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beaft · 8 months

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october 13th

happy friday the thirteenth, everyone! and to celebrate, here's that poem you probably read at school that one time! today's spooky poem is "the highwayman", a delightfully melodramatic ballad by alfred noyes. there's an analysis of it here and a sung version by loreena mckennit here. and once you've listened to that you can watch this, if you're so inclined.

THE HIGHWAYMAN

Part I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh. And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

Part II He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death. He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

—Alfred Noyes

#october poems

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dailydragon08 · 1 year

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A World Without Monsters Ch 2

Read chapter 1 here!

Pairing: Raleigh x Reader

Summary: During a post-kaiju war press tour, you and your copilot Raleigh finally grapple with the growing feelings you have for each other while also wrestling the world of reporters, politicians, and more who would manipulate the world's saviors for their own purposes.

Warnings: friends to lovers slow burn, mentions of depression and anxiety, PTSD, and trauma throughout multiple chapters.

A/N: Raleigh x Reader series about coming to terms with feelings during a post-movie events press tour, along with a series of flashbacks showing how you two met and become close while piloting Gipsy Danger. Sorry it took me so long to post this! Been dealing with some pretty serious health issues but am getting better! Hope you enjoy!

Read here on AO3.

December 2025

“A press tour?” you and Raleigh repeated at the same time—rather unenthusiastically.

“Well, don’t sound so excited,” Herc replied. Although the grim look on his face and crossed arms told you he was just about as thrilled as you were. The three of you sat in Pentecost’s old office, the thin strip of window that ran from floor to ceiling revealing the cold winter skies behind your new commanding officer. You still had trouble believing it was a kaiju-free world out there—a world without monsters at last. It was what everyone had wanted, worked towards for years…but, now that it was here, it was like everyone didn’t know what to do.

It had been two months since you’d closed the Breach and in that time, many of those at the Shatterdome had either returned to their families or moved on. About a quarter of the base still remained, you and Raleigh included.

“Do we really have to?” you asked. “I mean, how long is this press tour?”

“Six months,” Herc answered. “And the order came from the White House, so it would be foolish to refuse. They’ve decided to make the first stop Hong Kong to help ease you into it.”

“Okay…but what exactly does a press tour entail?” You looked to your copilot beside you, knowing from his memories that he and Yancy had done some press before he’d died, but nothing like what Herc was describing.

Herc shrugged. “Just…be interviewed, really. Go on talk shows, go to events, talk to different government officials, shake hands, get congratulations, talk to the little people. But since you two are the last two jaeger pilots left…people will probably be a bit crazier than they would’ve been years ago.”

Raleigh sighed and slumped back in his chair, running a hand down his face. You reached over and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. He covered his hand with yours and squeezed back, meeting your eyes. You almost winced at the dark circles that had seemed to take up permanent residence on his face, but yours probably weren’t much better. He gave you a small smile. “Well, at least we’ll be doing it together.”

You smiled back at him, turning back to Herc as he added, “And the official governments of whatever country we’re in will be paying for your accommodations. So you’ll have some of the nicest hotel rooms they can offer, plus no water restrictions.”

“Soooo,” you paused, your hand still in Raleigh’s, “we can take long, hot showers?”

Herc chuckled. “As long as hot as you want. You’ll be pretty pampered from what I’ve heard. You two have earned it.”

“Will you or anyone else be coming with us?”

“I’m coming for support, but they’re more interested in you since you’re young and were part of the mission to close the Breach.” His eyes fell to your shoes, and you could tell he was thinking of Chuck. As much of an ass as he was, he was still part of the team and you couldn’t deny you missed him.

“We’ll be getting a schedule and new orders soon,” Herc continued. “I’ll let you know as soon as we get more information. We’ll be heading out in two weeks.”

“Will we stay in the Shatterdome for the Hong Kong part of the tour?” Raleigh asked, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand. It was almost second nature for you both at this point to comfort each other however you could, mainly through touch. Not that you were complaining.

“No, they’ve got a hotel set up for you in the middle of the city. And…they want everyone to clear out of the Shatterdome soon.”

“What?” you asked, brows furrowing. “But they could revamp the jaeger program, maintain it in case it’s needed again. They can’t possibly think shutting it down again is a good idea after everything we all just sacrificed to keep it alive.” And the Shatterdome was your home now. Where would you go after the press tour?

“I don’t know what their plans are for it. No one has said anything about shutting down the jaeger program, but I’ll try to find out more. They might just want to repurpose the bunker and move the program to a new location, who knows.”

“Doubt it,” Raleigh mumbled. “They’re not known for their intelligence, evidently.”

Herc sighed. “Well, we’ve got our orders. Let’s just concentrate on getting through this without making too many waves.” He chewed on his lip for a moment, his eyes flickering to your and Raleigh’s linked hands. “Dismissed.”

You exchanged a glance with your copilot, sighing as you stood and made your way back to your room. You didn’t even realize you were still holding Raleigh’s hand until Newt’s “hey lovebirds” as he passed you in the hall.

August 2025

As the last of the flying sparks faded away, Raleigh’s smile took their place. It was fitting, since it felt like there were also sparks flying in your stomach whenever those blue eyes landed on you.

You lifted your visor to return his smile. “Hey! Looking for Gipsy?”

“Yep.” He’d changed from his torn sweater and worn-down jacket into military-issue cargo pants, boots, and a dark blue sweater that brought out his eyes. “And you mentioned you would be with Tendo? Is he here?”

“Ayyy, Becket boy!”

Raleigh’s face lit up enough to make rainy Hong Kong seem like paradise. They embraced before Tendo led Raleigh a few feet away to the railing overlooking Gipsy as she went through maintenance. You heard Raleigh mutter “so beautiful” reverently as he stared at her and couldn’t help but pretend he was talking about you. Stop it, you told yourself. You’re in the middle of a war for Christ’s sake.

You only half listened as Tendo rattled off all the improvements made to the jaeger before piping up at your name. “What?”

Tendo made his way over to his workstation with Raleigh trailing behind. He stopped next to you and smiled and you couldn’t help but smile back. He seemed to know how to pull happiness from you with just a look.

“I was telling Raleigh how you’re one of our best,” Tendo said. “And a damn good pilot, too.”

Raleigh perked up. “Hey, I forgot to ask. Are you one of the candidates for my copilot?”

You nodded, feeling excited and also slightly sick at the prospect of Raleigh inside your head. You’d definitely have to get a handle on your thoughts beforehand—if he chose you. “It definitely took some nagging, but I did manage to convince Pentecost to add me to the roster.”

He beamed. “I look forward to it.”

You smiled in return. “Me, too.”

“So, um…” he hesitated, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Tendo’s a bit busy, but what about you? Do you want to get some lunch?”

“Tendo!” you called over your shoulder. “Will you survive if I go get lunch?”

“Knock yourself out,” he replied from where he was bent over a piece of machinery. “But not literally. Your hands are smaller than mine, so I’ll need you to help me with this piece later.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit, fat fingers.”

“Hey! They’re buff, not fat!”

You snorted, heading towards the workshop door with a laughing Raleigh in tow.

“So, you two seem like you get along well. Are you close?”

“I’d like to think so,” you answered as you slapped your visor and gloves down on the table near the door, muttering a shy thanks as Raleigh jumped ahead of you to hold the door. “Don’t tell him I said this, but he is pretty awesome. But he’d just let that go to his head.”

Raleigh smiled, looking around the bustling hallway on the way to the mess hall. You remembered how empty the Shatterdome was when you first arrived. You were one of the first people there with Pentecost and Herc, and the task of turning it into the bustling resistance base it was now seemed impossible. Now with Pentecost’s plan to seal the Breach, it felt like everything was finally coming together for the final attack in a way that made your stomach twist in anticipation. You could very well see the Breach up close soon—and may even die in an attempt to seal it. You resisted the urge to sigh, not wanting to worry Raleigh. Although his mind might have been wandering in the same direction.

You’d been lost in your thoughts and silent for some time during your walk, but he didn’t seem to mind. He threw another lopsided smile your way before jogging ahead of you several steps to hold the mess hall door open for you. You thanked him again, your stomach doing little somersaults at his manners. A good portion of the men on base either ignored you or were constantly trying to one up you, likely intimidated by your skillset. You’d gotten used to getting shoved around, whether it was an accident or some jealous peer trying to prove their superiority. Raleigh had none of that and in fact, seemed to even want to make sure you were taken care of, insisting you go ahead of him in line with your tray, offering to help you reach things, and even asking if you wanted help carrying your tray to one of the open tables. You’d heard stories about the nightmare he’d been through in losing his brother and it amazed you that he was still so sweet and protective, making you yearn for the spot next to him in Gipsy even more.

“So how are you adjusting to the Shatterdome?” you asked as you sat across from him. “Or is it pretty similar to the military bases you’ve been on?”

“Well,” he loaded his fork with an impressive amount of food from multiple sections of his tray. “It’s a lot busier, but that’s probably ’cause they’ve stuffed everyone into one base versus being scattered across several. But I was at the Wall before this and that was just as hectic, so I don’t mind.”

“Looks like there’s plenty of room at this table,” a familiar Australian accent said behind you.

You turned and returned Herc’s smile as he and Chuck headed towards you, trays in hand. “Max!” you cried.

The little bulldog’s tongue lolled out of his mouth happily as he broke into a run and jumped up on the bench next to you. You gave him a good scratch behind the ears as he leaned into you, laughing and pushing him away as he tried to lick at your tray.

Chuck slid into the bench next to you, giving you a nod in greeting as Herc settled next to Raleigh, introducing his copilot.

“He’s more my copilot,” Chuck replied, making you roll your eyes. “Right, Dad?”

Herc eyed him warily and you shook your head. Herc was always so sweet to his son who only ever gave him grief in return. While he’d never turned his ire on you, it didn’t mean you wanted to smack him any less.

The urge to smack became stronger and stronger as Chuck tried to intimidate Raleigh into a pissing competition. You’d seen plenty of pilots do it before—and many had even tried to start it with you—and some even ended with fists. Raleigh maintained his composure well, but you could see the fury building in his eyes, his body stiff and unforgiving. You made a mental note to never get on that side of him. You’d heard enough stories to know he could punt anyone into next week if he wanted to.

“Just make sure you keep up,” Chuck said as he stood and adjusted his baseball cap, “or I’ll drop you like a sack of kaiju shit. Come on, Max!”

Max looked at you and whined as you put another bite of food in your mouth. You sighed and threw a piece of chicken up in the air. Max barked happily before snapping it up in his jaws midair, his little butt wiggling in happiness.

“Max!” Chuck called again and Max went scampering after him.

“He’s a smart kid,” Herc said sadly. “I raised him on me own, but never quite knew whether to give him a hug or a kick in the ass.”

Raleigh paused, glancing at you before replying, “With respect, sir, I’m pretty sure which one he needs.”

Herc’s lips formed a thin line before he turned back to his food in silence. The air felt tense, but you couldn’t help noticing the giant salad Raleigh had created out of his veggies, mashed potatoes, bread, and chicken. You chuckled to yourself as you took a drink of your water.

Raleigh smiled, all his earlier menace disappearing the second he met your eyes. “What?”

“You’ve created a monstrosity on your plate.”

He laughed. “Hey, it’s all going to the same place. You should try it.”

“Tell that to my taste buds.”

“Aw, come on, it won’t hurt ya!” He reached over and dumped a forkful of your chicken into the mashed potatoes.

“Hey!” You shoved futilely at his hand while he took the other and spread some mashed potatoes on your bread like butter.

“There you go!”

“That looks disgusting,” you laughed.

Raleigh’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

You frowned in disgust, sticking out your tongue as he held your mashed potato-covered bread out to you.

“Don’t make me play airplane with your bread.”

Still frowning, but also trying not to laugh at how effortless your rapport felt, you slowly took the bread from him and took a bite. It wasn’t half bad, but you weren’t ready to let him know he won. “Plehhhh.”

“You liar, you like it!” he beamed triumphantly.

You scooped the chicken back out of your mashed potatoes and redeposited them in their section of the tray.

“Hey, that’s the best part!”

“Noooooo, you create as many monstrosities on your plate as you want, but leave mine alone.”

Herc chuckled. “How many kaiju guts have you helped the research team transport and this is what grosses you out?”

“Look at his plate, it’s practically its own kaiju!”

Raleigh laughed loud and bright, drawing the attention of several neighboring tables and you smiled, proud you’d been the one to draw that out of him. For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other with dopey grins on your faces and you couldn’t help but admire how his eyes lit up. When you’d first entered the elevator, before he’d noticed you, he carried the weight of someone who had seen too many horrors. Now, you felt like you were catching a glimpse of the man he’d been before—the carefree Raleigh that had his brother to guard his back and bring joy into his life. You only hoped that if you were chosen as his copilot, you could do the same.

December 2025

“Pretty sure Hermann’s about to run up the wall ’cause of Newt’s—hey, what’s wrong?” you asked as your bedroom door shut behind you with a clang.

Raleigh sat on the bed wearing an unfamiliar black jacket, holding an identical one in his hands. His brow was furrowed and he clutched the clothing like it might evaporate if he wasn’t careful.

“…Rals?”

Raleigh looked up at you in shock and it took you a moment to realize you’d called him by the nickname Yancy had always used for him. You hadn’t meant to; it had leapt from your mouth unbidden and the wounded animal look in your copilot’s eyes made you wish you could take it back.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered so quietly, you weren’t even sure he’d heard you.

His attention returned to the jacket in his hands. He turned it and you could see Gipsy’s symbol in a large white design on the back. You remembered seeing flashes of Raleigh and Yancy wearing jackets just like it before Alaska. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I actually, um…” He stood, gently wrapping the jacket around your shoulders. “Here, put your arms through—oh, well, it sort of swallows you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a good swimmer.” You smiled, hoping to ease some of his pain.

He chuckled, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We can get it fitted. I thought they might be nice for the press tour—or just to have. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll wear it if you wear yours. We can match.”

He was quiet as his hands gently ran up and down your arms, sliding further down until his fingers were intertwined with yours. When he met your eyes again, you saw tears threatening to spill over.

You frowned. “Raleigh? Are you—”

“I, um,” he cleared his throat, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it on the bed, “need some air. I’ll be back.”

You watched for a moment as he rushed out of the room before something small and white on the inside of his jacket caught your eye. You picked it up to find his name stitched in white lettering on the inside corner. With a start, you checked your own jacket and your heart plummeted as you realized what had gotten him so emotional: there, on the inside of your own jacket, was the name “Yancy Becket.”

You immediately shucked your jacket off your shoulders, slinging it carefully over your arm before running out into the hallway. “Raleigh, wait!”

He turned halfway to the door at the end of the hall leading outside.

You held the jacket out to him. “I can’t take this.”

He gave you a watery smile, sniffling. “No, I want you to have it.”

“Rals, if anyone should have Yancy’s jacket, it’s you.”

He turned to face you fully and took the jacket from you. He stared at it for a moment before slinging it back around your shoulders, holding the lapels so you couldn’t remove it again. “It…” He licked his lips and closed his eyes for a moment before looking at you again. “It feels like this way…Yancy’s protecting you. You have no idea how much you’ve saved me, Y/N. It feels like you’re his way of cosmic apology and it just—it just feels right.”

Now it was your turn to get teary eyed. “Raleigh…”

He cupped your face in his hands, rubbing the rough pads of his thumbs over your cheeks before leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. You pushed your arms through the jacket sleeves and wrapped them around his middle. He pulled you against him, resting his cheek against your hair as he took a shuddery breath.

A wolf whistle behind you made you jump and you turned to see Tendo walking past. You laughed, Raleigh’s arms still securely around your shoulders as you felt him shake with his own laughter. Despite Raleigh’s sweetness and the comments and whistles you got from your peers, you couldn’t help but still feel insecure. You weren’t sure what you and Raleigh were anymore, really—definitely more than friends, but did he really want to be with you like a boyfriend or even a lover? You two had just saved the world and were just about to do a grueling press tour; he had enough on his mind. The connection between pilots was always special, wasn’t it? Maybe that was all it was.

Raleigh pulled you from your thoughts as his hands fell back down to his sides. “I’m going on a walk…do you wanna join me?”

You smile and nod before following him to the door. Your heart skipped a beat as he jogged the last few steps just so he could hold the door for you, ever the gentleman. As you exited into the cold winter air, you could feel his warm hand slip into yours.

Taglist: @that-girl-named-alex @wayward-avenging

#raleigh becket x reader #raleigh becket #pacific rim #pacific rim fanfiction #charlie hunnam fanfiction #raleigh becket imagine #raleigh becket fanfiction #a world without monsters #my writing

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faintingheroine · 2 months

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I must admit, I like A. Mary F. Robinson’s suggestion that Heathcliff is the son of a South Asian sailor and a white local woman in Liverpool, though she puts it into words in a very racist way in her 1883 biography of Emily Bronte:

“It has been laid as a blame to her that she nowhere shows any proper abhorrence of the fiendish and vindictive Heathcliff. She who reveals him remembers the dubious parentage of that forsaken seaport baby, "Lascar or Gipsy;" she remembers the Ishmaelitish childhood, too much loved and hated, of the little interloper whose hand was against every man's hand. Remembering this, she submits as patiently to his swarthy soul and savage instincts as to his swarthy skin and "gibberish that nobody could understand." From thistles you gather no grapes.

No use, she seems to be saying, in waiting for the children of evil parents to grow, of their own will and unassisted, straight and noble. The very quality of their will is as inherited as their eyes and hair. Heathcliff is no fiend or goblin; the untrained doomed child of some half-savage sailor's holiday, violent and treacherous.”

It explains him being found in Liverpool. Him being mixed explains both his own dark looks and him having a blond blue-eyed son. And apparently unions like this happened at the time:

I guess the only problem is explaining why he couldn’t speak English on his arrival at the Heights if he had a white English mother, but I guess it can be worked around.

#wuthering heights #heathcliff #lascar #ethnicity #a. mary f. robinson #tw: racism

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tina-aumont · 2 months

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Bervely Hills, el 14 de noviembre de 1944

Querido primo Armando:

Con inmenso placer recibí hace tres días tu cariñosa cartita y tu foto y la foto del primo Isidoro que tanto se parece al pobre tío Joaquín (q. e. p. e.).

Tu carta y tu retrato estaban esperando en casa, pues yo estaba en Nueva York adonde fui a hacer una aparición en la Radio y al mismo tiempo ir a buscar a mis hermanas Ada, Consuelo y Lucita las cuales están como yo contentísimas de encontrarse con un primito tan simpático y elegante.

Yo enseguida que recibí tu primera carta le escribí a mis hermanos y al primo Aquilino para que se pusieran en contacto contigo.

Gracias por el recorte de periódico que me mandaste, eres muy gentil y tengo muchos deseos de conocerte personalmente, tal vez te das un viajecito por estos lares o te veré cuando yo vaya por allá que será tan pronto se acabe esta maldita guerra.

En sobre separado te enviamos las muchachas y yo varias fotos de nosotras, para que tú veas cómo en realidad son tus primitas de América.

Te agradecería infinito si me das la dirección del resto de la familia —de mi prima Australia y los hijos de tía Tomasa la cual me dijo Aquilino el primo, está muerta, ¡la pobre!— ¿Cuántos hijos dejó Tomasa? ¿y Gaudencia?

¿Y están aún vivos los tíos de papá?

¿Cuántos hermanos son usdes.?

¿Adónde están el resto?

¿Y hace mucho tiempo que están en Madrid?

Pásame la dirección del primo Isidoro —desearía escribirle a él también y enviarle unas fotos.

Nosotros somos diez, ¡sí, diez! Cinco hembras y cinco varones. Mamá se mudó a la capital que se llama: Trujillo City y queda sólo cuatro horas de Barahona adonde nacimos nosotros —allá con mamá están todos los hermanos, y la pequeñita que sólo tiene 12 años y se llama Teresita —y es lindísima—, mi hermano Isidorito que es el mayor está con mamá y es un señorito muy simpático pero holgazán, mi hermano Aquilino es el jefe de la familia y el encargado de nuestros negocios que es una plantación y negocios de madera los cuales importamos a Inglaterra y Estados Unidos y en tiempo de paz a Alemania y Holanda, Joaquín está aún en la escuela, lo mismo Luis y Jaime, que acaban de entrar en cursos teóricos —Luis se parece algo a tu foto, y Jaime es muy rubio. Aquilino se parece a papá y es muy alto y guapo. Teresita está también en un colegio, mejor debo decir, convento, muy buena estudiante y habla ya el inglés bastante bien.

Ada, Consuelo y Lucita, las cuales puedes ver en las fotos cómo son, se van a quedar aquí conmigo y tratan de hacer carrera —Lucita quiere ser artista de cine y Consuelo modista diseñadora de trajes y sombreros, y Adita no quiere hacer nada, sólo casarse con un millonario, lo cual no es mala carrera, ¿eh? Pero yo no la fuerzo a hacer nada, ella ya verá cómo le gusta la vida sin trabajar, lo cual aquí es muy difícil de sobrellevar. Aquí todo el mundo trabaja, es un vicio.

Tan pronto se acabe la guerra, mamá piensa ir a vivir a España, tal vez en Barcelona o Teruel y se lleva allá a Luis, Jaime y Teresita y formar hogar adonde está nuestra familia, pues en Santo Domingo no tenemos nosotros a nadie, sólo el primo Aquilino.

Espero, pues, hayas ya visto «Arabian Nights» que fué la primera película estelar que yo hice de importancia, después de ésta hice: White Savage que creo la llaman La Blanca Salvaje ó «La reina de la Selva», «La Mujer Cobra», «Ali Babá», «Alma Gitana” (Gipsy Wildcat), y una en trajes modernos llamada «Bowery to Broadway» (no sé cómo la llamarán en español) y mi último film llamado «La Reina del Nilo», la cual es muy bonita película y de un tecnicolor precioso. Aún no sé cuál será mi próxima.

Ésta es una carta enorme y llena de información, ¿verdad?

Cariñosos abrazos a Isidoro y la demás familia.

Ada, Consuelo y Lucita te envían sus afectuosos saludos.

Cariñosamente, tu prima.

María

~*~*~*~

Beverly Hills, November 14, 1944

Dear cousin Armando:

With immense pleasure I received three days ago your affectionate little letter and your photo and the photo of cousin Isidoro who looks so much like poor uncle Joaquín (r.i.p.).

Your letter and your portrait were waiting at home, because I was in New York where I went to make an appearance on the Radio and at the same time go look for my sisters Ada, Consuelo and Lucita who, like me, are very happy to meet with such a nice and elegant cousin.

As soon as I received your first letter, I wrote to my brothers and cousin Aquilino to get in touch with you.

Thank you for the newspaper clipping you sent me, you are very kind and I really want to meet you personally, maybe you will take a little trip around these parts or I will see you when I go there, which will be as soon as this damn war is over.

In a separate envelope, the girls and I sent you several photos of us, so that you can see what your little cousins from America really look like.

I would be extremely grateful if you would give me the address of the rest of the family—my cousin Australia and Aunt Tomasa's children, whom Aquilino, the cousin, told me is dead, poor thing!—How many children did Tomasa leave behind? And Gaudencia?

And are Dad's uncles still alive?

How many brothers are you?

Where are the rest?

And have they been in Madrid for a long time?

Give me cousin Isidoro's address—I would like to write to him too and send him some photos.

We are ten, yes, ten! Five females and five males. Mom moved to the capital called: Trujillo City and it is only four hours from Barahona where we were born - all the siblings are there with Mom, and the little one who is only 12 years old and her name is Teresita - and she is very cute - my Brother Isidorito, who is the eldest, is with mother and is a very nice but lazy young man. My brother Aquilino is the head of the family and in charge of our business, which is a plantation and wood business which we import to England and the United States. in peacetime to Germany and Holland, Joaquín is still in school, as are Luis and Jaime, who have just started theoretical courses —Luis looks something like your photo, and Jaime is very blonde. Aquilino looks like dad and is very tall and handsome. Teresita is also in a school, I should say, a convent, a very good student and she already speaks English quite well.

Ada, Consuelo and Lucita, who you can see in the photos what they are like, are going to stay here with me and try to make a career - Lucita wants to be a film artist and Consuelo a dressmaker, a designer of suits and hats, and Adita doesn't want to do anything, just marry a millionaire, which isn't a bad career, eh? But I don't force her to do anything, she will see how she likes life without working, which is very difficult to cope with here. Here everyone works, it's a vice.

As soon as the war is over, Mom plans to go live in Spain, perhaps in Barcelona or Teruel and she will take Luis, Jaime and Teresita there and make a home where our family is, because in Santo Domingo we have no one, only cousin Aquilino.

I hope, then, that you have already seen "Arabian Nights" which was the first major star film that I made, after this I made: "White Savage", which I think they call "The Wild White" or "The Queen of the Jungle", "Cobra Woman", «Ali Baba», «Alma Gitana» (Gipsy Wildcat), and one in modern costumes called «Bowery to Broadway» (I don't know what they will call it in Spanish) and my latest film called «The Queen of the Nile», which It is a very beautiful film and a beautiful technicolor. I still don't know what my next one will be.

This is a huge letter full of information, right?

Affectionate hugs to Isidoro and the rest of the family.

Ada, Consuelo and Lucita send you their affectionate greetings.

Kindly, your cousin.

Maria

~*~*~*~

First of some letters that are going to be published here just to know a little bit more about Maria, her family and her relationship she had with his cousin Armando Gracia Sanfiel.

This transcription is possible thanks to @74paris who sent me a document called "Los orígenes turolenses y canarios de la actriz de Hollywood María Montez" written by María Victória Hernández Pérez, courtesy of Cabildo de la Palma.

#A nuestro primito Armando #Armando Gracia Sanfiel #letter to Armando #Maria Montez #María Montez #Los orígenes turolenses y canarios de la actriz de Hollywood María Montez #María Victória Hernández Pérez #Cabildo de la Palma #Gracia Family #The Queen of technicolor #La Reina del Tecnicolor #actress #1944 #1944 Maria #collaboration

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luxraysyscourse · 4 months

Note

You should kill yourself, calling the syscourse community racist and toxic is BEYOND disrespectful. You are a white singlet. Slit your wrists and die you retard

And yet here you are. proving my point anon. lets dig in, shall we?

The community is rampant with racism, whether be alter race or, as you did, denying the race of some. I am white passing, yes, but that doesn't change the fact im mixed. It doesn't demean or shrink my experience as a romani person. In my time of knowing, I've embraced my culture, but in this here is a shortened list of slurs i have been called. Gypsy, Baby stealer, gipsie, gypper, gyppo, bike theif, and many many others i am not even comfortable thinking of, some not even applying to me.

And yes, it is , to a point, toxic. A lot of the syscourse community is born through infighting and trying to bully other sides in to believing the other, rather than sitting down with actual arguments, and having civil debates, yall treat it more akin to a fandom, which is fine to an extent. But with a topic like this you can't do that all the time.

A lot of the community defaults to fakeclaimimg when opposed, as you did. Denying my race and saying were a singlet. my essay is an anecdotal essay, and sadly, in attempts to prove me wrong, you only made me appear closer to right. We have to acknowledge and address the issues in the community before we can settle on anything. This community is something we have to acknowledge, which is an internet issue for the most part. no one out of the community cares. All hate asks like this will be deleted or responded to privately for my safety

#🦓black with white stripes or white with black stripes #syscourse neutral #syscourse #pro sysmed #anti sysmed #pro xeno origins #pro tulpa #pro endo #anti tulpa #anti xenorigin #anti endogenic #anti endo #endo neutral #tw slur #tw racial slurs #tw death threats

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silver-and-stars · 6 months

Text

Watching the last 2 episodes of 1883

The real downer is for the Lakota people in episode 8 : the men went away and when they come back they find their mother, wife, sister, children dead. All of them. No survivors. So they hunt who they thought are responsible and get vengeance. It turns out those people were innocent. But when they killed them .They thought they had done this and those who didn't do it just stood by and watch it happen. It's not surprising they believed so, when the white people have been genociding their population for centuries, killing them, manipulating, lying, stealing THEIR LAND and so arrogantly saying claiming it their own (with no remorse, so repercussion, no justice). And now they go, the really killers dead, but that won't bring back their family.

Episode 9, out of all those migrants, 4 survived. A gipsy woman, the outcast, who lost her husband on a trail but still has her two sons and found someone she loves (only her made it to Oregon). The leader of those migrants who lost his leg and his wife. And that's it. Shea took his wife's soul to the see the ocean and then joined her.

As for Elsa, that damn dress. Her cage. I wonder, if Elsa was dressed in her Comache clothes, would she still have gotten hunted and shot by the Lakota ? And she wanted to save the arrow to show it to Sam. But she will never come back and I guess he will never know. When she does shows up in june, will he wait for her ? Look for her? Will he understand she died ? Will he thinks he abandoned him? And there she dies, under the tree she picked, in her father's arms, dressed in her Comache clothes, the clothes she felt free in, that reminds her of a place her belonged to, holding the horse her husband made with the strand of blond hair she gave him. And she sees herself reunited with him and racing on horseback on open plains. Loved and free.

It's heartbreaking.

#1883 series #mtv 1883 #my posts

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uwmspeccoll · 2 years

Photo

On this Fine Press Friday!

This week we present Lavengro; The Scholar, The Gipsy, The Priest, by English writer George Borrow (1803-1881). Illustrated with sixteen color lithographs and pen drawings by English book illustrator, painter, designer, typographer, and lithographer, Barnett Freedman (1901-1958), the edition, designed by Oliver Simon, was printed at the Curwen Press in London for The Limited Editions Club in 1936 in an edition of 1500 copies signed by the artist.

Lavengro was first published in London by John Murray in 1851. It is an autobiographical novel, Borrow began writing in 1842 and finished with a text that included fictional episodes that are inseparable from his genuine life experience. It was met with mixed reviews because of the mixture of fact and fiction, however it has become recognized as a classic in 19th-century English literature. Barnett Freedman, who produced the lithographs and pen-drawn illustrations for this edition, worked for the London publisher Faber and Gwyer where he illustrated many books. His first large commission was Siegfried Sassoon’s Memoirs of an Infantry Officer, published in 1931, which provided him some notoriety. George Macy, founder of the Limited Editions Club, commissioned Freedman to provide the illustrations for Lavengro, which marked a new phase of his work with its bright rainbow palette. He also developed a technique for black and white line drawings printed in line block to imitate lithography, which created uniformity in the book. George Macy was so impressed with Freedman’s work that he would later commission him to illustrate several other books including Henry the Fourth Part One from The Plays of William Shakespeare in Thirty-Seven Volumes (1939-40) and Tolstoy’s War and Peace (1938) and Anna Karenina (1951). The latter two were recognized as some of the finest book design of the twentieth century.

For George Macy’s Heritage Press, which often reprinted classics by the more exclusive Limited Editions Club, Freedman illustrated Dicken’s Oliver Twist (1939), Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights (1941), and Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre (1942). Freedman’s illustrations for Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights are regarded among the best done for those titles.

View more posts on books from the Limited Editions Club.

Go here for more Fine Press Friday posts!

-Teddy, Special Collections Graduate Intern.

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bgrantt · 2 days

Text

DADDY

You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one grey toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat moustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You- Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two-The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

12 October 1962 - Sylvia Plath

#lana del ray aesthetic #lana del rey #lizzy grant #ultraviolence #female insanity #girl problems #girl interrupted syndrome #female hysteria #female manipulator #this is what makes us girls #sylvia plath

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deanjohn · 10 months

Text

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time—

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one gray toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I’m finally through.

The black telephone’s off at the root,

The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two—

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

#💿#yeah it’s just not enough to read it anymore i have to listen to her recite it so i can be fully obliterated #words #bug.txt

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tortue-blanche · 9 months

Text

На свиданье с зарей, на восток,.. / East where the silence broods...

Одна из моих любимых картин "Терраса. Вечер на даче" (1901) русского художника Константина Коровина (1861−1939) // Konstantin Korovin. Terrace. Evening at the cottage. 1901.

Смотрю на это невероятное полотно, и все оживает перед моими глазами! Ленивый, уютный вечер. Гитаристка нежно перебирает струны своего инструмента, а рядом девушка приготовилась танцевать под выразительную мелодию. А позади них, возле перил террасы, третья девица задумалась о чем-то своем. И мысли ее уносились вслед за музыкой в неведомую даль.

Поэтому мне вспомнился романс "А цыган идет" (другое название песни - "Мохнатый шмель"), который прозвучал в советском кинофильме "Жестокий романс" (по мотивам пьесы Александра Островского "Бесприданница"). Сам фильм мне никогда особо не нравился, но вот музыка запала в душу, особенно этот романс композитора Андрея Петрова. В основе этой баллады положены фрагменты из переведенного стихотворения Редьярда Киплинга "Цыганская тропа" или "Цыганский путь" (Rudyard Kipling, "The Gypsy Trail", 1892). Прекрасный перевод этого поэтического произведения осуществил наш поэт и переводчик Григорий Кружков (Grigory Kruzhkov) под названием "За цыганской звездой".

Оригинал:

The Gipsy Trail / Rudyard Kipling

The white moth to the closing bine,

The bee to the opened clover,

And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood

Ever the wide world over.

Ever the wide world over, lass,

Ever the trail held true,

Over the world and under the world,

And back at the last to you.

Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,

Out of the grime and the grey

(Morning waits at the end of the world),

Gipsy, come away!

The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp,

The red crane to her reed,

And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,

By the tie of a roving breed.

The pied snake to the rifted rock,

The buck to the stony plain,

And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,

And both to the road again.

Both to the road again, again!

Out on a clean sea-track --

Follow the cross of the gipsy trail

Over the world and back!

Follow the Romany patteran

North where the blue bergs sail,

And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,

And the masts are shod with mail.

Follow the Romany patteran

Sheer to the Austral Light,

Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,

Sweeping the sea-floors white.

Follow the Romany patteran

West to the sinking sun,

Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.

And the east and west are one.

Follow the Romany patteran

East where the silence broods

By a purple wave on an opal beach

In the hush of the Mahim woods.

"The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,

The deer to the wholesome wold,

And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,

As it was in the days of old."

The heart of a man to the heart of a maid --

Light of my tents, be fleet.

Morning waits at the end of the world,

And the world is all at our feet!

Перевод:

За цыганской звездой / перевод Григория Кружкова

За цыганской звездой

Мохнатый шмель — на душистый хмель,

Мотылек — на цветок луговой,

А цыган идет, куда воля ведет,

За своей цыганской звездой!

А цыган идет, куда воля ведет,

Куда очи его глядят,

За звездой вослед он пройдет весь свет —

И к подруге придет назад.

От палаток таборных позади

К неизвестности впереди

(Восход нас ждет на краю земли) —

Уходи, цыган, уходи!

Полосатый змей — в расщелину скал,

Жеребец — на простор степей.

А цыганская дочь — за любимым в ночь,

По закону крови своей.

Дикий вепрь — в глушь торфяных болот,

Цапля серая — в камыши.

А цыганская дочь — за любимым в ночь,

По родству бродяжьей души.

И вдвоем по тропе, навстречу судьбе,

Не гадая, в ад или в рай.

Так и надо идти, не страшась пути,

Хоть на край земли, хоть за край!

Так вперед! — за цыганской звездой кочевой —

К синим айсбергам стылых морей,

Где искрятся суда от намерзшего льда

Под сияньем полярных огней.

Так вперед — за цыганской звездой кочевой —

На закат, где дрожат паруса,

И глаза глядят с бесприютной тоской

В багровеющие небеса.

Так вперед — за цыганской звездой кочевой

До ревущих южных широт,

Где свирепая буря, как божья метла,

Океанскую пыль метет.

Так вперед — за цыганской звездой кочевой —

На свиданье с зарей, на восток,

Где, тиха и нежна, розовеет волна,

На рассветный вползая песок.

Дикий сокол взмывает за облака,

В дебри леса уходит лось.

А мужчина должен подругу искать —

Исстари так повелось.

Мужчина должен подругу найти —

Летите, стрелы дорог!

Восход нас ждет на краю земли,

И земля — вся у наших ног!

#rudyard kipling #konstantin korovin #grigory kruzhkov #romance #poem #романс #стихотворение #music #музыка #Spotify

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