirty years he had been tattooing the people who would chance upon his shop, a narrow studio nestled in a nondescript strip mall at the outskirts of the city.

"I want to become a shaman, Amang.” I said plainly, “For this I want to build an altar.”

“An altar?” He repeats.

“An altar, Amang.” I insist, “For the spirits.”

‘For the spirits.” He says once more, thoughtfully. It was an answer that seemed to satisfy him for the time being. The next thing I heard was the rustle of paper as he began to outline the tattoo on transfer paper.

To create an altar for the spirits to dwell in, you will need somewhere for them to inhabit while here on this plane, something tangible for them to tether themselves to. When the time came I knew where it had to be. Some people have the luxury of a dedicated space filled with totems, others keep them packable and tucked away. I asked Amang to help me build an altar ink on my skin. It had to be that way. 

So I asked for a floating island with a large banyan tree on a hill. A graceful and ancient ficus with roots that reached down to the ground, with a ridge and a beach that dipped into the warm waters of the Pacific, vibrant and teaming with life.

“What about the colours?” He asked. The room they were in was brightly lit but narrow and worn. Vials filled with liquids of all colours crowded on the narrow table next to us, peering intently. I watched him from the wall-length mirror that lined the studio as he held the tattoo gun between deft fingers, corals coming into view on the small of my back. 

“You need to decide on the colours.” I explained, “I can only tell you about the altar. It is part of the ritual.”

He pauses, and for a moment there is only the sound of classic rock between us, blaring from a pair of battered budget speakers. I sense his doubt.

“You need to be able to see the place that I am describing to you. To envision it into your mind. It must be a place that you can recognise as well.”

He got up to light a cigarette. Nodding to himself, he fished a lighter from his pocket. “Tell me more about this island.”

So I tell him of the island where the altar will be built. How it wasn’t far from where we were and yet nowhere in particular. You could find it there, in the infinite and clear blue waters of the ocean, lush and verdant greens punctuating the horizon, surrounded by warm, soft sand that glistened in the sun. 

How on a small hill on that island grew an ancient and majestic banyan tree with roots that stretched down gracefully, creating a cocoon of vines that obscured its trunk from immediate view. The earth around it sloped down into a gentle ridge, creating a path from the sand that led to the tree’s immense and winding roots. The weather is calm and temperate, with soft sunlight and summer winds blowing through the leaves. The sound of seabirds and waves lapping rhythmically on the shore punctuate the surrounding stillness. 

Amang dotted out his cigarette and took a sip of the coffee that had been cooling on his work desk. I watched through the mirror as he rinsed his hands and put a fresh set of gloves on. “We’ll finish the outline today.” He said, matter-of-factly. “Already I could see a squid moving opposite from a jellyfish, and blooms of coral in the reflection of my lower back. “But you’ll have to come back tomorrow. The colours will take three days.”

I smiled and nodded, listening as he picked up his tattoo gun once more. Finally, the spell had begun. 

To be continued next session...

Isao Takahata's film Pom Poko (Japanese: 平成狸合戦ぽんぽこ, Hepburn: Heisei Tanuki Gassen Ponpoko, lit. "Heisei-era Raccoon Dog War Ponpoko") uses the tanuki, creatures of myth, as his heroes. Beloved folk-tale characters, they are viewed as bringers of fortune with shape-changing abilities. 

The Raccoon Dogs of the Tama Hills are being forced from their homes by rapid urbanisation. As it becomes harder to find food and shelter, they decide to band together and fight back. 

Once they perfect the ancient art of transformation, they use their power, often in hilarious ways, to try to scare off the advancement of civilization. Will it be enough? 

Director: Isao Takahata  Year of Production: 1994  Production company: Studio Ghibli