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radiance1 · 4 months

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'It isn't fair.' She thought, looking on through the window as all the other children laughed, ate, and played with each other while she was left outside.

She shivered, rain soaking through her hair and clothes as she brought a hand up to try and wipe away both the tears and the rainwater threatening to fill her eyes.

"What are you doing outside, Charlie?" Charlie looked up at the sudden lack of rain hitting her body and the voice that called her name.

"Uncle Will!" She beamed, turning from the window to face the man as he pulled out a napkin and bent down, not caring for the water soaking into his pants he wiped face with the cloth.

"What are you doing outside, Charlie?" Afton repeated.

"The other kids locked me outside, I didn't even say anything mean to them uncle Will!" Charlie sniffed, more tears gathering in her eyes as she remembered the mean names the other kids called her after just trying to be their friends, tears that were quickly whipped away by her uncle.

William sighed and got up. "Children can be cruel, Charlie. Just don't let their words get to you for in the end, they are only words." He stuffed the napkin back into his breast pocket, reaching into his pants for his keys.

"Okay uncle Will." Charlie nodded her head as William paused, looking down at her with dark eyes for a few moments. Charlie shifted, tilting her head. "Uncle Will?"

William continued to stare down at her, hand in his pocket, before he sighed. Closing his eyes, he took a few even breaths, before opening them. "Do not refer to me as 'Will' beyond this point, Charlie."

"But dad calls you Will." Charlie pointed out.

William nodded. "Indeed, he does and only he will refer to me as such."

"Then what would I call you?" Charlie put her hands on her hips as she looked down in thought, before blinking. "Your pants are dirty."

William looked down and hummed. "So they are, Charlie." Afton shook his head, fishing out his keys from his pocket and sliding the right one into the keyhole. "Let us get you inside, as I'm sure you don't want to be stuck in the rain for much longer and so I can get a change of pants."

Charlie smiled and nodded her head energetically. "Okay Uncle Afton!"

William paused slightly, before a smile crossed his face. "You truly are a wonderful child, Charlie. It almost makes one sorry for what I did to you back then." He unlocked the door and placed his keys back into his pocket.

Charlie tilted her head with a confused expression. "Sorry for what?"

William shook his head. "Nothing but the ramblings of an old man, don't worry about it. Now," William opened the door to his establishment, petting Charlie on the back. "Off you go, Charlie. I'm sure your father is here somewhere."

Charlie stared at her uncle for a moment, before nodding and walking inside.

William watched her until she disappeared around a corner, before turning his head and staring down a familiar alleyway drenched in rain. The twin phantasmata of a puppet and his host stared back at him.

He kept his eyes fixed on them, and only turned his gaze away when they ceased to exist.

+++

William didn't quite care much for human laws.

Both before, and after spending decades as a rotting corpse trapped inside his own creation, and even further spending an uncountable amount of years trapped in hell with that disgusting little-

William gripped onto his steering wheel tightly as he thought back to her. That despicable, disgusting little brat that stepped out of line far too many times than he was pleased with. He breathed, held for a few seconds, then breathed out.

Right, yes. He didn't care for human laws, except for when they were most convenient for him to use. The consequences for breaking them aren't of much concern to him, either, so long as he doesn't get caught.

His past misdeeds were a prime example, and he chuckled at the thought.

As of right now, however, he was speeding down a highway. A very empty, and dark, highway. He saw an opportunity when it presented itself, and he isn't and never will be above breaking the law for the sake of his own convenience.

Although this does strike an odd case of deja vu in-

His car thumped.

Not once.

But twice.

He cursed and hit the brakes, coming to a quick stop a distance away and getting out. He took a flashlight out from his pocket (one he always carries with him, fun fact) and flashed it down on the road, a small frown on his face.

The potential lawsuit of running something over depends on what it was, for example, if he ran over a child-seeing as this time it was unintentional- the likelihood of him going to jail is low, but the amount of money he would have to pay is not something he would be quite keen on fulfilling.

If it were a child, he could always just throw them off into a nearby ditch to avoid the potential lawsuit, after all a child running on a road with a car speeding down is its own fault, and to even do such a thing on a night such as this means the parents wouldn't exactly care for them either.

He fixed his flashlight on one area, seeing a pile of brown fur laid out on the ground.

"Ah, so not a child then." William concluded. "Not even a pet." William wrinkled his nose, the thing was in quite the pitiful condition-and not because of being run over, really, though it does indeed add to it- and he checked for a collar just in case.

He took his hand back in mild disgust as it got back up, or tried to, at the very least, before falling back down. It let out a series of pained whimpers, sides heaving rapidly and breaths shallow. William propped his chin up with a gloved hand as he stared at it.

"Well, I must commend you for your willingness to live, at the very least." William murmured, as he watched it try to stand once again, only to fail due to its injured and failing body. It seemed to have a harder time breathing the longer this went on, and William should most likely be looking to call animal control to put it out of its misery by now.

But it seemed to be more of a waste of time, in his opinion.

Perhaps, if the circumstances were different, and Henry were the one to encounter this situation, he would try to save it.

William continued staring with half-lidded eyes as its struggles slowed, before sighing. "Well, I suppose this is a good time to try something new."

He reached into his pocket and took out a case, and from that case came a syringe filled with a purple liquid that seemed to glow in the darkness of their surroundings.

He inserted the syringe into the dog's neck and injected the liquid. Not all of it, of course, but just a quarter of it.

"Live." William whispered, a deceptively kind smile on his face. "Live and let me see if this gift was worth the cost."

William then got up and walked back to his car.

+++

William didn't expect to see it ever again, if he were to be honest. He didn't quite know how it would have reacted to anything other than a human, and if it did work, he expected it to run off and never be seen again.

Not in his establishment the following week.

It looked remarkably better than it did the night he ran it over, previously matted fur nice and tidy and a nice little collar fit snugly around its neck. Though, its body was deformed a bit from being run over, not as bad as it was, most likely thanks to the agony more likely than not.

But that wasn't what he cared for, truly.

Instead, its eyes. A curious color, brown that seemed to fade into purple, not noticeably really, but when the light hits it just right.

'What a fascinating result of a whim.' He thought, various thoughts of trying to replicate this so he could test various factors and see their end results crossed his mind.

But alas.

He placed a hand on one of his employee's shoulders, a kind, easy going smile on his face. "Let it stay for now, it wouldn't do make a child sad in a place such as this, no?" His employee nodded and left.

William turned his gaze towards the oh so familiar figure of a child, blonde hair, a recognizable red boy tied into her hair and a purple shirt.

Susie, if he remembered correctly.

He smiled down at the girl when he caught her eyes, and gave a little wave before going back to work.

+++

"Daddy," Elizabeth pulled on the edge of her father's shirt, trying to get his attention. "Can I go see Circus Baby?"

Her father froze and turned his head down to look at her with wide eyes, much to her confusion. She blinked, and his face lacked so much emotion that she questioned if she imagined it. Her father bent down to her level, placing a hand on her head.

"Elizabeth, sweetie. What exactly do you mean by Circus Baby?" Her father asked, and rubbed her foot against the ground. "Well, it's this really cool and pretty robot you made for me, right? She was the leader of the, um." Elizabeth paused for a moment. "Funtime animatronics, I think?"

Her father blinked slowly once, then twice. "The Funtime animatronics do not exist, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth tilted her head in confusion. "Yes they do, they're at Circus Baby's pizza world."

William shook his head softly. "That location does not exist either." Elizabeth pouted and crossed her arms in frustration. "Well I remember them existing, so they exist." She grumbled.

William tilted his head. "Are you sure you haven't just dreamt them up?" Elizabeth scowled slightly, before vehemently shaking her head. "Nuh uh, I know they exist, I've seen them!"

"And where have you seen them, my little princess?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth, before stopping short. She stayed quiet for a moment, before looking down with a pout and gripping her skirt. William chuckled, placing his arms around his daughter and standing up, carrying her in his arms.

"Can you make them for me, Daddy?" Elizabeth hesitantly looked up at her father, gripping onto his shirt and giving the most intense puppy-eyed look she could muster. William stared back at her for a moment, hming and huming as he mulled over it.

"I don't see why not." William shrugged. "Although, it would have to wait a bit before I could get to it."

"Aww." Elizabeth pouted again, intensifying the puppy-eyed look to try and sway her father. "Now, now." William reached a hand up to boop his daughter on the nose. "Patience is a good trait to have, young lady."

"Okay Daddy..." Elizabeth gave up, resting her head on her father's shoulder in disappointment.

"How about some ice cream for now?"

Elizabeth let out quite the loud shout of agreement at that.

+++

William both liked and disliked children.

He liked them for they were simple, predictable, and so utterly gullible. A few sweet words, the promise of a reward and a smile or two would get them to move exactly how he wanted them too.

But that was about the only thing he liked about them.

His dislikes far outweighed the only good thing about them. They were loud, painfully obnoxious, cried at the simplest inconvenience and so on and so forth.

Children were not something he enjoyed, despite owning a restaurant targeted towards them so they could persuade their parents to give him their money.

Unlike his co-worker, he wasn't in this business for the enjoyment of the little brats.

Again, William disliked children, especially the ones who wailed for no reason just to inconvenience everyone else or to get what they want.

So it begged to question why God (if there ever was one he never answered) decided to bestow him a child in one of the exact flavors he disliked the most.

He breathed in slightly, held, and exhaled. Then looked down at his son, somehow the smallest of his three children despite being the middle child. Red, puffy eyes with dark (almost purple) bags hanging under his eyes stared back up at him with thin limbs holding onto a golden Freddy plushie (how childish) tucked into his arms.

His son was small, frail. Both mentally and physically, one hit would knock the boy down the floor and cause him to cry as he would try to curl up into a ball to lessen the pain of blows to come with tears streaming down his face as broken sentences of pleas and apologies spilled from his mouth.

A corner of his mind replaces his son with a different boy that looked far too similar wearing more prim and proper clothing, the bear replaced by a rabbit and hair a lighter brown with eyes a darker color. He quietly shoves it into a box and locks the key.

A smile graces his lips, one perfectly calculated and perfected to put a child at ease. For some reason, it always seemed to have the opposite effect on this one.

"Yes, Evan?" He tilted his head, hands behind his back as his eyes analyzed the child in front of him, picking apart every minute detail he could find. "Was there something you needed?"

His son squirmed underneath his gaze, and William waited patiently for him to gather the words he wanted to say.

"M-Micheal tore the head off of Foxy and," His son gulped, eyes wetting with unshed tears that made William clench his hands, nails digging into his skin. "And he won't give it back."

This didn't involve him and why don't you get it back yourself are words he wanted to say, words he already said in the before. Words he knew would cause the boy to stumble over his words trying to persuade him, only managing to work himself up into a mess that got him nowhere. Which inevitably lead him to tears that only added onto his mess of a request.

Just thinking about it made William feel a certain way, and his smile almost slipped off his face before he caught himself.

He reached a hand to pat his child on the head, eyes crinkling the tiniest amount. His son's shoulders relaxed minutely, some of the tension leaking from his small body.

"Go grab the sewing kit for me, won't you?'" William took his hand away as his son nodded, already walking down the hall. "I will get your friend back, don't worry."

A few minutes later, and William finds that his son had quite the affinity for sewing. Something he never knew until that moment.

How quaint.

The way his son's face light up when his friend was returned right as rain lifted something from William's chest, and he found his perfectly crafted smile just the ever so slightest amount realer the rest of the day.

+++

"Michael. Afton." William smiled at his eldest, hands behind his back. Apparently, he held more of a grudge than he thought he did.

His smile was tight.

"What do you want old man?" Michael glanced at him, leaning back on the wall behind him with one hand crossed over his chest. "Not busy enough so you came to bother me?"

"First of all," William tilted his head, smoothing his smile back into perfection. "What did I say about smoking, young man?"

Michael clicked his tongue, holding his father's stare for a good few moments before scoffing and dropping the cigarette down to the floor and stomping it out.

William tracked the movements carefully, before slowly turning his eyes up to look at his son, who scoffed.

"Can you quit staring. already?" Michael asked, before he muttered under his breath and looked away. "You look goddamn creepy when you do that..."

Michael sighed, shaking his head he pushed himself off the wall and placed a hand at his hip and tilted his head upwards. "Well, what do you want old man?"

William's mouth thinned into a line, and Micheal smirked. "Stop bullying your brother, Micheal."

"Oh?" Michael turned to face William. "And why should?"

"Micheal."

"No, no. Tell me why I should after all," Michael stepped closer. "You've never tried to stop me before, why do you suddenly care now, hm?"

"As his father, I have certain obli-"

Michael barked a laugh, making a move to place a hand over his mouth in an attempt to block his laughter before giving up. He laughed for a few good and hard minutes, before suddenly cutting off and bringing his face back down.

"You're being serious. Aren't you?"

"I do not joke, Michael." William's hands tightened behind his back, and he finds himself thankful he chose to wear gloves for this particular conversation. "You of all people should know that very well."

"Well you're certainly a joke of a father, so maybe I didn't quite get the memo."

"Watch want you say towards me, boy." William shifted his stance the slightest amount, fingers digging into his palm.

"Why? Because you can't handle the truth?" Michael asked, and the look in his eyes told William it was a genuine question.

William inhaled sharply, held, then exhaled slowly. "Michael, I won't say this again. Stop bullying your brother and maybe, just, maybe." William hissed. "I can start to see you as someone worthy of respect."

"I don't need your respect, so how about." Michael looked at his nails for a moment, pretending to think hard about his answer before throwing his head back to look at William. "No."

William's hands tightened.

"You disappoint me, Micheal." William tilted his head to the side, a smile on his face that was neither kind nor easing. "You frequently bite at the hand that feeds you and fail to follow even the most simple of requests asked of you."

Michael chuckled humorlessly. "Wonder who I got that from then."

"Truly a mystery, it would seem."

The temperature of the room seemed to plumet, as both of its occupants stayed silent. Michael's stance remained defiant, as he stared William down.

William sighed, bringing a hand up to fix his tie. "Until after his birthday," William checked his watch. "Stop bullying him until after his birthday, Micheal."

"No."

"I am trying to compromise with you, Michael." William sighed, bringing a hand up to rub his face. "Stop bullying him until after his birthday, and if you can, you will have my respect."

Michael scoffed. "I thought I already said-"

"If you succeed, I'll give you ten thousand."

Michael's eyes widened in shock as he stepped back a bit. The next moment his eyes narrowed.

"I'm not lying, Michael. After all." William's face eased back into that perfect smile. "I always keep my promises."

Michael scowled and rolled his eyes. "Fine, I won't bully him until after his birthday."

William stared his son down for a few moments, before nodding his head and leaving.

+++

"Elizabeth, my little princess."

"Yes Daddy?" Elizabeth swung her legs back and forth from the edge of the desk, turning her attention away from the complex blueprints she tried to make sense of.

"Can you be a dear and keep an eye on your brothers for me? You're the only one I trust enough to do this."

Elizabeth beamed and nodded her head. "Of course, Daddy!"

+++

'It seems Michael truly will hold up his end of the compromise.' William thought. Over the period of the next few weeks both his own observations and Elizabeth's proved that Michael acted on his word when Evan stopped being bullied and such, cried significantly less.

William even found himself extending the smallest tendrils of trust towards his son, and with that trust came the expectation that he stopped his friends from the bullying as well.

The day came, and William woke up to find himself at ease. It was a rare feeling for him, the impending weight of his mortality and thoughts of Henry somehow irreversibly fucking up clawing at the edges of his mind, so much so that he had to consciously will his body to relax to maintain his facade.

William was-dare he say, happy on his son's birthday and he found that not even the thought of his mortality could weigh down the pep in his step. Which was much, much different than how he acted before, but he couldn't find himself disliking the change.

///

@starwrighter @xxwintrynightzxx

Don't mind me @ing these two just because.

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #william afton #charlie emily #micheal afton #elizabeth afton #crying child #the crying child #evan afton #Honestly I forgot about this #I genuinely forgot where I was going with this #But I think one of the end scenes had to do with Cassidy #But meh #I don't see myself completing this now and #since I don't want it to rot in my drafts #I'll just post it now #I hope you have at least some fun reading this #Though I know it probably won't be interacted with a whole lot.

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mipwrites · 5 months

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A Court of Snow and Shadow Multi || Romance & Mystery || Azriel x OFC

Read on Ao3 || playlist || masterlist

Chapter Two: Phantasmata

Summary: The Night Court delegation arrives in the Winter Court.

Secrets abound.

Nothing goes to plan.

Azriel flinched, and before he could cover it up, he felt Rhys’ claws knocking at his mental shields. What was that? Rhys questioned, and the shadowsinger didn’t need to turn his head to know his brother was peering at him questioningly out of the corner of his eye as they waited in the vast entry hall of the Winter Palace.

A/N: Chapter Two!! Chapter!! Two!!! I am so desperately excited for this one lol. Enjoy!

#mip writes #my writing #acosas #a court of snow and shadow #wip #acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x ofc #azriel acotar #morrigan acotar #viviane acotar #kallias #viviane #winter court

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zerogate · 11 months

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Readers who decide to follow my lead through the Hermetic labyrinth will learn about the spell of phantasmata, the unruly stream of mental imagery charged with emotion that fills much of our conscious and unconscious life on a daily basis. How can we trust our own thinking or rely on our faculties of knowledge and rational judgment, as scholars or just as human beings, if we are not in control of our own minds? The subtitle of this book refers to the unquestionable fact that human consciousness is not stable and reliable but fluid and susceptible to alteration, so that what we hold to be “true” must depend very much on how and where we are able (or unable) to direct our attention. Alterations of consciousness result in altered states of knowledge.

-- Wouter J. Hanegraaff, Hermetic Spirituality and the Historical Imagination: Altered States of Knowledge in Late Antiquity

#quotes

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darkparablesgainira · 8 months

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Gretta

_____________________________

One of my favorite heroines of "Phantasmata", who so far gives me her charisma and manner of speech.

_____________________________

#phantasmat #phantasmat 2: crucible peak #crucible peak #pc games #video games #hidden object #hidden object game

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vnhiuetsjohfgodovsifjldkfjvmf · 1 year

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oh i forgot i can post insane oc ramblings on tumblr right. anyways

so i definitely like to tie the music i’ve made to specific characters. Assembly Routine probably got plucked out of aLAN’s hard drive after he was decommissioned (yes i decommissioned him. i have too many robot ocs now. he had to go back on the shelf). the Phantasmata ost is (non canonically, idk what xenon thinks) mostly Alice playing on a crumby e-piano and drum machine after school, some thrown out tapes and records she found in a dumpster, and occasionally an imp’s bizarre side-project getting caught in the feeds by chance

sigilvitae is an odd one out, because it’s definitely ferris’s song but i don’t think they *made* it, they’re very new to sentience and probably aren’t at the point that they could use a DAW and get a coherent result out of it. it more represents them thematically than anything. no i will not elaborate. init4cheapthrills though is absolutely something quynh has produced. she probably had a real elaborate leadup to the release (ARGs and everything) and framed it as a “REWARD FOR THOSE LOYAL TO THE CAUSE” the reality being that she made it because she got bored of making music to hurt people and wanted to make something fun for a change

#ocs #aLAN #ferris wolfram #nguyễn trần quỳnh #Quynh

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null-cosmos · 3 months

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A drawing of a scene in my story, you can read it here :

#persona 5 royal #persona 5 #anime drawing #oc artwork #anime fanart #ao3 fanfic

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simonstamenovic · 2 months

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oh I am so immediately captivated by immortality and also feel a deep sense of "there are no coincidences"

i picked an interview first after mindlessly scrolling and it is such a great one to start with

i also am, once again, surprisingly pleased with memory problems... i know that jacob geller (? him yes?) covered this game however aside from the general premise (clearly, as i know we had to ask for the name several times) nothing has stuck... i am free to explore

i do wish that recording took less space, however I will be sure to screenshot this first clip at least to commemorate... that is the downside of the memory /': I likely will not know the full breadth of this joy later...

oh no matter! i live in the moment for now, with you my dears

#bloodletting #immortality.txt #i should change the phantasmata one as well... or add it

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tidemoonchild · 4 months

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What does the name of Maggie "Phantasma" mean? Why did you gave her that name?

Oooohhh that's a good question!

Okay this is going to be a long post.

So first of all when I looked for an alias for her I wanted something that Maggie herself would give herself, which means something that would fit her abilities, personality, interests but also story. I didn't wanted to just give her the name Shadow or Phantom cause none of them were something I thought yes that's it. None of them really fit to the whole spectrum of her. I was also considering to name her Ghost or Echo but they were already taken and for I wanted a name that didn't existed yet in Marvel. Besides that with them I also kinda had the same problem like I had with Shadow and Phantom, it didn'tincluded everything. Then I googled for synonyms and found the words "Phantasma" and "Phatasmagoria.

So here we go: (Btw I kinda just translated the german wiki page of phantasma here cause there's no real english wiki page to it. For Phantasmagoria I took the infos from wikipedia and an article I found while looking this up I linked them down there too)

Phantasma is in short a product of fantasy as a delusive appearance, illusion, ghost, specter or a figment of the imagination in short: Something that is seen or imagined but is not real. The word comes from ancient Greek and means something like: appearance, image, idea/imagination, face or a sign sent by the deity, miracle, dream image with and without a dream, ghost, spirit and can be a also used as synonym for well phantom or ghost. It refers to a mental, inner imagination in the sense of a fantasy or mirage. In the German-speaking world, phantasma refers to a perception-like scenic condition, psychiatrically something like illusion, pseudohallucination and hallucination. The word is considered little used and antiquated. It has a negative function, such as forgetting and repressing things, but can also be viewed from the perspective of self-assertion and rebellion against unworthy circumstances. In French psychiatry, phantasma generally means something like a pictorial scene in which the person concerned realizes a wish or unconscious wish. In this respect it is the same as daydreaming. The term plays an important role in the context of Jacques Lacan's psychoanalysis, where it describes a certain form of imaginary fantasy. The term phantasma has a long tradition, particularly in philosophy, and was already used by Aristotle in the sense of a mental “image”. It roughly corresponds to what we understand today as fantasy or imagination. “Imagination” means the ability to produce mental images, while phantasma refers to the images themselves produced by the imagination. – In ancient times, techniques for better memorization were based on the principle of sensualization (mnemonics). Therefore, memory contents were viewed as memory images (ancient Greek phantasmata, Latin imagines). A form of phantasma is also hallucination, in which the phantasma is not recognized as a phantasma but is confused with an external sensory perception. Lacan uses phantasma to describe the psychological representation of an object or a situation that the subject remembers visually. The phantasma thus belongs to the register of the imaginary. Phantasma is therefore a form of defense. The development of a phantasma is often based on traumatic experiences, which are, however, warded off and reinterpreted in the image presented. Behind the individual phantasmatic image there is ultimately a “fundamental phantasma” on which the identity of the subject and the forms of his desire are based.

"Phantasmagoria" on the other hand is a form of horror theatre that (among other techniques) used one or more magic lanterns to project frightening images. During the show scenes and stories were performed with the use of magic lanterns and rear projections to create dancing shadows and frightening theatrical effects. These lively, interactive events incorporated storytelling, mythology, and theater in a single art form that entertained while providing a space for thinking about the otherworldly-playing with the viewers’ anxieties regarding death and the afterlife. In many shows, the use of spooky decoration, total darkness, (auto-)suggestive verbal presentation, and sound effects were also key elements. The shows started under the guise of actual séances in Germany in the late 18th century and gained popularity through most of Europe (including Britain) throughout the 19th century. The word "phantasmagoria" has also been commonly used to indicate changing successions or combinations of fantastic, bizarre, or imagined imagery.

When I read about all of this I instantly thought this is it! Cause it fits so many of her abilities, her story but also interests of philosophy, psychology and theater. It was also perfect that Phantasma is used as synonym for phantom/ghost/illusion cause in her story that's kinda how she's always described as a ghost an illusion or phantom a horror story but nothing that really exist etc. Another reason was in her story she couldn't remember her life before HADES or who she was for a very long time and she also had lots of traumatic experiences that made her to the person who she is today and kinda "created" her. She also rebelled against unworthy circumstances as she was the one who destroyed HADES and she also works like some sort of defense as she tries to protect everyone from what is left of HADES so no one has to suffer the same fate she had too and in the same moment she tries to repress her memories of HADES and what happened to her there.

So that's why I went with Phantasma, cause it conected so many aspects of her in one name.

#<<𓅪 𝐎𝐎𝐂 : 𝐌𝐔𝐍 𝘐𝘐 𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 : 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𓅪>>#<<𓅪 𝐎𝐎𝐂 : 𝐌𝐔𝐍 𝘐𝘐 𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘐&𝘐 𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𓅪>>#<<𓅪 𝐎𝐎𝐂 : 𝐌𝐔𝐍 𝘐𝘐 𝘢𝘷𝘺'𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘐&𝘐 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𓅪>>#<<𓅪 𝐎𝐎𝐂 : 𝐌𝐔𝐍 𝘐𝘐 𝘢𝘷𝘺'𝘴 𝘰𝘤𝘴 𓅪>>#𝐎𝐂 : 𝚖��𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚎 𝚖𝚌𝙲𝚘𝚢 #i probably adding this to maggie's page...

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alyssabalan · 7 months

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Texte réflexif / critique sur l'exposition Phantasmata de Brittany Shepherd.

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sporadicarbitergardener · 7 months

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any part of Britain could shelter him from the daily persecution of this domestic ballet.

There is reason to believe that such cases are numerous, and that they may perhaps arise not only from the debility of stomach brought on by excess in wine or spirits, which derangement often sensibly affects the eyes and sense of sight, but also because the mind becomes habitually predominated over by a train of fantastic visions, the consequence of frequent intoxication; and is thus, like a dislocated joint, apt again to go wrong, even when a different cause occasions the derangement.

It is easy to be supposed that habitual excitement by means of any other intoxicating drug, as opium, or its various substitutes, must expose those who practise the dangerous custom to the same inconvenience. Very frequent use of the nitrous oxide which affects the senses so strongly, and produces a short but singular state of ecstasy, would probably be found to occasion this species of disorder. But there are many other causes which medical men find attended with the same symptom, of embodying before the eyes of a patient imaginary illusions which are visible to no one else. This persecution of spectral deceptions is also found to exist when no excesses of the patient can be alleged as the cause, owing, doubtless, to a deranged state of the blood or nervous system.

The learned and acute Dr. Ferriar of Manchester was the first who brought before the English public the leading case, as it may be called, in this department, namely, that of Mons. Nicolai, the celebrated bookseller of Berlin. This gentleman was not a man merely of books, but of letters, and had the moral courage to lay before the Philosophical Society of Berlin an account of his own sufferings, from having been, by disease, subjected to a series of spectral illusions. The leading circumstances of this case may be stated very shortly, as it has been repeatedly before the public, and is insisted on by Dr. Ferriar, Dr. Hibbert, and others who have assumed Demonology as a subject. Nicolai traces his illness remotely to a series of disagreeable incidents which had happened to him in the beginning of the year 1791. The depression of spirits which was occasioned by these unpleasant occurrences, was aided by the consequences of neglecting a course of periodical bleeding which he had been accustomed to observe. This state of health brought on the disposition to see phantasmata, who visited, or it may be more properly said frequented, the apartments of the learned bookseller, presenting crowds of persons who moved and acted before him, nay, even spoke to and addressed him. These phantoms afforded nothing unpleasant to the imagination of the visionary either in sight or expression, and the patient was possessed of too much firmness to be otherwise affected by their presence than with a species of curiosity, as he remained convinced from the beginning to the end of the disorder, that these singular effects were merely symptoms of the state of his health, and did not in any other respect regard them as a subject of apprehension. After a certain time, and some use of medicine, the phantoms became less distinct in their outline, less vivid in their colouring, faded, as it were, on the eye of the patient, and at length totally disappeared.

The case of Nicolai has unquestionably been that of many whose love of science has not been able to overcome their natural reluctance to communicate to the public the particulars attending the visitation of a disease so peculiar. That such illnesses have been experienced, and have ended fatally, there can be no doubt; though it is by no means to be inferred, that the symptom of importance to our present discussion has, on all occasions, been produced from the same identical cause.

Dr. Hibbert, who has most ingeniously, as well as philosophically, handled this subject, has treated it also in a medical point of view, with science to which we make no pretence, and a precision of detail to which our superficial investigation affords us no room for extending ourselves.

The visitation of spectral phenomena is described by this learned gentleman as incidental to sundry complaints; and he mentions, in particular, that the symptom occurs not only in plethora, as in the case of the learned Prussian we have just mentioned, but is a frequent hectic symptom—often an associate of febrile and inflammatory disorders—frequently accompanying inflammation of the brain—a concomitant also of highly excited nervous irritability—equally connected with hypochondria—and finally united in some cases with gout, and in others with the effects of excitation produced by several gases. In all these cases there seems to be a morbid degree of sensibility, with which this symptom is ready to ally itself, and which, though inaccurate as a medical definition, may be held sufficiently descriptive of one character of the various kinds of disorder with which this painful symptom may be found allied.

A very singular and interesting illustration of such combinations as Dr. Hibbert has recorded of the spectral illusion with an actual disorder, and that of a dangerous kind, was frequently related in society by the late learned and accomplished Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh, and sometimes, I believe, quoted by him in his lectures. The narrative, to the author's best recollection, was as follows:—A patient of Dr. Gregory, a person, it is understood, of some rank, having requested the doctor's advice, made the following extraordinary statement of his complaint. "I am in the habit," he said, "of dining at five, and exactly as the hour of six arrives I am subjected to the following painful visitation. The door of the room, even when I have been weak enough to bolt it, which I have sometimes done, flies wide open; an old hag, like one of those who haunted the heath of Forres, enters with a frowning and incensed

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nullarysources · 1 year

Video

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Here's "Bump" (from Phantasmata), a really cool piece I've never heard before by Christopher Rouse, a composer I've never heard of before. This was apparently performed by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and conducted by Alan Gilbert.

#music #Christopher Rouse

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lasvocesdelosotros · 1 year

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julio 2022

la palabra aletheia, “verdad”, que naturalmente ocupa un lugar central en el pensamiento de los filósofos griegos. El primero elemento de la palabra, a, es sin lugar a dudas un prefijo de negación (alpha privativum). El elemento anexo leth designa algo escondido, oculto, “latente” (esta palabra latina está emparentada con lenth), de forma que la verdad, por su significado literal, aparece —con Heidegger— como lo no escondido, no oculto, no “latente”. Pero como el elemento de significado leth aparece también en el nombre de Lethe, el mítico río del olvido, por la formación de la palabra aletheia se puede entender que la verdad es también lo “no olvidado” o lo “que no hay que olvidar”. De hecho el pensamiento filosófico de Europa, siguiendo a los griegos, buscó la verdad durante muchos siglos en el lado del no olvido, es decir, de la memoria y el recuerdo, y sólo en la Edad Moderna hizo el intento, más o menos titubeante, de otorgar también cierta verdad al olvido

Harald Weinreich

El olvido, oculto o yacente en las profundidades, es pues, por su naturaleza, oscuro; es el “tenebroso olvido” (Schiller), “el sombrío olvido” (Víctor Hugo). Incluso en campo abierto y a la luz del día, el olvido está oscurecido por nubes (Píndaro) o por la niebla (Jorge Semprún). Esto no tiene forzosamente que tener connotaciones negativas; también el suave crepúsculo fomenta el olvido cuando se anhela a éste, como sucede en unos versos inolvidables del “Nocturno” del poeta alemán Matthias Claudius:

Harald Weinreich

El mundo está tranquilo

Y envuelto en el crepúsculo

Tan familiar y amable,

Como cuarto silencioso

Donde el día penoso

Al sueño y olvido marche.

“Sueño” y “olvido” son en este poema casi sinónimos. De acuerdo con esto, también Paul Valéry escribió una vez: “Dormir es olvidar” (S'endormir c'est oublier). Por eso, no poder olvidar es comparable al insomnio; Nietzsche sufría de ambos. De ahí que traer a la memoria algo olvidado (en francés rappeler, “recordar”) equivale casi a la llamada al despertar.

Harald Weinreich

Entre los griegos, Lete es una deidad femenina, que forma pareja con su opuesta Mnemosine, la diosa de la memoria y madre de las musas. Según la genealogía y la teogonía, Lete procede de la estirpe de la Noche (en griego: Nix, en latín: Nox), pero yo no puedo por lo menos mencionar también el nombre de su madre. Es Éride, la Discordia (en griego Eris)... la oveja negra de esa familia. Sin embargo, la genealogía representa un escaso papel en la recepción de este mito, porque Leteo es ante todo el nombre de un río del infierno que otorga el olvido a las almas de los muertos. En esa imagen y ese mundo de imágenes, el olvido se sumerge por completo en el elemento líquido agua. Hay un sentido profundo en el simbolismo de esas aguas mágicas. En su suave fluir se disuelven los duros contornos del recuerdo de la realidad, y son de esa manera liquidados.

Harald Weinreich

la mnemotecnia antigua y medieval se puede decir — esto es visible ya como centro de gravedad de la anécdota de Simónides— que en principio la memoria está espacializada. Es pues en sustancia un “arte espacial” (topografía). El artista de la memoria que sigue el ejemplo de Simónides sitúa, como primer elemento para sus fines —en el caso de la retórica, siempre el discurso en público—, una constelación fija de “lugares” (en griego: topos, en latín: loci) que le son bien conocidos, por ejemplo, su casa o el foro. En esos lugares deposita en ordenada sucesión los distintos contenidos de la memoria tras haberlos transformado en “imágenes” ( en griego: phantasmata, en latín: imagines), si es que no lo son por naturaleza. Éste es el logro de su “imaginación” (en griego: phantasia, en latín: imaginatio). En su discurso, el artista de la memoria sólo tiene que recorrer mentalmente (en latín: permeare, pervagari, percurrere) la sucesión de lugares y evocar por orden las imágenes. Este arte se desarrolla siempre, por tanto, en un paisaje de la memoria, y en ese paisaje todo lo que ha de ser recordado de manera fiable tiene asignado un lugar. Sólo el olvido carece de lugar

Harald Weinreich

un día Simónides fue a ver a Temístocles y le ofreció enseñarle la mnemotecnia, de forma que con su ayuda “pudiera acordarse de todo” (tu omnia meminisset). Temístocles respondió que no necesitaba mnemotecnia alguna. Mejor que a recordar todo lo posible, prefería que le enseñara a olvidar lo que quería olvidar (gratius sibi illum esse factorum, si se oblivisci quae vellet, quam si meminisse docuisset). Según otra versión de la misma anécdota, Temístocles respondió escuetamente que no estaba interesado en un arte de la memoria sino en un arte del olvido (ars oblivionis).

Harald Weinreich

La muerte es el más poderoso agente del olvido. Pero no es omnipotente. Porque, desde siempre, contra el olvido en la muerte los hombres han levantado las murallas del recuerdo, de tal modo que las huellas que permiten seguir la memoria de los muertos pasan por ser, entre prehistoriadores y arque logos, los signos más seguros de la existencia de una cultura humana. Los rituales de culto a los muertos, con sus intercesiones, sacrificios y prendas funerarias, sirven sin duda en muchos casos, ante todo, para asegurar al fallecido un cierto bienestar en el más allá. Pero los monolitos funerarios siempre actúan también como “monumento”, advirtiendo a los vivos que no deben olvidar a sus muertos... o que deben olvidarlos progresivamente, porque “la vida sigue”

Harald Weinreich

la palabra aletheia, “verdad”, que

naturalmente ocupa un lugar central en el pensamiento de los filósofos griegos. El primero elemento de

la palabra, a, es sin lugar a dudas un prefijo de negación (alpha privativum). El elemento anexo lethdesigna algo escondido, oculto, “latente” (esta palabra latina está emparentada con lenth), de forma

que la verdad, por su significado literal, aparece —con Heidegger— como lo no escondido, no oculto,

no “latente”. Pero como el elemento de significado leth aparece también en el [p. 20] nombre de

Lethe, el mítico río del olvido, por la formación de la palabra aletheia se puede entender que la verdad

es también lo “no olvidado” o lo “que no hay que olvidar”. De hecho el pensamiento filosófico de

Europa, siguiendo a los griegos, buscó la verdad durante muchos siglos en el lado del noolvido, es

decir, de la memoria y el recuerdo, y sólo en la Edad Moderna hizo el intento, más o menos titubeante,

de otorgar también cierta verdad al olvido

Harald Weinreich

El olvido, oculto o yacente en las profundidades, es pues, por su naturaleza, oscuro; es el

“tenebroso olvido” (Schiller), “el sombrío olvido” (Víctor Hugo). Incluso en campo abierto y a la luz

del día, el olvido está oscurecido por nubes (Píndaro) o por la niebla (Jorge Semprún). Esto no tiene

forzosamente que tener connotaciones negativas; también el suave crepúsculo fomenta el olvido cuando

se anhela a éste

Harald Weinreich

como sucede en unos versos inolvidables del “Nocturno” del poeta alemán Matthias

Claudius:

El mundo está tranquilo

Y envuelto en el crepúsculo

Tan familiar y amable,

Como cuarto silencioso

Donde el día penoso

Al sueño y olvido marche.

“Sueño” y “olvido” son en este poema casi sinónimos. De acuerdo con esto, también Paul Valéry

escribió una vez: “Dormir es olvidar” (S'endormir c'est oublier). Por eso, no poder olvidar es

comparable al insomnio; Nietzsche sufría de ambos. De ahí que traer a la memoria algo olvidado (en

francés rappeler, “recordar”) equivale casi a la llamada al despertar.

Harald Weinreich

Leteo es ante todo el nombre de un río del infierno que otorga el olvido a las almas de los muertos. En esa imagen y ese mundo de imágenes, el olvido se sumerge por completo en el elemento líquido agua. Hay un sentido profundo en el simbolismo de esas aguas mágicas. En su suave fluir se disuelven los duros contornos del recuerdo de la realidad, y son de esa manera liquidados.

Harald Weinreich

Entre las notas a cuyo uso se había acostumbrado, Kant en apoyo de su memoria se encontró un papel en el que decía, de puño y letra de Kant: “El nombre de Lampe ha de ser totalmente olvidado”. De este hallazgo entre los papeles de Kant se asombra en extremo el albacea Wasianski, que percibe en la nota “un peculiar signo de la debilidad de Kant”... lo que por el contexto hay que entender como “senilidad”. Porque la anotación, añade Wasianski para explicar su apreciación, sirve, como es sabido, para que algo se conserve de manera fiable en la memoria, y no precisamente para olvidarlo. Forzar a la memoria a fomentar el olvido le parece al discípulo de Kant una contradictio in adiecto, que no se puede esperar de un profesor de lógica

Harald Weinreich

¿Qué logra pues o qué yerra la escritura al servicio del olvido, ancilla oblivionis?

Harald Weinreich

Ese debilitamiento se manifestó sobre todo en una disminución, primero incipiente y después en rápido progreso, de su memoria, que quizá, si los síntomas pueden ser aún hoy interpretados correctamente, pueda diagnosticarse avant la lettre como enfermedad de Alzheimer. Esa espléndida, inmensa memoria, que tantos motivos de elogio había dado en su vida anterior, se disolvía en la nada, y con ella el genio del “mayor filósofo de su tiempo” (Jachmann). Una imagen lamentable se ofrecía a los amigos, y Jachmann —profundamente conmovido por el hecho de que el amado maestro ya no le reconociera un día—

Harald Weinreich

¿No será quizá la nota de Lampe no recordatorio de un imperativo pragmático, sino expresión de la resignada entrega a la fatalidad del olvido, que cae sobre él implacable, y en cuya noche ahora ha de sumergirse?

Harald Weinreich

El guardián alimenta, con buenas palabras y una modesta cena, el deseo de vivir que está brotando, y cuando las dos mujeres han probado las comidas, también el amor comienza a brotar. No pasa mucho tiempo antes de que la vida de la hermosa viuda prosiga felizmente con su segundo marido, el guardián. Así, por una vez en la

literatura (con mucha más frecuencia en la vida), la comida y el olvido son aliados, y la vida, en alianza con ambos, ha vencido.

Harald Weinreich

El caso se plantea porque el pequeño Sansón cuida temeroso de que nadie mueva en su habitación ni el menor objeto. Porque, dice el narrador, “sus muebles y demás efectos le servían de ayuda, conforme a los preceptos de la mnemotecnia, para fijar en su memoria toda clase de datos históricos o frases filosóficas”. ¿Puede esto salir bien? No, si hay una criada que quiere limpiar. En ausencia del estudioso Sansón, saca resuelta un viejo baúl de la habitación y vacía además los cajones de su cómoda. Se produce la catástrofe para la memoria. Porque cuando el pequeño Sansón vuelve a casa, no halla nada en su sitio en el familiar paisaje de su memoria. Todo está confundido y olvidado: los datos de la historia asiria no menos que las pruebas de la inmortalidad del alma, trabajosamente recogidas y localizadas en buen orden en los cajones de la cómoda

Harald Weinreich

El doctor Luria acuña para estas estrategias, de forma paralela al bien conocido concepto de la “mnemotecnia”, el neologismo “letotecnia”, dando al río del olvido, Leteo, la patente lexicológica. La estrategia más importante, y a todas luces más exitosa, de este arte del olvido consiste paradójicamente, según el doctor Luria, en que Seresevski lleve al papel lo que quiere olvidar. A veces este truco es ya suficiente para borrar el correspondiente contenido de la memoria, y si no, el artista de la memoria convertido en artista del olvido rompe la nota escrita y tira los trozos de papel, o los quema. Esto parece en todo caso ser de utilidad. Es interesante que la escritura, a la que normalmente concedemos tan elevado papel para la memoria cultural e individual, se ponga aquí, dando un peculiar rodeo, al servicio del olvido.

Pero en nuestras consideraciones precedentes ya hemos que Platón entendía la escritura, incluso aunque no fuera destruida, como enemiga de la memoria natural.

Harald Weinreich

Son miles y miles comprándose y vendiéndose, cruzándose, relacionándose con la relación más habitual de los dos o tres mil últimos años —yo te doy algo, vos me das algo—, como en tantos lugares del planeta ahorita mismo. Solo que aquí lo que se vende se ha producido cerca y lo venden, en general, los que lo hicieron y, además, las vendedoras se visten diferente. El mercado de Chichicastenango es un refugio, un resto: de los mercados de antes de la unificación del made in China; de una cultura que el mundo se va tragando poco a poco.

Caparrós

El sistema es así: en el mercado existe —subsiste— un núcleo duro de mujeres que venden, como siempre vendieron, sus flores y pollos y frutas y verduras y tejidos, sus hechuras, y se visten como siempre se vistieron y hablan como siempre hablaron. Entonces hay personas de otros sitios que, atraídas por ese fenómeno en vías de desaparición, vienen para verlo. Entonces hay personas que, atraídas por la presencia y el dinero de esas personas de otros sitios, vienen para venderles otras cosas, sobre todo esos productos que, hechos cada vez más en serie, se venden porque se ven hechos a mano —y solemos llamar artesanías.

La artesanía y el turismo: quedarse con algo que te recuerde que estuviste en otra parte, que no siempre fuiste este en este escritorio, en este banco.

Caparrós

En el mercado de Chichicastenango pululan esas personas de otros sitios, los turistas. Ellos sí que saben: vienen porque les dicen cómo son las cosas. Lo leí en una de sus guías: «Si quiere conocer el verdadero espíritu de América Latina vaya al mercado de Chichicastenango». En esos días yo buscaba, por supuesto, el espíritu de América Latina, y decidí venir a verlo. La idea de un espíritu de jueves y domingo era inquietante, pero estaba dispuesto a soportarla. Más me inquietó, en realidad, que fuera este: un mercado marcadamente indígena en el país con mayor proporción de indígenas de América, con mayor proporción de campesinos de América, con mayor proporción de desnutrición y mortalidad infantil de la América hispana, con la violencia desatada. La decisión tan clara de pensar América Latina como el cliché de siempre.

Caparrós

Esto, claro, debe ser lo latinoamericano: tenemos un espíritu.

(Así se percibe: como un espacio silvestre peligroso o, en el mejor de los casos, uno donde deberían preservarse ciertas cosas que el resto del mundo occidental está perdiendo. Un espacio donde lo importante es conservar.)

Y me inquieta, siempre, en general, esa tendencia a suponer que lo auténtico es lo que hacíamos «antes» —antes de algún cambio, antes de alguna mezcla— y que lo que hacemos ahora es impuro y bastardo y que se debe buscar lo que quede de aquello allí donde se encuentre. Sobre todo, claro, en esas sociedades más o menos «primitivas».

Si alguien quiere saber cómo es «Europa» no piensa en ir a ver pastores de renos en Laponia o chicas traficadas en Moldavia o desocupados napolitanos en sus bloques de viviendas sociales pero a muchos se les ocurre venir a Chichi o ir al Cuzco para saber de «América Latina». El reparto de roles en la película global está bastante claro: los que van a París van a la torre Eiffel, gran momento de la máquina moderna, y en Nueva York se amontonan ante las pantallas de Times Square, técnica de punta, o en los malls de brillitos; los que vienen aquí buscan restos del pasado folkie. Y no es solo el turismo; en general, para muchos millones, a lo lejos, aquí lo auténtico es lo que ya no es; en otros sitios no cargan ese lastre.

Caparrós

Deberíamos serlo y no termina de sucedernos: somos nuestro fracaso de nosotros.

Caparrós

Pensamos que somos un fracaso permanente porque no somos lo que deberíamos, en lugar de pensar que esto es lo que somos.

Caparrós

Inventar patrias es, antes que nada, establecer diferencias entre tierras que eran una y la misma. Convencernos de que un argentino correntino que habla en guaraní es algo radicalmente distinto de un paraguayo que habla en guaraní y vive del otro lado del río, y debía incluso ir a la guerra contra él, cuando había guerras, o recordarlas y cantarlas cuando no. Y que un peruano que habla quechua en una orilla del lago Titicaca es enemigo de un boliviano que habla quechua en la otra. Y que un colombiano que habla el mejor castellano en Cúcuta debe pelearse y rechazar a un venezolano que habla tan parecido cruzando el puente en San Antonio —y así de seguido en todo el continente. Las naciones: el gran mito moderno. Sus fronteras.

(Hubo tiempos, tantos, en que no existían las fronteras porque no existían los países. Los límites se borroneaban, los espacios se confundían, los territorios se mezclaban. La frontera es otra de esas cosas que nos vendieron como eternas, naturales: como si no pudiera haber un mundo sin fronteras. Es falso: así fue la mayor parte de la Tierra durante la mayor parte de la historia.

Caparrós

(Pensemos la metáfora del coro: un coro es un conjunto de distintas voces que terminan por formar una voz.) O sea, la pregunta: qué es Latinoamérica, qué es ser latinoamericano. Parece una pregunta tonta, pero yo aprendí a respetar antes que nada las preguntas tontas. Creo que cuando uno llega a la pregunta tonta es que está empezando a abordar realmente la cuestión, está acercándose a algún núcleo. Y entonces esa pregunta, aparentemente tonta, resulta central. Todo consiste, entonces, en saber qué sería ser latinoamericano, o sea: qué, más allá de las patrias —esas diferencias tan laboriosamente construidas—, nos asemeja, nos une, nos reúne. Dicho sin vueltas: qué carajo tenemos en común.

Caparrós

En América Latina durante tres siglos no hubo patrias, porque un par de patrias lejanas la ocuparon. Y antes que eso no existía América. Mal o bien que nos pese, América como concepto es un invento de esa invasión: la invención de América.

Caparrós

De las venas abiertas de América Latina caía almíbar: ese almíbar amargo que te endulza la desgracia con el relato de injusticias que siempre fueron culpa de otros, ese almíbar amargo de sentirse víctimas.

Caparrós

Está claro que somos otros. Es obvio: nunca nadie es como lo ven, nunca nadie es como era. Pero hay grados, y es muy notorio que Ñamérica y sus habitantes hemos cambiado mucho en las últimas décadas, y ya no somos los que éramos: lo que muchos, distraídos, suponen que seguimos siendo. Somos otros.

Caparrós

De ahí una de sus paradojas más notorias: los ñamericanos viven en las ciudades pero, en general, buena parte de las riquezas de las que viven —animales, vegetales, minerales— vienen de tierra adentro, de la naturaleza. Ñamérica vive de ella, y hay quienes pueden, por eso, pensar en nuestras ciudades como parásitos de esos dones naturales; la realidad, como siempre, es más compleja. Pero sigue siendo cierto que vivimos de lo que crece o creció en la tierra, arriba, abajo.

Caparrós

#deshojadas

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