#transforming her from a woman of color into a white british man | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stylographic-blue-rhapsody · 5 months

Text

I was deep in my drunk feelings when I made a joke post threatening to write about episode 5 symbolism and mizu, but then enough people said "where is the essay" so I am here to ramble as requested

in ep 5, the tale told in the puppet show spliced with the flashback sequence of mizu’s marriage identifies mizu as not only the ronin, but also the bride and, with tragedy, the onryō. I would argue that mizu is also depicted (in a less linear fashion) as the phoenix itself, and will circle back to this thought later

mizu is first presented as the ronin, the warrior with a singular purpose. as the ronin’s lord is assassinated by the rival clan, mizu’s mother is killed in the house fire. the ronin swears his revenge, and dedicates his life to this cause. through his childhood and into his young adult life when he departs from swordfather, mizu is exclusively the ronin. he is not the onryō yet, demonstrated in his honorable unwillingness to harm the men who stab him and throw him out of the shop even after he insists that he wasn't looking for a fight in the first place

the ronin is only able to rest and put away his mission when he meets the bride, the lover. however, mizu’s bride is not literally another person she meets. the bride is not mama, or mikio, but the lover mizu discovers in herself, the one allowed to bloom in place of mizu-as-ronin. mizu’s growth into the bride from the ronin occurs over time, but solidifies in the moment when kai is gifted to her by mikio, paralleling the taming of her own distrust and expectations of being hurt. (side note, giving a nod to effective use of color: the bride puppet, dressed in reds and oranges, has matching coloring to the gifting scene, as it takes place in autumn)

mizu’s transformation into the onryō happens in two parts, beginning with the slaying of the bride and completing with the slaying of the ronin. the betrayal by mikio and mama kills the softness in mizu, kills the lover she has allowed herself to become. mizu-as-onryō retaliates by killing the ronin: the part of himself that hesitates before striking, that part that cares for honor. in not intervening in mama’s death and then murdering mikio in turn, mizu kills the ronin in himself, slaughtering it in retribution for the dead bride

mizu is both the bride and the ronin, peaceful lover and noble warrior, until he is not—he is the onryō, only the onryō. episode 5 opens with the narrator saying, “no one man can defeat an army, but one creature can.” only as the onryō, and not as the ronin or the bride, does mizu have the force of will and capacity for violence it takes to singlehandedly overcome boss hamata’s thousand claw army and protect the brothel

mizu’s identity and place in the world is a constant dialogue. he is too white to have a respectable place in japanese society, but is also seen by abijah (our stand-in for white british society) as filthy and corrupted. he is not perceived as enough of a man to walk through life wholly as one (madame kaji’s comments about his apparent lack of sexual desires, his bones breaking “like a woman’s” under fowler’s hands, his disregard for honor and recognition as a samurai). she is also not enough of a woman to exist peacefully as one with mikio (she is a swordsman, an accomplished rider, bad at domesticity; “what woman doesn’t want a husband?” mama chastises)

the moment when mikio rejects her completely following their spar is a particularly poignant narrative beat about tolerance of “the other” in gender presentation: mikio can accept her as a woman only until she bests him at manhood, at the sword, at violence. she is Other in that she is physically strong, a poor cook, able to wield a sword. these traits are all tolerable to mikio, also an outcast, so long as she is not so Other as to be a man. but her swordsmanship bests his, and bests his in the way the sun outshines a candle. it is too Other, and therefore she is not a woman. she is a monster to him, the onryō, even before she kills the bride and the ronin in herself

(( as an aside, this series does a very good job at discussing the oft-challenging relationship between race and gender (e.g. that it is difficult for mizu to live as a biracial man, but would be deadly for her to live as a biracial woman), and demonstrating how queerness of identity complicates that relationship even further—but that’s a topic for a different post ))

as the narrative has been building on this idea that mizu is both the ronin and the bride, the man and the woman, japanese and white, episode 5 concludes with the heartbreaking reveal that, although mizu is all of these things simultaneously, he has had these identities beaten out of him by tragedy and cruelty and his own self-loathing hand

but mizu does not stagnate as the monster. we return to the metaphor of steel: too pure and it becomes brittle, breaking under pressure. mizu is a sword, a weapon that he has forged for the sole purpose of revenge and blood, but he has excised too much of himself to successfully deliver on his goals—he is not the ronin or the bride, he is the onryō; she is not a woman or a man, she is the onryō; the onryō is nothing but pain and vengeance—and so it breaks

“perhaps a demon cannot make steel,” mizu says. “I am a bad artist”

swordfather replies, “an artist gives all they have to the art, the whole. your strengths and deficiencies, your loves and shames. perhaps the people you collected… if you do not invite the whole, the demon takes two chairs, and your art will suffer”

to be reforged, mizu must not only acknowledge the impurities she has beaten out of her blade, out of herself, but lovingly, radically accept them and reincorporate them into the blade, into herself. he adds impure steel—the people he has collected, with their own dualities—to the sheared meteorite sword: the broken blade that fit so perfectly in taigen’s hand (the archetypal ronin, but a man seeking happiness over glory), the knife akemi tried to murder mizu with (the archetypal bride, but with ambition for greatness), the bell given to ringo and returned to mizu in broken trust (the man unable to hold a sword, but upholding samurai principles of honor and wisdom), the tongs that honed mizu’s smithcraft under swordfather’s guidance (the artisan, a blind man who sees more than most). to make of herself a blade strong enough to see her promises through, she must hold her monstrosity and honor and compassion and artistry in equal import

she is the onryō, and the ronin, and the bride, and all the people she has collected.

with this we finally come to mizu as the phoenix. mizu undergoes many cycles of death and rebirth, both in the main storyline and the flashbacks into her life leading up to the present. often, mizu is juxtaposed against literal flames—the burning of his childhood home, swordfather’s forge, the fire as he battles the giant in the infiltrated castle, the heart sutra forge of her own making, the climactic second confrontation with fowler. not every death/rebirth mizu undergoes is thematic to flame, of course. the fight with the four fangs, spliced with the rebirth ceremony of the town, for example, or the deaths of her ronin-self and bride-self, giving rise to the onryō

he is the phoenix, unable to truly die: every fatal combat he pulls back from the brink, reborn over and over in the wake of failure and setback. in episode 1, mizu prays for the gods to “let [him] die.” not to help him to face death unafraid, not to die with honor or victory, but to die at all. mizu has experienced death a thousand times over, but not once has it stuck

(( as a parting aside: the ronin’s rage at the phoenix clan for killing his lord parallels mizu’s self hatred of his mixed heritage (which he believes to be the thing that killed his mother), and so the ronin’s quest for revenge against the phoenix clan is mirrored in mizu’s quest to kill the white part of himself as best he can, by killing the white men who could be his father ))

mizu, the ronin. mizu, the bride. mizu, the onryō. mizu, the phoenix.

#blue eye samurai #mizu blue eye samurai #hopefully this is mostly coherent #I have more things to say but this was getting lengthy #there's also a lot of gender and racial nuance I've glossed over here for an attempt at brevity and structure #god also the COLOR. do you know how much I have to say about the use of color and shadow as a reflection of the narrative #maybe I'll write another damn essay who knows #this show really scratches the part of my brain that was academically trained in film analysis #blue speaks

146 notes · View notes

canonmisogynyvictimstournament · 8 months

Text

PROPAGANDA

MARWA (WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS (TV SERIES)) (CW: Mind Control)

1.) okok so a major character (nandor) uses a genie wish to bring back the 37 wives he had when he was human (he’s a vampire who was turned in the 1400s but is alive in the modern day) to pick his favorite to live with and settles on marwa. she’s established as someone who’s passionate about science and mathematics, but nandor uses his genie wishes to essentially mold her into his perfect woman like a doll, from changing her hair color to making her not want to go to the night market with him to making her like all the things he likes. this culminates in him LITERALLY TRANSFORMING HER INTO A BRITISH MAN NAMED FREDDIE and that is her send off from the show. the treatment of her is disgusting i’m sorry for ranting i love wwdits but honestly the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth

2.) WHERE TO START my god. Marwa is introduced into the story as one of a crowd of women who are interchangeable to the man summoning them, WHO IS HER CANONICAL HUSBAND but he gives less than half a fuck about her, which is played for laughs. The writers made it completely unclear whether she is a real person or basically a magical simulation with no inner life and did not bother to clarify that at any point. Her plotline consists of her husband using magical wishes to modify various aspects of her body and mind and the writers never explore whether she is aware this is happening or not, much less how she might be experiencing it. It is a terrifying psychological horror story from her perspective but we are not given any insight into her perspective so who cares I guess!! For example, he wishes for her to have a rounder ass and then wishes that all of her preferences align perfectly with his own, so that she'll stop nagging him about wanting different colored flowers at their wedding than him. There are SEVERAL more examples. Her experience of having all of her desires replaced with her husband's desires shows up only for jokes, plus one moment that is used to confirm that her husband's real love interest is one of the other male leads in the show. (I ship the two male characters, I'm not complaining about that, but like COME ON SHE WAS A HUMAN PERSON ONCE AND SHE IS LIVING IN A HORROR MOVIE AND THIS IS WHAT YOU'RE DOING WITH THAT???) THE WORST PART is that when it's time for her to exit the story because her body and personality have already been essentially replaced by magic and she is now a boring toy, she is LITERALLY PHYSICALLY AND MENTALLY transformed into a random British man so that her husband can have that guy as a love interest instead of her. She (he? It? Again it is never NEVER explored whether Marwa is like, alive inside this British man's mind somehow? Or if she was ever really alive in her body?) moves to England to be in love with the original British man she was based off of, so basically her twin. This is also played for laughs. Her entire personality and body are not even killed off with like a death scene but literally ERASED FROM REALITY AND REPLACED WITH A COPY OF THIS SHITTY WHITE DUDE.

3.) (Context: Nandor is a vampire who has been alive for a while. When he was human he had 37 wives. (Btw some of the wives were men but that’s besides the point.))

She was brought back to life (along with a couple others) via Djinn wish just because Nandor wanted to have a ‘wife’ (some of the ‘wives’ are men). After being deemed the ‘best wife’ by Nandor she is the only one left alive. It is clear the entire fourth season that Nandor doesn’t care for her much and she is only there because Nandor wants to be married to someone. He ignores her wants and interests the whole season. Via another Djinn wish Nandor makes Marwa like everything he likes so she is more agreeable with him. Later on, he meets another character’s boyfriend named Freddie. Nandor basically falls for Freddie immediately and via Djinn wish, wishes Marwa to be exactly Freddie. :| With that wish, Marwa is effectively gone. She now looks and acts like Freddie. The two Freddies meet and after freaking out a little (and some magic) they get along because they like the same exact things. By the end of the season both Freddies are sent off to never be seen again. Also, Nandor has some extra Djinn wishes so he could’ve turned Marwa back but he didn’t.

Additional links: Article about the Freddie thing: https://www.themarysue.com/what-we-do-in-the-shadows-missed-hard-with-its-treatment-of-marwa/

She likes what he likes:

Also This:

MIKOKO SAKAZAKI (KAIJI)

1.) She is one of two (2) women with a speaking role in the manga (which has been ongoing since the 90s), and was the first female character to appear at all. She has a crush on the protagonist, Kaiji, but this is treated as a joke/ as gross because of her appearance. She is meant to be ugly because of the size of her nose and lips and therefore is invalid as a person. She has no role other than to pester Kaiji with her crush, and despite him ignoring or acting weirded out around her constantly, her attraction to him never fades. She gets almost no characterization outside of this and is only seen once after Kaiji leaves, where she is drawing a manga where he comes back to her. When she's shown once in a bikini, the sight is so disgusting to the protagonist that he sprints away at full speed. Despite this, she is sometimes used in ads for the series.

2.) Her face looks "too much like her father's", yet he never receives any negativity for it. Every single male character in the manga has the same style of facial features, yet when the creator puts them on a woman it makes her mockable and gross.

#polls #round 1 #week 1 #new #cw mind control

56 notes · View notes

nellie-elizabeth · 2 years

Text

What We Do in the Shadows: Freddie (4x09)

Ohhhh boy. I haven't checked for the reception of this episode yet, but I'm going to take a wild guess and say Tumblr isn't happy.

Cons:

So here's the thing, the biggest "con" I have for this episode is one that's very conditional on whether Marwa ever comes back. Turning your only woman of color into a white British man and then sending her off, after a full season in which this character is stripped of her agency and turned into nothing more than exactly what Nandor desires is... well, it's a choice. And to be clear, I think it's a choice the show made on purpose, I think we're supposed to think Nandor's behavior towards Marwa is ghoulish and disgusting and all the rest, I think we're meant to feel horrified by it. But that doesn't change the fact that I expected the payoff for this story to be Marwa getting to live her best life, and now instead she's... effectively... erased from existence? I don't know. This ending for her character gives me very weird, uncomfortable vibes. I would have played this differently if it really is the end for Marwa, at least resetting her back to her original state before sending her off into the world. If they go back and do more with this character later, I'll be happy. If they don't, I'm side-eyeing the way this was developed pretty hard.

As far as the rest of the episode goes, I will say that I definitely liked the stuff in the main plot with Freddie more than the subplots. Looks like Colin is now a teenager in terms of development, and I'm kind of ready for him to be his adult self again. This is like baby Groot, or something. I'm ready for the original character to return from his purgatory. Nadja's troubles at the club similarly felt a bit underwhelming to me, I'm sorry to say. Some good jokes here or there, but I felt like the actual comedic bulk of the episode was treading water at some points, to get to our conclusion moment, which did work pretty well.

Pros:

I feel like I need to tap dance so much around my thoughts on the Freddie situation! Suffice to say, if this is building up to a better resolution for Marwa down the line, I'll be totally satisfied. In and of itself, the fact that this fucked up thing happens to her character doesn't bother me, because the point is that all these characters do fucked up and immoral and thoughtless things to people. It's part of the comedy and the tension of the show. So yeah, the fact that Guillermo's boyfriend shows up, Nandor gets a crush on him, uses one of his remaining djinn wishes to transform his wife Marwa into an exact copy of Freddie, and then in the end the two Freddies fall in love and Guillermo and Nandor are both single... that's really fucking funny. That's clever, that totally subverts our expectations... people were ready for Nandor to be jealous that Guillermo had a boyfriend, and never in a million years would I have expected the story to take this turn. I admired the insanity of this concept so much! I just wish I could understand what they were thinking with the resolution of it.

This really has been Guillermo's season, not in terms of everything going well for him, exactly, but just in terms of the screen time and development being given to this character and his desires. We see how happy he is to have Freddie, something in his life that's disconnected from Nandor and the rest of his life as a familiar. The shattering when he realizes what Nandor has done is really effective. There's a rule in comedy about how in order for anything to land, there has to be the moment where it stops being a joke. Like in The Princess Bride, when Inigo says "I want my father back, you son of a bitch." In a lot of ways, Guillermo storming off from Nandor, and Nandor realizing he's deeply hurt his friend, is the equivalent of that moment. It's effective if, once again, we keep it in a bubble.

In the subplots, while I mostly was just kind of shrugging, I did enjoy Sofia Coppola getting her head ripped off, and I liked Lazlo's endless list of vampire music pun names. There are always some fun one-off jokes in this show, even when a certain plot thread or scene doesn't hit quite right.

I think ultimately what this episode sets up, though, is a good thing: with only one episode left of the season, all of our characters have been brought low. Young Colin is going through a change and has thus lost his childhood stardom, Lazlo is trying to navigate the changing role he has as Colin's parent of sorts, Nadja is losing her club, Guillermo has lost his boyfriend, and Nandor has lost Guillermo, or at least it looks like that very well might be the case, along with losing his wife. The stated purposes of these characters at the start of the season have all been shattered. Nandor wanted to settle down and be married. He had it, he lost it. Guillermo wanted to assert a sense of identity outside of his role as a familiar. He had it, he lost it. Nadja wanted to open a vampire night club. She had it, she lost it. I think that works really well as a thematic tie for this episode.

So I'm torn. Again, having not explored the reaction of the fandom, I'm willing to bet that people are livid about what happened to Marwa in this episode, and frankly I'm not exactly pleased with it either. But I do think that structurally and in terms of our core cast, there are some interesting things that have been set up in this one. I know people expected Nandor to be jealous, but this twist was honestly funnier and more revealing about the fucked up nature of Nandor and Guillermo's whole deal. I suppose I'm willing to wait and see where they go from here, although Marwa's exit, if indeed that is the last we see of her, is a serious mark against the show at this point.

7/10

#review #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows review #wwdits #wwdits review

22 notes · View notes

jmreyes9 · 1 year

Photo

“BUT ONLY GOD CAN MAKE A TREE”

By Jesse Reyes

Almost three score (57) years ago (1913), Joyce Kilmer wrote the poem “Trees” which has become a favorite poem of many, including myself. The poem he wrote is as follows:

TREES

By Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

You may already know that Joyce Kilmer was a man, his full name being Alfred Joyce Kilmer (I had always thought Joyce Kilmer was a woman until a few years ago when one of my Facebook friends told me he was a man) and was an American writer and poet born in 1886 in New Brunswick, New Jersey. He is remembered for a short poem titled “Trees” which he wrote in 1913 and was published together with some of his other poems in 1914. This poem became even more popular when Perry Como recorded it in 1955, the poem put to music by Oscar Rasbach.

.Kilmer was also known to be a journalist, literary critic, lecturer, and editor. When he was deployed in Europe during World War I, Kilmer was considered the leading American Roman Catholic poet and lecturer of his generation. Critics often compared him to British contemporaries G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936) and Hilaire Belloc (1870–1953).

He enlisted in the New York National Guard and was deployed to France with the 69th Infantry Regiment (the famous "Fighting 69th") in 1917. He was killed by a sniper's bullet at the Second Battle of the Marne in 1918 at the young age of 31. His wife, Aline Murray, was also an accomplished poet and author. They had five children.

Trees have always fascinated me, to the extent that I have photographed hundreds if not thousands of them, particularly in autumn when their leaves are transformed to exquisite hues of red, gold, purple, fuchsia (my favorite color and Erap’s too, although when he was asked to spell it, changed it to “red na lang”!), orange, magenta and combinations or variations of these.

As a radiologist , during my active practice, I was confronted daily, by anatomic “trees” in the human body including: the tracheo-bronchial tree—the branches of the trachea (windpipe) and segments and subsegments of the lung, producing an “inverted tree” appearance on the coronal (frontal) view; the biliary tree:—the branching pattern of the ducts in and outside the liver and gallbladder which empty bile from these organs into the duodenum (the first part of the small intestine); and then there’s the arterial tree, e.g. ascending aorta and its branches and the various arterial trees in the different organs of the body.

It is amazing how trees display a different look for every season of the year, especially in the midwest where I live, because of the four seasons—spring, summer, fall and winter. In my back yard are three trees which I have named after the Three Stooges: Curly, Larry and Moe. In the spring, these trees begin to bear greenish or bronze-colored buds. The middle tree (Larry), bears ivory white flowerettes which later turn to light green as they are transformed into leaves. Then as the summer comes, the leaves of these three trees become lush dark green.

As fall approaches, Curly’s leaves turns yellow and fall to the ground even with a gentle breeze blowing. At the height of fall, Moe’s leaves turn reddish brown, and when they reach the ground after a brisk wind blows, they all turn brown. Eventually Larry’s leaves also turn brownish-yellow or brownish-red and they also all fall to the ground. No wonder they call autumn fall! Larry is the last to shed its leaves.

In the winter, the branches of all three trees are leafless, appearing “naked”. When it snows, the leafless branches are enveloped with ice or snow and glisten when the sun kisses them and sometimes appear like white Christmas trees. When a big snowstorm comes, large amounts of snow are deposited on the trunks and branches of the trees—it then becomes an alluring sight to behold, its grandeur reflecting the handiwork of our God—a God of beauty, order and perfection.

When I see the appearance of these trees during the four seasons, then I can say with Joyce Kilmer that “poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree!”

Written on 10/14/20 in Chicago, IL. Posted in Facebook in 2020.

0 notes

harryspet · 3 years

Text

please don’t bite | p.parker, s.rogers, b.barnes

[Warnings] peter parker x reader, dark!steve x reader, hints of dark!natasha/dark!bucky x reader, vampire!steve/bucky/natasha, vampire au, vampire blood addiction, withdrawals, kidnapping, dubcon, intoxicated sex, oral sex (female recieveing)

A/N: hello, it’s been forever! I was in the middle of writing this when @cherienymphe announced her “Cherienymphe’s 5K Twilight Renaissance Writing Challenge” so I decided to join in! She’s one of my favorite dark writers so please check her out if you haven’t.

In which addiction leads you into a den of vampires.

taglist: @lovelynerdytraveler @buckysbunny @hollandsdream @micki-smiles @buckybarnesplumwhore @arts-ismything @saharzek @what-is-your-wish @brattypeony @hermayone @buckysugar @mischiefmanaged011 @visintaes @watercoolerpaint @disaster-rose @slutforsebstan

main masterlist

word count: 3.7k

You piled all the dollar bills you had in your pocket on the table, “There. We can just use this.” You plopped down beside your boyfriend on the couch, fully feeling the headache you’ve had for the past two weeks. It was like your brain was pounding against your skull and sending painful waves through your body.

“This is twenty bucks and a … grocery store coupon for … shampoo,” After counting it, Peter flicked the money back onto the coffee table, leaning back with you. You tossed your legs over his lap and he wrapped his arm behind you, “So we have fifty bucks between us … great.”

“That’s enough, right?” You asked, barely able to hear yourself think through your headache.

“It’s like two-hundred just for a small vial,” A shiver ran through your body and Peter pulled you closer. Not only did the heat not work in the shoebox you two called an apartment, you were starting to get random chills and it was another rough winter in New York.

“Fuck,” You cursed, “Fuck, fuck-”

Peter shushed you, “We’ll be okay,” Peter said, trying to be strong for the both of you though his body was punishing him even more than yours was, “I got a gig by the pier, and by the end of the week, we should have enough.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you clutched his chest, “That’s too long. We’ll die before then.”

“We’ll be okay,” Peter insisted though he didn’t quite believe himself.

Vampire blood was one cruel mistress. It was hard to remember your lives before you took your first sips of the addictive potion. You both had everything going for you, highschool sweethearts that became successful college students but that was all gone now. You can’t hold a job or go to school when you’re on vampire blood. The highs last hours and, when you have enough of it, weeks can go by without you noticing.

“What was it like? Drinking from the vein?” You asked him, the taste of the blood was faint on your lips as you tried to remember the exact taste.

Peter’s head tilted back as he stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, “Like Heaven on earth. Like eternal life …. like nothing any normal human would ever feel. So good … jesus.”

Sometimes Peter wished he never introduced you to the taste but he’d forget all about it when you were high together. The sex was unbelievable, vampire blood being a strong aphrodisiac, and your love felt even stronger, “I want to try it,” You thought out loud, “If I’m gonna die soon, I-I wanna try it.”

“You’re not gonna die. Our brains are just totally miswired right now,” Peter groaned, turning his face towards yours. He kissed your forehead and, for a moment, it eased the pain. You tilted your head up to kiss the sides of his mouth. He tilted his head to the side and you kissed deeply. He pulled away suddenly and his eyes gazed into yours, “What would you do?”

“W-What?”

“What would you do to taste it from the vein?” You swallowed and your throat ached.

You nodded your head, “Anything. Oh god, anything, Peter.”

You’d sensed he’d had an idea and a weak grin began to pull at your lips. That quickly fell as Peter pulled away from you. You expected him to be excited but he was completely solemn, “I have an idea,” He said, “You can say no … but if you don’t say no, you have to promise that things will be how they used to be afterwards.”

“How they used to be,” You couldn’t even think that far back. You couldn’t imagine a single date, single birthday card or New Year’s Eve kiss while you were in so much pain, “Sure, Pete. We just need a taste a-and that’ll clear our minds and things we’ll go back to how they used to be.”

As if things couldn’t get any worse, your stomach growled. You’d gotten dressed up, put on light makeup, and styled your hair for whoever Peter had taken you to meet. You didn’t quite care anymore because your headache continued to cripple you over the past few days.

You pulled your jacket tighter as you waited on the steps of the gentrified brownstone. Peter pressed the doorbell nervously, watching as you shiver in your small, black dress. Peter dressed in his finest slacks and button down but was very aware that he probably wouldn’t be the center of attention tonight. He reached out to grab your hand which you happily took.

“Why is he making us meet him so late?” You whispered, shivering.

“He’s a vampire,” Peter shrugged, “They’re like nocturnal, I guess.”

Peter had reached out to ring the doorbell again when the door suddenly opened. A red headed woman opened the door, her hair cut short and a sultry smile on her face. You could tell instantly by the shine in her skin and darkness in her eyes that she was not like you.

“Peter,” She greeted, smirking, “You look … hungry.”

“And cold,” He added, sensing your uncomfortableness as she took him in like he was her prey.

“Right, come on in,” Peter led you inside the expensive home and out of the cold winter. You pressed yourself closer to him, not only because you were still shivering but because you’d never been alone with a vampire, “Steve will be here any moment.”

The woman led you down a corridor and you passed modern art sculptures and other expensive decorations you didn’t quite understand, “Steve?” You perked up at the mention of someone else.

“That’s, uh, who we’re meeting,” Peter said quickly.

“Unfortunately, I’m booked tonight. A sweet young thing I met a few weeks ago. British accent, total dreamboat, but Steve will take great care of you two,” She led the two of you into a dining room where wine and horderves were laid out, gesturing for the two of you to take a seat, “Let me take your jackets.”

You looked at Peter and he nodded, “It’s okay,” Hesitantly, you slid off one of your sleeves and you felt her eyes begin to burn into the skin of your neck. Your arms weak, you lifted it out to her and she graciously accepted it. Peter did the same, taking a seat and waiting for you to do the same. Your eyes were still on the mysterious woman until Peter grabbed your hand.

“I hope to see you both soon,” She smiled again, leaving the room, “Keep your eyes on this one, Pete.”

You turned to him, your eyebrows raised, “How do you know her?”

“That’s her,” Peter said, grabbing the bottle of wine, “I told you about the first time I tried it from the vein. I think she has a thing for young guys. Or young anything.”

As he poured himself a glass, you reached out for a cracker and tried not to eat too fast as you pushed them into your mouth, “Why’d she look at me like that?” You asked, covering your mouth.

“You’re a virgin,” You almost snorted, “I mean, your veins are. You’ve never been fed off of.”

“Oh,” You swallowed, taking his glass from him as you washed down your food, “I don’t wanna be. That’ll hurt, right?”

“Don’t worry, that’s not what we’re here for.”

Feeling some of your energy return, you stood up from the dining table, deciding to look closer at all the artifacts, “Y/N, what are you doing?” Peter asked, his fingers rubbing his temples, “Sit down, please.”

“Why do they have food if vampires don’t eat?” You asked out loud, annoying him further. There seemed to be a million framed pictures on the wall and you studied them as you passed along. They seemed to transform from black and white to fully in color, polaroid to digital.

“For their human prey, probably.”

“Prey?” A deep voice spoke up, surrounding the room, bringing Peter out of his chair and your head turning quickly, “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“Mr. Rogers,” Peter rushed out, and you wondered how he could muster up so much energy to be nice, “I didn’t mean …”

“No worries, I try to be polite but I am a blood sucking demon after all,” The blonde-bearded man smiled. He was so muscular, you’d pictured someone skinny and frail. “Won’t you introduce me to your …”

“Girlfriend,” Peter said a bit sadly. He wasn’t sad that you were his but that this was the saddest excuse for a date night, “This is Y/N.”

You raised a hand to wave but he crossed the room to take your hand. He kissed your knuckles, smiling charmingly as he looked into your eyes. Blue eyes, you weren’t expecting those either. Despite the porcelain skin he looked quite human. His suit was black, and his white shirt was pressed nicely beneath it, like he’d just returned from an important event. You smiled back weakly, “Pleasure to meet you, doll.”

“It’s … nice to meet you too.”

You felt Peter’s eyes on you as your hand fell back down to your side, “You two look like you’ve seen better days,” You moved closer to Peter because, despite his kind smile, you didn’t fully trust him.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “Is it that obvious?” The nice clothes couldn’t hide the fact that they hadn’t had any vampire blood in almost three weeks. It was amazing that they were still standing.

“I think I can help you both out,” Steve assured you two, “If you had enough of the horderves, you can follow me upstairs.” He turned and Peter grabbed your hand as you all left the room.

“What exactly do we have to do … you know, for the blood?” Looking up at Peter, you worried that he was nervous for reasons that he was not telling you. Steve led you to the stairs and, as you climbed, you couldn’t help but look at all the photos that lined each wall. The upstairs wasn’t lit, making it feel like you were stepping into a story with a not-so-happy ending.

“Peter didn’t tell you?” Steve asked, not bothering to turn around. He led you down the hall to what you assumed was the master bedroom.

“Not everything,” Peter said quickly.

You expected some kind of evil den but the room was quite normal. High ceilings, brown upholstered bed, a view of the neighborhood, and a fireplace. You and Peter stood awkwardly, looking around, as Steve made his way over to the fireplace. He leaned down to turn a dial and moments later, it sprouted with fire.

“Peter,” You nudged him, your brows furrowed. He didn’t say anything which worried you more. Steve stood up, taking off his jacket which made your heart begin to race. Some of the fear disappeared quickly as he rolled up his white sleeves … exposing lower arms.

Now, your mouth was watering, “There’s no need to worry, doll. I already promised Peter that no harm will come to the two of you. But you do understand that this is a trade? I give you my blood and you give me what I want.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something but you interrupted, “And what do you want?”

“I want to watch,” He stated, looking the two of you over, “I consider myself somewhat of a voyeur, I like to watch when people are intimate.” You looked back and forth from him to Peter.

“Y/N, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Peter spoke quietly, worry in his eyes.

“Of course not,” Steve smiled, already a bit aroused by your shocked expression. He reached into his pocket to pull out a pocket knife, its handle having an old and intricate design, “But I think it’ll be very enjoyable on your side of things. The blood will certainly take the edge off and I won’t overstep my boundaries, I promise.”

“And we’re supposed to trust a vampire … ,” Steve stepped closer, pressing the knife to his skin.

“We don’t have another option,” Peter said, his eyes focused on Steve’s vein. Peter let go of your hand, the addiction taking over as he moved closer to Steve. Steve cut into his arm, the crimson running down it but not a drop touched the floor before Peter pressed his lips to the wound.

When Peter pulled away, his head tilted all the way back, as the sweet serum traveled down his throat. You were still staring in shock, the scent reaching your nose, and drawing you further in. It took everything in you to keep your feet planted and your fingernails dug into your palm as you watched.

Peter smiled, blood on his lips and mouth, “Y/N,” He drawled, “Please, taste it …” He walked towards you, his hands outstretched. The blood on his lips, you could smell it, and you wanted to taste it so bad that it was hurting you. When he leaned into your lips, you didn’t stop him. His tongue entered your mouth and you felt the high he was feeling.

Your vision began to blur a little as your head tilted back. Peter’s hands were holding you steady as the biggest smile spread across your lips. It was like tasting heaven, something beyond reality and you wanted to never let that supernatural feeling go.

You felt a foreign hand against your back but you felt like welcoming any touch under the influence of the drug. As Peter pulled his lips away from you, your eyes opened to Steve’s as he was offering you his wrist. With the taste already on the tongue, you gladly accepted more, Peter’s hands roaming over your body as you drank.

You weren’t sure how you made it to the bed, it felt like you had floated. Peter was right, he was so right, were all the words you could think. You heard those words, felt Peter’s hands, and watched as Steve’s lips turned into a mischievous smile.

Steve stepped away, the cut on his arm already healing, as he made himself comfortable in a lounging chair by the fireplace. He had to give it to the kid, he seemed to know your body much better than he expected for a guy his age. Either that, or you couldn’t tell what was what at the moment and it was all just pleasure in your glazed over eyes.

Your head tilted to the side so Steve could analyze every detail of your face. Your dress was pulled down at the top and the bottom rolled up past your stomach. Peter held your legs firmly, biting and kissing your thighs as he made himself comfortable between your legs.

“God, I fucking love you,” Steve smiled at Peter’s words. Your back arched up as he finally pushed your panties aside, tasting your warm center, “You smell so good. You taste so good.”

You cried out his name, biting down on your bottom lip, and Steve imagined you accidentally drawing blood. You wouldn't have noticed, there was already blood dripping down your chin. Steve liked how loud you were, he didn’t like the girls that held everything in, and he liked even more how Peter took your mewlings as encouragement to lap at you faster.

“Fuck,” You cursed, gripping the sheets tightly. Steve felt his pants begin to tighten though he promised himself he would wait, “Fuck, fuck!” You finally came and Peter crawled up your body in order to kiss you on your lips.

He fumbled with his belt and Steve felt his desperation to be inside you. He was still slow with you when he finally entered you, much more patient than Steve imagined he would be. He kept things slow so you could adjust. He made love to you, kissing your neck, “Is that good?”

You nodded eagerly, “Y-Yeah! Like that …. I love that, Petey. Feels so good … feels so good.”

It was more than ecstasy. The blood mixed with the love of your life, you thought you might cry knowing that no other feeling could compare.

Steve watched the young lovebirds through several rounds and several different positions, your stamina never seeming to run out. Like any other drug, the high relieved the side effects but it didn’t last forever. Eventually, you and Peter floated to sleep.

You slept through the entire morning and you thought you’d wake in Peter’s arms. You could face any shame and guilt if you were with him but, when your heavy eyes finally opened, you were alone. Your palm against your head, you sat up in the bed, a little bit of sun creeping through the curtains. Looking down, you were completely naked most likely from last night's escapades.

You felt dirty, for more than one reason. “Peter,” You whispered, stepping out of the bed to look for your dress. Covering your chest, you kneeled down to check beneath the bed, “Peter.”

You breathed heavily, trying to push down your anxiousness as you struggled to find your clothes. When the door of the room opened, you panicked, grabbing ahold of the comforter and pulling it against your body.

It wasn’t Peter or Steve but a dark haired man, abnormally muscular for a vampire just like Steve. He tilted his head as he looked at you, “Where’s Peter?” You asked immediately.

“Who?” He raised an eyebrow, shutting the door, “Ohhh, Peter. Right. The boyfriend.”

“Where’s Peter and who are you?” You continued, your eyes wide with fear. Bucky ran his hand over his beard before folding his arms over each other.

“I’m Steve’s … friend,” You began to recognize him from all the photos, “There’s a few of us who share this house, you know. And I heard you all last night, I asked Steve if I could join the fun but sitting on the sidelines is a bit boring to me.”

You didn’t care, “If you’re not gonna tell me where Peter is-”

He rolled his eyes, “He’s with Natasha I think. He woke up still craving. Are you craving something too, dollface?”

“Nothing from you,” You shook your head though the idea of his bleeding wrist did pop into your brain, “I-I need to see him.”

“Be my guest. Are you going naked?” You scowled at him, “Go clean up first, please. There should be something for you to wear in the bathroom.”

The two of you stared awkwardly until Bucky realized you weren’t going to move until he left the room, “Fine,” He raised his hands in defeat, “They always get shy in the morning.” He mumbled to himself as the door shut. You quickly hurried to the bathroom, shutting and locking it.

Why the hell was Peter with Natasha? She’d look at him like she wanted to devour him, in a completely non-vampire kind of way. And he’d left you all alone for that man to find you. Sure, you’d done things last night you weren’t proud of but he’d promised that things would go back to normal after.

You freshened up in the sink, throwing on a night blue, silk nightgown. You had to scrub the dry blood off of your lips and your inner thighs and you were forced to relive the night. Everything was perfect but as soon as you thought about who watched and probably got off to it, you only felt guilty. You felt even more guilty that you were craving more blood.

The room was empty when you stepped back into it. Tip toeing over to the bedroom door, you made sure to check to see if the coast was clear before stepping out into the hallway. You thought you could find Peter, snap him out of whatever trance he was in, and take the two of you home even if you had to carry him out on your back.

“Natasha warned me to keep an eye on you,” He appeared in front of you so suddenly that a small shriek left your lips. You backed up quickly only to run into another tall figure.

“Bucky, you’re going to hurt her,” Steve warned, his deep voice sending chills down your spine.

Bucky smirked, “No blood, no foul.”

“You say that now.”

You stepped away from both of them, your back pressing against the nearest wall, “Would you like breakfast, doll?” Steve asked, catching you off guard.

“You should get something on your stomach, doll,” Bucky seemed to mimic Steve’s concerned nature which caused Steve to press his lips into a frustrated, thin line.

“Where. Is. Peter? I want to go home.”

“He’s-”

Bucky interrupted him, “You can’t go home.”

“Buck-”

“There’s no use in sugarcoating it,” Bucky stepped closer, resting his arm above you, “We need new blood bags and it’s not like you guys have much to go back to.”

“We’re not blood bags-”

“We’re all blood bags,” Bucky chuckled, “You guys need us too. Anyways, it’s not a request. Steve is just nicer than me but we’re all going to take what we want.”

You slipped away from him, your feet pushing you even though you knew you were faster. The only reason Bucky didn’t chase after you was because of Steve, “Peter!” You called out, running down the hall, “Peter!” You frantically opened each door you walked past until you got to the end of the hallway.

When you stormed in, you found him shirtless, sprawled on a bed. Natasha, in a robe, was in front of a vanity, brushing through her red hair. You hurried over to the bed, grabbing a hold of his shoulders, “Peter, we have to get out of here.”

He smiled, softly grabbing ahold of your arm, “My love, you’re so beautiful, you know that?” He was so high that you weren’t even sure if he was really seeing you.

Tears pricked your eyes, “You promised, Peter. You promised.”

He shushed you, “It’s okay, just give me a few … hours. We’ll be … okay.”

You felt hands on your waist that you didn’t fight. She brushed a piece of hair from your face, touching your cheek with her freezing hand, “I knew you’d like her, Buck. They're both so perfect,” Natasha guided you away from the bed and towards the door where the other two vampires were standing, “So who gets the first bite?”

“Steve’s had his fun. She’s mine tonight.”

hope you enjoyed that fun little one-shot!

1K notes · View notes

cherry-valentine · 3 years

Text

Spring 2021 Anime Season

Mars Red is one of two series this season set in one of my favorite periods, the Meiji era. It’s a vampire series that deals a lot with the politics of war as the Japanese military is attempting to establish a vampire unit, supposedly to compete with the British vampire unit (because of course that’s a thing). It focuses on a human military officer named Maeda who is charged with recruiting and managing vampires. Maeda is the type of character I really enjoy. Handsome, a little older than most anime protagonists, chain-smoking, overly serious, and voiced by Junichi Suwabe (who has to have the sexiest voice in all of anime). The series has a classic, romantic feel to it. Its take on vampires is somewhat traditional (they evaporate in the sun, drink blood, sleep in coffins, have super strength and speed, etc.). If it brings anything new to the table, it’s the concept of vampires having different ranks, from S-class down, and how lower ranks naturally fear higher ranks. Still yet, the classic vibe works in the show’s favor. Combined with the historical setting, it gives the show a certain charm. The art is lovely, from the backgrounds to the character designs, and the music is a high point. It easily has the best ending theme of the season.

Fumetsu no Anata e (To Your Eternity) is a unique series. I’ve seen a lot of people comparing it to Mushishi, but with an overarching plot, and that assessment is pretty accurate. The show follows an entity that comes to be known as Fushi. It begins as an orb, and as it makes contact with other objects and creatures, it learns from them and can possibly take their forms. Among the forms it most often takes are a white wolf and a young man. Originally, it’s a somewhat empty shell, incapable of communicating, but as it meets different creatures and learns, it develops a personality and begins to speak. The series is, overall, about Fushi’s journey through this world and all the experiences it gains, both wonderful and tragic. There’s a subtle beauty to the series, with an early focus on nature, but it also has scenes of trauma and violence. The animation is fluid and the facial expressions are amazing. There’s an overall natural feel to it that, like others have pointed out, reminds me of Mushishi (though it’s definitely faster paced than Mushishi). The show also likes to make you cry, so keep that in mind.

Joran: The Princess of Snow and Blood is the other series set in the Meiji era this season, albeit an alternate version of it that has a strange form of technology. To be honest, I’m a little fuzzy on some of the details, but it seems to be about a group called the Nue who work for the government to fight against a growing rebellion. The main character is Sawa, a member of Nue who has some sort of special powers involving her blood, which allow her to transform and battle monsters, or whatever else stands in her way. Her goal is to get revenge for the death of her entire clan (implied to be wiped out because of their power). Sawa is a decent heroine, a woman who craves vengeance and is determined to get it through any means, but is, at her core, a compassionate person who would rather live in peace. It’s this internal conflict that makes Sawa compelling (even if it’s not entirely original). The other characters are interesting, particularly Tsuki, whom I won’t talk much about because it would involve spoilers. The plot and details can get a little convoluted, but the action and animation are solid. When Sawa transforms, the art style changes, and it’s a really cool visual effect. The music is also nice.

Shaman King received a remake this season. I was a huge fan of the original, and so far I’m enjoying the remake, but to be honest, I’m having trouble seeing the point. The art is almost the same (just a lot shinier), the voice actors are the same, the plot is the same. Maybe it’s just that it’s been so long since I saw the original, I’m unable to remember the details and so I can’t tell what’s different. But to me it feels like I’m just rewatching the show. Which is fine, because I loved it to begin with. Maybe it gets different later on. Maybe it more closely follows the manga. I’ll keep watching to find out. For anyone new to the series, it looks like the remake is a solid place to start if you want to get into it. I won’t go into plot details for a story this old, so I’ll just say it’s a top tier shounen fighting series with a unique art style and some very memorable characters. If you like that sort of thing, and missed the original (or you just want a refresher), definitely check it out!

Godzilla Singular Point is a true delight. I’m a huge Godzilla (and kaiju in general) fan. I’ve watched every single Godzilla movie, as well as all the related movies (the Mothra films, Rodan, etc.), but I never watched the previous Godzilla anime that was on Netflix a few years ago. It just didn’t sound like something I’d like. Singular Point, however, is right up my alley. Set mainly in a small seaside town that’s suddenly attacked by bird-like monsters known as Rodans, we have two geeky protagonists using their intelligence to figure out what’s going on while more and more monsters appear. Mei and Yun are excellent heroes. They rely on their wits rather than physical strength, which is a refreshing approach. It’s also interesting that they have little to no face-to-face interaction. Instead, they chat with each other via text as they work separately. They often challenge each other with science questions. It’s adorable. The show’s overall feel is fairly upbeat and energetic. The colorful art and peppy character designs by Kazue Kato (who did Blue Exorcist) help with this feel. It should be noted that Godzilla himself doesn’t fully appear until halfway through the series. It says a lot about the quality of the show that I don’t actually mind that at all. Some of the science stuff does go over my head, but the general plot is easy enough to follow and the action is very well done. It also has fantastic music, with my favorite opening theme of the season. Even if Godzilla isn’t your thing, consider giving this series a shot if you like nerdy science types as heroes.

Burning Kabaddi is a sports anime about an unsual sport. I’d never heard of it before now, and if people in the comments were not talking about the very real sport, I would have assumed it was made up for the anime. The show is aware that the sport is obscure, so it takes great pains to explain the rules and details so that we can all follow the action. The story centers on Yoigoshi, a soccer prodigy who decides to drop all sports once he gets to high school due to all the drama and angst that surrounded him (mostly due to his teammates being jealous of his talent), and pursue a career as a streamer. All the various sports clubs at the school want to recruit him (especially the soccer club, of course) because they’ve heard of his skill and he has an athletic build. He rejects them all, but the Kabaddi club is strangely relentless. He ends up being manipulated into joining (the vice captain of the team straight up blackmails him by threatening to show his online streaming account to the whole school). Despite this rocky beginning, Yoigoshi actually starts to enjoy playing Kabaddi, and more importantly, begins to bond with his new teammates. It’s pretty fun stuff that doesn’t take itself too seriously. The art is serviceable for a sports anime and the music is fine. The series isn’t going to blow your mind, but it’s a fun way to spend twenty minutes every week. Worth a watch if you have a weakness for hot blooded sports anime.

The World Ends With You finally got its anime adaptation and I was so excited. The game is one of my all-time favorites. So far the anime is pretty good. The art is a near perfect replication of the bold, thick-lined art of the game. The battles are exciting and cool. Best of all, the anime often uses music from the game. This is important because the game has one of the best soundtracks, ever. Every time I recognize a song from the game, I almost squeal. If I had a complaint, it’s that the pacing feels a little off at times. It feels like the anime is rushing through the story, but that’s understandable. In the game, it took longer for everything to happen because you were walking from place to place, fighting battles along the way, stopping to scan NPC’s, shopping at stores, spending time in menus, etc. The anime has to cut most of that out, so naturally things are going to move faster. The result is that you don’t get to spend as much time with these characters, and so you feel less attached to them. Anyone watching the anime who didn’t play the game might feel like the emotional beats are lacking. I feel like this anime is definitely meant to be enjoyed by fans of the game, rather than newcomers to the story. But if you are a fan of the game? You should be watching this every week. It’s an excellent refresher on the story, just in time for the second game to come out this summer. Super high on my watch list.

Boku no Hero Academia has a new season. To be honest I don’t remember what number we’re on. This season, so far, focuses on a tournament-style competition between the two main hero classes. I would much prefer the plot to move on to something more exciting involving the villains, but I suppose they have to throw arcs like this in every so often just to remind everyone of which characters have which quirks. The plus point is that instead of being an individual competition, it’s team-based. What this ultimately means is that characters that are viewed as weaker or having more obscure quirks actually get a chance to shine. These are characters who definitely aren’t going to win one-on-one battles. In an individual tournament, it’s pretty much a given that characters like Deku, Bakugou, and Todoroki are going to win most of the matches. But in a team, everyone has to work together. The end result is that the lady characters, all of whom have fairly weak or situational quirks, finally FINALLY get to actually do stuff! Even better, in several of the match-ups, the girls have taken the lead in planning and strategizing. It’s been pretty nice to watch. The girls from the other class have been very proactive as well. I really wish the girls could do more in “real” battles with villains, since it’s clear that they can step up when they need to. Who knows? Maybe this is a sign of good things to come.

86 is a new mecha/sci-fi anime based on a series of light novels. The setup is fairly cool: In a country where everyone has silver hair and eyes, the people live in what looks like a utopia. There is a war going on outside their protected land but all combat is performed by automated robots, so there are no human casualties... or so the government would have the people believe. In reality, there is a district that exists on the outskirts of the country called 86, where people who don’t have silver hair and eyes are sent to pilot the robots and fight to protect the country that shunned them. Most of the pilots are children or teenagers. The mortality rate is high. Only a few people in the government know of their existence, mostly military types that include “handlers”. These handlers each take on an 86 unit and communicate with them through a system called “para-raid”. Using this, they monitor the battlefield from their safe positions and issue commands. Naturally, most handlers view their units as nothing more than tools in the war, and most 86-ers view their handlers as privileged snobs who know nothing of actual battle. The real plot kicks in when Lena, a young Major, becomes the new handler for a particular 86 unit. Lena is sympathetic to the people of 86, but it’s going to be hard getting her notoriously rough unit to accept her. The plot is a bit complicated and the show deals with some weighty themes (racism, privilege, war, child soldiers, death). Lena is a likable enough heroine and the members of 86 are all interesting and fairly well written. The music is fine. The art... well, it’s pretty to look at, but it feels a bit generic to me. A bit too shiny. The mecha designs are great, but I’m not crazy about the character designs, which feel like they could be from any other modern anime. I also find it sad but hilarious at the same time that the women��s military uniforms are clearly designed for fanservice (they include mini skirts, thigh-highs with garters, and a short jacket that opens up just above the chest to show the tight shirt underneath) while the men’s uniforms are just totally normal military wear. To be honest it’s just too stupid to actually be offensive, so it comes across as comical. Thankfully, the interesting setup and plot carry the show, making it good enough to overlook the generic visuals.

Moriarty the Patriot has a new season... maybe? I think it’s technically still season one, but with a split cour. Regardless, it feels like a new season so I’m treating it as such. The series focuses on famous Sherlock antagonist Moriarty, here represented as a trio of handsome brothers (though one of them is clearly the protagonist and the leader of the group) who work as “crime consultants” and basically help the lower classes wage class warfare against the nobility. This season shifts the focus away from the individual crimes Moriarty concocts and instead focuses on larger-scale conflicts that involve government conspiracies, corrupt cops, etc. We’re also treated to a lady James Bond (finally!), fixing one of the very few complaints I had about the first cour (that it lacked strong lady characters). The show remains very compelling, with beautiful art and excellent new opening and ending themes.

Best of Season:

Best New Show: Godzilla Singular Point

Best Opening Theme: Godzilla Singular Point

Best Ending Theme: Mars Red

Best New Male Character: Maeda (Mars Red)

Best New Female Character: Sawa (Joran)

#Anime Reviews #Spring 2021 Anime #Seasonal Anime Reviews #Seasonal Anime #Anime #Text #Godzilla Singular Point #Mars Red #moriarty the patriot #Fumetsu no anata e #Burning Kabaddi #86

39 notes · View notes

lailoken · 4 years

Text

Grimalkin & the Cat Sìth

Grimalkin (also spelled a Greymalkin) is an archaic term that was often used to describe cats; particularly haggard, female cats. The term stems from the color “grey" and the archaic word "malkin", which was a term with various meanings and was derived from a hypocoristic form of the given name Maud. Debate surrounds the etymological evolution of the term from woman to cat, but regardless, Grimalkin eventually came to be referenced in Scottish legend as a Faerie Cat that prowled the highlands. Though mythological sources are scarce, The Grimalkin is consistently identified with the Cat Sìth (or Cat Sidhe) of Celtic folklore, and is generally represented as a demon or shapeshifter. In line with Celtic Faerie-lore, Grimalkin is described as a Spectral Cat the size of a wolf or horse, who stalks the Scottish hills and moors.

According to legend, the Cat Sìth is said to appear as a large black cat with a white spot on its chest. Further cementing the role of Grimalkin as a ferocious Faerie of the Cat Sìth is the fact that virtually all Scottish legends surrounding the beings make reference to their size, ferocity, and propensity for the highlands. Some of the more common folklore suggested that the Cat Sìth was not a faerie at all, but, in fact, a witch who could transform into a feline guise nine times. The tales indicate that, while a witch could transform freely between her humanoid and feline forms, she had only eight opportunities to do so; if she were to transform a ninth time, she would be doomed to spend the rest of her days as a cat. It is believed by some that the idea of a cat having nine lives originated with this folkloric concept.

As with the dangerous reputation of the Grimalkin, the people of the Scottish Highlands were often untrusting of the Cat Sìth. This was largely, in part, because it was believed that a Cat Sìth was able steal a person's soul before it could be claimed by the gods, needing only to pass over a corpse before burial to claim the soul for its own. Therefore, protective watches called the Feill Fadalach (Late Wake) were performed through both night and day, in order to keep at bay any Cat Sìth that might appear to claim a person’s spirit. Methods of "distraction" were frequently employed to keep the Cat Sìth away from the room that housed the body of the deceased, such as games of leaping and wrestling, offerings of catnip, musical performance, and the telling of riddles. Aditionally, no fires were to be lit in the vicinity of the body, as it was widely believed that, much like mundane cats, the Cat Sìth were attracted to the warmth. Even though most folk in the region were distrusting of the Cat Sìth, certain rites were to be performed in their honor. On Samhain, for instance, it was said that a Cat Sìth would bestow blessings upon any house that left out a saucer of milk for it to drink. Those who did not leave offerings of milk, however, were at risk of being cursed by the Sìth with scarcity; particularly in the form of their cows’ milk running dry. Contrasted with their menacing reputation throughout the Scottish highlands, one of the less daunting accounts the Faerie Cat can be found in the British folktale “The King of the Cats.” In it, a man comes home to his wife and housecat, Old Tom, and explains enthusiastically that he had seen nine black cats with white spots on their chests carrying a coffin topped with a crown. The man relays that one of the cats told him to "Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum is dead." The cat then exclaims, "What?! Old Tim dead! Then I'm the King o' the Cats!" before climbing up the chimney to never be seen again. It would seem, then, that the vast majority of the tales regarding the Cat Sìth which might lend themselves to the figure of Grimalkin arose in Scottish folklore.

Another practice related to the Cat Sìth, which illustrates certain connections to the Grimalkin, is the grizzly ceremony that was known as the Taghairm. Sometimes translates as "spirit echo," the Taghairm was an ancient Scottish method of divination reviled throughout much of the Hebrides. The defined requirements of the ceremony varied, but always involved the torture of animals or people, and sometimes included animal sacrifice. One variation of the Taghairm, aiming to raise the Devil for the sake of fulfilling dark wishes, called for the roasting of live cats, one after the other, for several days without eating or sleeping. This was said to summon a horde of shrieking devils who appeared as black cats, with their master at their helm. Another version of the ritual was said to summon a Great Demonic Cat known as “Mòra Cluasan” (Big Ears,) who would answer any question and grant any wish of the summoner. Both these variations on the Hebridean ceremony make reference to a mighty demonic cat, vicious even amongst the Cat Sìth, which ties in clearly to multiple aspects of the figure known as Grimalkin.

While reading a Norse magical text, I once came across multiple references to Grimalkin, or Grimalkyn, in Scandinavian mythology and folklore. However, I have not been able to find any source to corroborate that mythological connection as of yet.

#magic #witchcraft #traditional withcraft #cat sìth #cat sidhe #cat sí #faerie folk #faerie faith #faerie magic #the fae #the sidhe #grimalkin #scottish folklore #scottish magic #tw: animal harm

471 notes · View notes

chezzzie · 3 years

Text

Why Contemporary Women Artists Are Obsessed with the Grotesque

If artists are generally boundary-crossers, a younger generation of (mostly women) artists is going for full penetration—making artworks that speak to something deep in the body, producing responses that range from carnal attraction to disgust.Among the most potently grotesque examples are Tala Madani’s nightmarish babies and dystopian fantasies of voyeurism and violence, and Jala Wahid’s visceral, sculptural allusions to cuts of meat and dismembered organs and body parts. Or take Marianna Simnett’s unsettling, darkly comic videos that bring to life imagined narratives of bodily invasions—including a gruesome nasal operation and a fable about varicose veins and cockroaches-cum-cyborgs. Then there’s Maisie Cousins’s glossy, close-up images of a wet soup of food, decaying plants, and bodies, which recall the more appalling corners of Cindy Sherman’s imagination. In painting and drawing, too, the grotesque is rampant, with elastic, deformed, or monstrous bodies populating works by Christina Quarles, Ebecho Muslimova, Jana Euler, and Dana Schutz.

In recent exhibitions of work by older and historical artists, as well, we’ve seen the walls erupt in freakish, fleshy forms that have threatened the contained space of a room, as in Dorothea Tanning’s Chambre 202, Hôtel du Pavot, on view in her retrospective at the Museo Reina Sofia and traveling to the Tate Modern early this year. The ceilings of art spaces have dangled with multi-limbed, Medusa-like monsters and cyborgs (like the sci-fi-inflected psychic landscape of Lee Bul, who had a retrospective at London’s Hayward Gallery in 2018).

With much of these artists’ works, the feeling of deep dread is often a blade’s edge away from erotic desire. As the narrator of Simnett’s film The Needle and the Larynx (2016) says, as she fantasizes about having her vocal chords surgically altered: “So sharp were his knives, so appealing…this was an irrevocable invitation.” This expression of temptation suggests a calling to make art—to create—as much as it does an inclination toward self-regeneration and other forms of transgression. The possibility of metamorphosing one’s flesh and image—of permeating thresholds—is both intoxicating and anxiety-inducing.

The grotesque is inherently associated with the feminine, long having shaped depictions of the female body—prostitutes, femmes fatales, and sorceresses.

The grotesque, as art historian Frances S. Connelly writes in her book The Grotesque in Western Art and Culture (2012), is “a boundary creature” that “roams the borderland of all that is familiar and conventional.” It is desirous of transformation—an “open mouth that invites our descent into other worlds,” like the underground rooms of Nero’s Golden Palace, excavated in the 15th century, which turned up walls decorated with hybrid figures sprouting bits of plants and architecture, and birthed the term “grottoesche.” (Today, our general understanding of the “grotesque” has been boiled down to mean simply “comically or repulsively ugly or distorted,” but art historians and theorists read more complexity into the term.) It is, in many ways, inseparable from the body, which is the most fundamental of boundaries. “What is most regulated in any culture is the body, particularly women’s bodies,” Connelly said during a recent conversation.

The grotesque, she writes, is inherently associated with the feminine—bodied, earthy, changeful. That thinking has long shaped depictions of the female body, including archetypes of sexual or environmental threat, like prostitutes, femmes fatales, and sorceresses. Even centuries before the term emerged, the ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle “advanced the influential argument that a woman’s body is monstrous by nature, a deviation from that of the normative male,” she writes.The term is fertile, opening up a womb-like space for new ideas and ethical conundrums to accumulate—a conduit through which cultures can play with taboos and shift the parameters of mores and conventions. It is perhaps no wonder, then, that some of the artists touching the grotesque assume a childlike, fairytale language. A fable tells us what is right and wrong, Simnett pointed out when we met. It is also “a game that you can write the rules for,” she said, one through which you can distort or expand reality. The landscape of morality tales and childhood lessons is ripe territory for boundary-pushing perversions to take root.

Very dark fairytales

Children play a central role in several of Simnett’s films, whose absurdist, grotesque narratives are preoccupied with infection, augmentation, and altered states. In her opus Blood In My Milk (2018), the girl protagonist flirts with the outside world, even as adults warn of the risks that this external environment poses.In scenes that take place within an echoey pink space suggesting the inside of an organ, children receive a lesson about the prognosis and treatment of mastitis in cow udders, interspersed with shots of oozing teats being squeezed and dissected. While an officious farm hand dispenses information about how to keep one’s milk clean and pathogen-free, the children engage in playground dares and brinkmanship that include fantasizing about dismantling a girl “into a million bits so she can never be rebuilt.” The children lust after blood in their milk.

Tala Madani is another artist who, in a different way, explodes any veneer of female containment or childhood innocence, making infants and girls agents of the grotesque. In her painting Sunrise (2018), a baby wields a sharp knife at a naked woman’s groin. An infant’s first act, the painting reminded me, is one of violence.In other compositions populated by menacing babies on all fours, withering adults are left in the dust. Shafts (2017) depicts a group of monstrously overgrown tots crawling off into a void-like cyberspace, with beams of light projecting out of their assholes. An aged man in the foreground holds up a flaccid string of feces like a banner of mortality—the next generation might have evolved into light-shitting cyborgs, but we are still blood, matter, and excrement.

The children in Madani’s works also exercise sexual agency. In her animation Sex Ed by God (2017), a young girl with legs splayed is being studied by an older man, a boy, and God (the narrator of this lesson). She reaches out of the frame and grabs her male onlookers, shrinking them down to size and squeezing them into her vagina, along with the rest of the scene. The adolescent counterpart to a baby who explores the world with its mouth, this teenager-protagonist processes the world and corrects its distorted power balances through her sex. (Madani has a corollary of a kind in the work of Ebecho Muslimova, whose ink drawings feature a female alter-ego who fills and consumes the world with her vast and doughy naked body, luxuriantly covering and penetrating objects—a piano, patio furniture—with uncontrollable flesh and organ.)Madani’s universe is one whose grotesqueries seem shaped, at least to some degree, by the thrills and anxieties of sexuality, motherhood, mortality, and technological change. But it is also one in which children subvert the hierarchy between parent and progeny. The grotesque becomes a means to dissolve power structures.

Both familiar and alien

The contemporary grotesque is interested in underlining the way that bodies that are different from the (white, male) norm, or that, in deviating from impossible standards, are treated as aberrant or monstrous. Artists who touch the grotesque subvert and claim power in part by owning flesh and blood.When I visited Jala Wahid’s studio recently, one sculpture she showed me comprised a cast of the artist’s buttocks resting on a smooth liquid-like surface that is based on the shape of a natural oil well. The exposed position of Wahid’s dismembered rear is both “a provocation and a vulnerability at the same time,” she told me, its position on an oil slick alluding to the politics of Kurdistan, where her parents are from. In her work, she is often thinking about the contested Kurdish body, which is continually “under threat” but also resilient—a body that is both powerful and yet subject to power and control. Another in-progress sculpture in the studio, a thick wedge of slick red jesmonite, will eventually approximate the form of a bloody ox liver that Wahid encountered in a meat market in Kurdistan. (It brings to mind the work of Paul Thek, whom she cites as an influence.)

The contemporary grotesque is interested in how bodies that are different from the white, male norm are treated as aberrant or monstrous.

Wahid is drawn to the great diversity of textures and colors that exist in bodies (in flesh, organs, offal), as well as the relationship between butcher and animal. She wants, in some way, to approach her role as a sculptor like a meat handler—with both violence and reverence—and to create forms that are live and confrontational. To frame her work solely in terms of power dynamics is to simplify it, however. She is interested in bodies in states of transformation, in their formal nuances and their vast capacity for expression. (She showed me a picture of an Assyrian frieze at the British Museum, which features the form of a hunted lion, its upper body upright and fierce, its hind legs shot through and flaccid—a single body in which “you have something really strong but at the same time dead and limp,” she explained.) But she does want her sculptures to have autonomy and wield a certain affective power in the room.

When bodies spill out of their boundaries, or when parts are severed from the whole, they become something unsettlingly other. That forces viewers to renegotiate the borderlands between inside and outside, between themselves and the source of their disquiet. In Wahid’s work, body parts and unidentifiable cuts of meat force viewers into a visceral encounter with objects that are familiar, but also alien. “A human corpse is not in itself abject, but one’s encounter with it certainly is,” Connelly writes, describing an idea within the philosopher Julia Kristeva’s seminal 1982 essay on the abject in art. This recalibration of one’s relationship to the object engages the body as it tries to gauge whether the foreign article is a source of threat or attraction—perhaps both.In the work of sculptor Doreen Garner, we see this at play to profoundly disturbing effect. In some cases hung from meat hooks, her hulks of fleshy silicone are neither human nor meat—too dismembered and deformed to be human, too suggestive of the whole to be flesh alone. Upon inspection, the horrifying human steaks, pierced with pins, reveal the fingers of a hand, or a stray breast. Garner’s objects are intended to touch a nerve deep in the viewer’s own body—specifically, to register the trauma visited on the bodies of enslaved black women by members of the American medical industry. This is the grotesque as a means to produce shock and empathy—to expose the transformation of the body into something monstrous as a consequence of the abuse of power.

Garner’s work occasionally recalls the work of a historical pioneer of the grotesque in art—Robert Gober—in particular, works like the artist’s Untitled (1990), a slumped chest cast in wax that sprouts a female breast on one side, a hairy male pectoral on the other. This crumpled human fragment expresses the vulnerability of the human body, and insists on its gender hybridity, while also speaking to another abuse of power that simmers beneath his work—that of the U.S. government’s failure to respond to the AIDS crisis.

A fascination with monstrous bodies

The grotesque, of course, is not owned by women artists. It’s interesting, as well, to note how queer artists, in addition to Gober, have played in this terrain. In his latest show, at Ashes/Ashes, Ryan McNamara presented a sculptural showcase that included I Can’t Even Think Straight (2018), a sad, cartoonish figure practically melting off the wall. Faces dissolve into pools of liquid fish scales (Whispers, 2018); a series of gungey monsters with skin dripping from their brains joyfully snap selfies. The ghoulish group was in part conceived as a celebration of the queer nightclub in Phoenix, Arizona, where McNamara danced with other outcasts and misfits in his youth.But women, too, are deploying monstrous bodies in the world to empower the marginalized, or to satirize cultural norms and behaviors around age and gender. In two of artist Jana Euler’s latest paintings, she seems to offer biting commentary on our culture’s existential angst and exaltation of youth. Global warnings (people who are over 100 years old) (2018) is a mosaic of portraits of the elderly, each with a fantastically warped face. They are melted, pinched, and sunken, with cyclops eyes glaring from foreheads, and mouths swiveled 180 degrees.

In race against yourself (2018), a naked man rides an equine incarnation of himself, hands and feet turned into muscular hooves. This ghastly centaur and its rider are set against a fleshy backdrop composed of a snaking, human-faced colon, squeezed into the painting’s borders. The work speaks to something deeply perverse in human psychology—a propensity to hurtle through our lives at break-neck speed until our bodies crumple and we hit the grave. We can’t escape our own proclivities, much less our flesh and blood.Indeed, a profound awareness of human mortality is rarely far from the surface when it comes to the grotesque. When I asked Connelly about the common preoccupation with degrading flesh and food, she had this to say: “Life is constant change; we’re eating the world, the world eats us. We’re all mortal. We’re all human. We’re all meat. That’s seen as really traumatic.”

Other artists have created distorted, dismembered, and multi-limbed bodies to more optimistic effect. Christina Quarles paints bending tangles of limbs, bodies that insist on setting their own parameters and determining their own identities. Cindy Sherman continues to irreverently expand the possibilities of the grotesque, harnessing digital technologies to create fabulously idiosyncratic faces via her Instagram feed—ones that contort her visage in every direction except towards any convention of beauty; her fictional selfies are gloriously aging, sun-damaged, plastered in makeup, with features too big, too small, too gender-ambiguous.

Sherman expands the aesthetics of the (female, queer) body. In Maisie Cousins’s saturated close-ups of decaying messes of flesh, entrails, petals, prawns, and flies, too, something generative emerges. Cousins’s celebratory collisions of wet body parts, food remnants, and plants give the abject a facelift. Images of mild disgust find a place within the aesthetic of slick fashion magazine advertising. As such, they variously recall Sherman’s glossy, stomach-turning mixtures of waste, Marilyn Minter’s photorealistic renderings of gaudily made-up bodies and imperfections, and Gina Beaver’s paintings of bodies and fast food. (The latter artist will open an exhibition at MoMA PS1 in March.) Cousins’s photographs are full of innuendo, ripe, inviting us to find beauty in things spilling outside of their borders—to see our own bodies in the bounty of organic matter that the world has to offer.

It makes sense that among a generation increasingly comfortable with open, fluid approaches to identity—and fluent in the great toxic and transformational soup of the internet—artists value aesthetics rooted in states of change and hybridity. “I feel that is a constant, to be in a permanent state of transition,” Simnett told me. “In a sense, everyone is undergoing a mutation. It’s where I feel most natural. You get to meet a million more people, species, ideas. It’s like tendrils constantly reaching out, rather than staying put.” This hunger to explore and break down the boundaries of human experience, however anxious or unsettling—to deconstruct and reinvent the body—is generating some of the most vital and complex art being made today.

Tess Thackara

source

22 notes · View notes

nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 4 years

Text

Vampr Erik Origin

Okay so let me make a disclaimer:

I had to do a lot of research to try and create his back story in summary form. I basically learned a lot of shit that I didn’t know so with that being said, you guys can feel free to fact check me because I feel like this needs to be factual as far as the history of it goes. Also, Erik was born/reborn in an era that is very touchy. I mean, we go through crap as black people everyday but I used some very degrading words to represent how it was back in this time. If this is offensive, please feel free to let me know I will change it. I don’t want to offend or make anyone feel bad. So, here it is! This is the origin I came up with.

Erik Stevens is his alias but he was born Ricardo Dupoux. Erik was born in 1856 in New Orleans, Louisiana. Just 29 years before he became a vampire.

Erik’s mother was born in 1836. Her name was Fabiola Adonis and she is from Louisiana but her parents and family (Erik’s grandparents) are from Sainte-Dominigue which is now known as Haiti.

Erik’s father was named Jacques Dupoux. He was born in 1827 in Cuba and he migrated to Louisiana with his family when he was just four years old.

Both sides of Erik’s family originated in Sainte-Dominigue and began to migrate out during the black Haitian Revolution as free people of color. The Haitian Revolution was a successful insurrection by self-liberated slaves against French colonial rule in Saint-Domingue, now the sovereign state of Haiti. The revolt began on 22 August 1791, and ended in 1804 with the former colony's independence. It involved blacks, mulattoes, French, Spanish, and British participants—with the ex-slave Toussaint Louverture emerging as Haiti's most charismatic hero. The revolution was the only slave uprising that led to the founding of a state which was both free from slavery, and ruled by non-whites and former captives. It is now widely seen as a defining moment in the history of the Atlantic World.

Haitian Vodou, is an Afro-American religion that developed in Afro-Haitian communities amid the Atlantic slave trade between the 16th and 19th centuries. It arose through a process of syncretism between the traditional religions of West Africa and the Roman Catholic form of Christianity. Vodou is an oral tradition practiced by extended families that inherit familial spirits, along with the necessary devotional practices, from their elders. In the cities, local hierarchies of priestesses or priests (manbo and oungan), “children of the spirits” (ounsi), and ritual drummers (ountògi) comprise more formal “societies” or “congregations” (sosyete). In these congregations, knowledge is passed on through a ritual of initiation (kanzo) in which the body becomes the site of spiritual transformation. Many Vodou practitioners were involved in the Haitian Revolution which overthrew the French colonial government, abolished slavery, and formed modern Haiti. The Roman Catholic Church left for several decades following the Revolution, allowing Vodou to become Haiti's dominant religion. They referred to themselves as “serving the spirits” more so than using Voudou to refer to Haitian religion.

Jacques Doupoux and Fabiola Adonis were well respected within the Vodou community. Erik’s father was a hounsi bosale and Artisan. Hounsi is essentially a dedicated member of Vodou, an apprentice of priests. His mother, Fabiola, an Ounsi, oversaw the liturgical singing and shaking the chacha rattle which is used to control the rhythm during ceremonies. She had a voice that used to lull Erik to sleep. Jacques wanted Erik to follow in his footsteps and later become an oungan; a Vodou priest. He was born as a “child of the house” or a pititt-caye. Being an oungan provides an individual with both social status and material profit. Erik was present for his father's initiation when he was just a baby with his mother in a shared Ounfò; Vodou temple. There were four levels of initiation that Jacques Doupoux went through. That sealed Erik’s future.

The Ounfò was a basic shack in Bayou St. John. The main ceremonial space within the Ounfò is known as the peristil. brightly painted posts hold up the roof, which is often made of corrugated iron but sometimes thatched. The central one of these posts is the poto mitan or poteau mitan, which is used as a pivot during ritual dances and serves as the "passage of the spirits" by which the Loa; the spirits, enter the room during ceremonies. It is around this central post that offerings, including both vèvè and animal sacrifices, are made.

Free people of color owned the most property in Louisiana but of course, that didn’t go down in history because the whites didn’t like it. As for Erik’s family, his mother and father were free people of color that became sugar planters, for slave owners, and they also shared Haitian refining techniques to successfully granulate sugar. Erik favors his father more so than his mother, sometimes confused as his father’s younger brother.

The Colfax massacre and the Coushatta massacre happened in 1873. This sparked fear for Erik’s family and they held a certain Fete for Lwa which is a public ceremony. The drums beat, the congregation started to sing and dance for the Lwa. The Lwa came to the ceremony via possession. The Lwa prophesied, healed people, cleansed people, and blessed them and assisted them in resolving issues. Erik was 17 years old and he didn’t share this with his parents but he was running for his life from a group of white Southerners one day when he was walking the bayou of New Orleans. Erik ended up sleeping in Baton Rouge until the morning.

Erik often stays within the Ounfò, well into adult age. He became a hounsi bosale like his father, often participating as a ritual drummer or an ountògi. He would sing specific songs in Haitian Creole with some words of African languages incorporated in it. He was a Food Artisan like his mother. He admired her craftsmanship in the kitchen. Cheeses, breads, fruit preserves, cured meats, beverages, oils, and vinegars were some of her handmade specialties. This is one thing that attracted women to Erik besides his handsome features. He was Strong, tall, studly, rough around the edges and not afraid to challenge someone to a fight or a gun battle. Erik was charming, protective, heroic, funny, cocky which earned him the nickname “Big Ego Ricardo”. Erik was hard-working, religious, smart, sculpted, dependable, and an amazing lover in bed.

Long dreadlocks, whiskey-colored eyes, full, soft lips, and a smile with dimples so deep it charmed anyone. He wore fundamental ivory cotton band collar work shirts unbuttoned to show off his defined pectorals because he was proud of his body, sometimes paired the shirts with a vest, cotton brown or black knickers, riding boots, and a series of Vodou jewelry around his neck and on his fingers, some with symbols representing Papa Legba, La Sirene, Ogoun King, and Baron Samedi. During Vodou rituals, Erik would wear a cotton cloth around his head like a bandana, bare torso because of the amount of sweating he does during drumming to keep up with the dancers, Vodou symbols painted on his face to represent whichever Loa they were serving, white linen pants and bare feet.

He was obsessed with guns. He would often go down to the bayou to practice with stolen pocket pistols, shooting empty glass bottles and bean cans. He’s a protector, he did this just in case his family were in danger. The symbol of Vodou love on one of his ring fingers is what attracted his late wife, Justine LeBlanc to him when he was 27 years old. He was selling artisan bread one afternoon from an open shop window on Bourbon Street. Justine was six years younger than Erik. She was a Creole of color from Louisiana, like Erik, except her family were sent to Louisiana on slave ships from sub-Saharan Africa instead of Haiti like Erik’s family. She spoke a bit of English, and French with words from African languages. Erik spoke English and Haitian Creole with a little bit of Portuguese and Spanish.

Justine LeBlanc worked closely with Marie Laveau, who was rumored to be the granddaughter of a powerful priestess in Sainte-Dominigue, who began to dominate New Orleans Vodou that later became Louisiana Voodoo. These spiritual leaders served a racially diverse, mostly female, congregation. Weekly worship services took place in the homes of Voodoo leaders. Their sanctuaries were characterized by spectacular altars, laden with statues and pictures of the saints, candles, flowers, fruit, and other offerings. Voodoo ceremonies consisted of Roman Catholic prayers, chanting, drumming, and dancing. Vodou was brought of Haitian origin, however, the type practiced in Louisiana later in years is almost always known as Voodoo.

Erik was known to be a ladies man. He spent time flirting and fucking woman within his community. Pussy was practically thrown at him. Justine, however, changed all of that. They spent so much time together within one summer that Erik decided that he wanted to jump the broom with her which was symbolic of sweeping out of the old and sweeping in to the new to welcome a new household to the community. Justine lost her virginity to him the evening after their marriage and that’s when they started having children. Erik has two young twin girls; Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux. After that, Justine couldn’t conceive anymore which she was often depressed about. Erik wanted to be fruitful because his mother came down very ill when he was five and she couldn’t conceive either. It was either her life or her ovaries so she had them removed.

Despite everything going on in America with slavery and racism, Erik; Ricardo, lived a happy life. He was feared and respected, a following of close male friends were like his comrades. They had his back, Erik had theirs. That all didn’t last very long. In June of 1884, when Erik was just 28 years old, things began to make a turn for the worst. Erik’s father, Jacques Dupoux, was lynched. With the 1880s dawning, a new era of violence ensued. White supremacy represented a central tenant of their platform and led to even greater levels of violence as they tried to reverse the advances made for African Americans during Reconstruction. They capitalized on rumors that black crime had expanded after the abolition of slavery. As a result, the number of lynchings soared across the South and hundreds of lives were being taken. Lynch mobs often justified their actions as attempts to defend white Southern womanhood from “libidinous” black males.

This angered Erik, causing him to gather a following of men who also lost family. Erik led the revolt to fight back white supremacy. They attached about 15 homes and killed between 55 to 60 whites throughout Louisiana. They also arrived on a local sugar and cotton plantation that often sought help from Erik’s own family for harvesting sugar cane. The revolt and about 20 slaves burned the plantation to the ground but that wasn’t before they hacked the entire family to death. Erik was made public enemy number one. His face was on wanted posters throughout the South but he was depicted wearing a scarf around his mouth and nose. Of course with Erik’s actions, some of his family and friends suffered. Vodou rituals were invaded and the members slaughtered. Marie Leveau and her following were protected but not Erik’s lineage.

Ricardo Dupoux AKA Erik Stevens returned home after successfully burning down another plantation and killing the entire family, including the children, execution style in 1886. Marie Laveau warned Justine that Erik was dangerous and he would endanger her and the children if she stayed with them. Marie instructed Justine to bring her something that belonged to Erik, something sentimental. Justine brought her Erik’s father’s ring that he wore around his neck. Marie performed a ritual that later informed Justine that Erik was in grave danger and this life as Ricardo Dupoux would soon come to a bloody, gory, gruesome ending. Marie told Justine that she couldn’t interfere because that could possibly go badly. Justine had to keep that big secret to herself to protect her children no matter how much she loved and adored Erik.

Erik wasn’t himself anymore. He became this angry, rude, vengeful man that killed without a backwards glance. He also turned to what is said to be evil magic in Vodou. Instead of becoming an Oungan, Erik became a Bokor and an occultist. A Bokor is a Vodou witch for hire who is said to serve the loa “with both hands”, practicing for both good and evil. Their black magic includes the creation of zombies and the creation of ‘ouangas’ talismans that house spirits. Bloods are usually chosen from birth but Erik was instead initiated in. He found the spirits, the orisha’s the Eruziles, not a priest in the flesh. The whites kept crossing the line in a spiritual and physical sense, it became Erik’s right to protect himself and his family with curses and hexes.

Erik caused moderate to severe suffering to those he seeked revenge on by hexing them and also using dark charms such as curses, the most heinous act on an individual; the worst kind of dark magic. He performed blood maledictions, a specific type of curse that may not kill the target but can remain within the victim's body, and be passed down as a genetic defect that can resurface generations later. Erik would inflict intense, excruciating pain on his victims, poison them, and cause flames called Move Dife which means “bad fire”, an enormous flame infused with dark magic to seek out living targets. Fabiola and Justine were afraid and they didn’t support Erik’s new choices. The light she saw in her son was indeed gone. He was of greatest fear within his community and within the Southern white community.

How did Erik meet his demise?

It happened in June of 1888, five months before Erik’s 33rd birthday. The White league and the Ku Klux Klan had been deactivated since the 1870s but some members worked closely together to hunt down and kill Ricardo Dupoux, soon to be known as Erik Stevens. He decided to use Erik Stevens as an alias since his name was so well known in Louisiana where he lived. No one besides the people close to him knew how his face looked since he wore it covered but his name however was remembered. If things didn’t go as planned for him and he needed to flee with his Mother, Wife, and children, he could have his name changed to Erik Stevens. A trusted friend named Augusto Richard’s wife named Beatrice Richard and her five children were held at gunpoint in their home. They found out where Augusto lives and used that as they way of finding Ricardo.

From what they tell him, Augusto’s family will be freed if he agrees to help the Southern white men capture and kill Ricardo Dupoux. At first, Augusto declined and said that Ricardo is a trusted friend of his. They punished him by beating his wife and threatened to hang her from a structure similar to a gallow. Augusto finally gives in, joining forces with the evil white men in exchange for his family's protection. Ricardo and Augusto have been friends since they were children. Augusto was sort of a co-planner with Ricardo to attack white supremacy and racists homes along with plantations. Augusto fabricated a new place to attack, suggesting that him and Ricardo go alone this time. Ricardo agreed without hesitation because he trusted Augusto. They arrived by horse outside of New Orleans near Maurepas Swamp……..

_______________

“Augusto...poukisa nou is it la?” Ricardo asked Augusto in Haitian Creole why they were there. He didn’t like speaking English just in case he was overheard. Ricardo’s eyes squinted suspiciously around him before he cut his eyes that looked black in the dark at Augusto.

“Mwen regrèt, frè,” Augusto spoke with a shaky voice, tears flooding his eyes. He told Ricardo that he was sorry.

Ricardo pulls out his pistol, aiming it at the shadows of the trees. He couldn’t believe he was being set up by someone that is supposed to be his friend. Ricardo told his wife and mother that he would be home safely and for them not to worry. He couldn’t trust anyone now. If he got out of this alive, he was going to cut ties with his followers.

“Well, well, well...look what we got here, a nigger with a gun!!”

Ricardo follows the source of that thick southern accent echoing in the night and finds a white man standing behind him with a gun pointed at his temple.

“Drop it, boy, or I will splatter this here swamp with ya monkey brains,” He threatened while making his gun click. Ricardo could see out of his peripheral more white men stepping out of the shadows. The moon light made the weapons in their hands shine.

“Listen to him nigger!!!” One yelled.

“AIN'T SO TOUGH NOW!!!” Another yelled while a series of laughter came soon after.

“Listen, I know ya can speak English, boy. Ya friend here told us everything. How ya niggers get a hold of books I wouldn’t understand,” He laughs before spitting in his face, “I’m gonna enjoy killing ya, just like ya enjoyed killing my friends ya fucking animal. This is how we’re gonna celebrate the ending of slavery...we’re gonna gut ya, and then we’re gonna throw ya filthy dead fucking body in the swamp so the gators can finish ya.”

The foul breath of this white man would have made Ricardo puke if it wasn’t for the gun pointed at him.

“Hey, Jenson, pass me my knife!” He yells, “I wanna Kill this one slowly.”

Like a swarm of stinky flies, the white men crowded Ricardo, some kicking him in his ribs, others in his face, bloodying him up. Ricardo didn’t drop to his knees willingly, he took each and every blow like a champion, even when his vision blurred from the blood trickling from a gash in his head from being pistol whipped. Augusto stood watching the entire thing. He was Disgusted with himself for allowing it to happen.

“Should we kill his wife? His mama? His little girls?!!!!” One of them punched him in the face while two men on each side kept him still since he’s so damn strong. It was almost inhumanly strong.

“AUGUSTO OU FUKIN TRÈT!!!” Ricardo yelled, before spitting out blood on the dirt covered ground. He called Augusto a fucking traitor, “Mwen gen yon fanmi! ti bebe mwen yo! ti bebe mwen yo! ou trèt!” Ricardo growled angrily with his deep fearful voice. He could only think about his family right now. What if some of these men were watching his house right now? They definitely were plotting something besides beating the living shit out of him in the swap.

“Kick this nigger down!!! It’s six of you and one of him!!!!”

A blow struck Ricardo’s spine so hard he felt it snap. He was on his stomach, his cheek hitting the dirt painfully. One foot was placed to the back of his head while angry tears fell from his eyes.

“Any last words? And say it in English before I slice your goddamn tongue off,” The man with the boot to his head spoke harshly.

Ricardo clenched his jaw while breathing in the dirt. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, however, the asshole in him wanted to toy with them.

“...Which one of ya is da father of Helen Landry?” He asks.

It was silent for a second until the boot on the back of his head was gone, being replaced with a hand yanking him by his dreads, lifting his head from the ground. Ricardo smiles smugly, his bloody smile almost as sinister as the blood from the gash in his head flooding his eyes.

“Let me ax ya something...are ya the reason my little Helen is dying? Doctor says she only has three days left...ya poison my little girl with ya voodoo magic?”

“I CURSED ya little girl with my Vodou magic…” Ricardo spits his blood in his face, “And if I were ya, I would go check on her, Doctors don’t always tell da truth.”

Augusto flinched when he witnessed Ricardo being kicked in the face. His jaw had to be broken now. He was being lifted off of the ground again, a sharp whimper of pain escaping his mouth. His feet gave out beneath him and now he was being dragged. His chest and abs were covered in dirt just like his handsome, swollen, and bloody face. His busted lip drooped and leaked blood while his groggy voice tried to form sentences. The men laughed at him but all Ricardo did was look at Augusto with unblinking eyes, one of which displayed broken vessels.

“Anything else ya got to say, nigger?”

The source of the voice didn’t matter to Ricardo. All he kept thinking about was his family and how he failed them. His father was probably ashamed. Ricardo looked towards the sky. If only he could call on Baron Samedi or Maman Brigette. He wasn’t in the safety of his Ounfò either. He could only hope that at this moment his mother, Fabiola, was summoning the spirits.

“Guess not, hold him down.”

With a dull, jagged knife, Ricardo was stabbed in his stomach. He felt like he was punched. The impact pushed him back a little and he wheezed. A tearing sensation and a noise followed. The pain took a while to kick but he could feel the blood trickling. When it was finally withdrawn, he felt something hot and cold at the same time, pulling the skin with it as it's removed. Ricardo’s cry was a brilliant sound to them, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized roar. His fists clenched and shook each time his skin was being torn to shreds. The knife rotated and the sound of his muscles and nerves being gouged growing louder. Then, without warning, the white man jerked it all the way into his stomach, until the shiny metal had disappeared inside him and the black handle was pushing against his broken skin.

“Die Coon!!!” They yelled in unison before celebrating with loud hoots.

“Look at him choking! This ugly motherfucker is bleeding out! Let’s take him to the water!”

Ricardo could feel his body falling to the ground. His hand clutched his wound but blood seeped between his fingers. He felt weak, his eyes opening and closing. Augusto stood there spewing apology after apology while crying hysterically.

“As for ya,” the white man that stabbed Ricardo multiple times drops his knife in the dirt, reaches in his back pocket with his bloody, cut up hand and pulled out a gun, “what? Did ya really think we were gonna let ya go free? Ya just another disgusting nigger too, and ya nigger bitch, ya nigger kids? Dem dead too.”

Ricardo watched with low eyes while Augusto took his last breath before being shot in the head, point blank range.

“Wastin’ all dese good bullets,” the white man pocketed his gun again, “Hall em’ up! Let’s take em’ swimming!”

_____________

Crowded tabletops with tiny flickering lamps; stones sitting in oil baths; a crucifix; murky bottles of roots and herbs steeped in alcohol; shiny new bottles of rum, scotch, gin, perfume, and almond-sugar syrup. On one side was an altar arranged in three steps and covered in gold and black contact paper. On the top step an open pack of filterless Pall Malls lay next to a cracked and dusty candle in the shape of a skull. A walking stick with its head carved to depict a huge erect penis leaned against the wall beside it. On the opposite side of the room was a small cabinet, its top littered with vials of powders and herbs. On the ceiling and walls of the room were baskets, bunches of leaves hung to dry, and smoke-darkened lithographs.

This is where Ricardo Dupoux rested upon a makeshift bed surrounded by oil burning candles. A sulfurous rotten-egg smell that is often associated with marshes and mudflats occupies the room. His entire body ached and the sharp pain prickled his scalp. Licking his dry lips with his equally dry tongue, Ricardo tried looking around with his sore eyes but the discomfort caused him to close them. It felt damp and gloomy around him, clearly nothing is quite what it seems to be. Ricardo could feel a powerful energy surrounding him, if only he could move his body. A few rickety floorboards creaked like someone was sneaking up on him and it made Ricardo jumpy. He wasn’t physically able to help himself.

“Ricardo Dupoux, ki sa yon sipriz bèl eh?”

A seductive voice of a woman spoke to him in Haitian Creole. This wasn’t a pleasant surprise exactly.

“Kiyes ou ye?” His voice was so hoarse and his throat felt raw.

“Who muh? Well...I’m yuh rescuer of course, handsome.”

“Kisa...ki kote sa a?” Ricardo coughs painfully. He could taste blood in the back of his throat.

“Well, don’t Yuh sound sexy speaking deh Creole to Mama Dalma. Yuh in muh shack, Ricardo.”

“Mama Dalma? Prètès Vodou a?” He spoke with astonishment.

“So, muh assumin’ yuh heard stories about muh from way back when...what else do yuh know bout’ me?”

“...Nothing.” He finally speaks English.

“Yuh know so much about muh voodoo mystic powers in the Caribbean 175 years ago…I’m honored.”

Finally, standing above his shell of a body was Tia Dalma herself. Tia Dalma was a practitioner of voodoo, a hoodoo priestess with fathomless powers that was perceived as a legend. Supposedly, she has uncanny powers to foretell the future, to summon up demons, and to look deep into men’s souls. She’s mysterious and beautiful with delicate patterns accentuating her hypnotic eyes, long but slender dreadlocks like him, deep melanin skin so smooth and unblemished, and lips painted black. She wore a sheer black dress that showed off her nudity beneath it, so many curves that looked delicious, and a mystical necklace dangling between her small breasts. Ricardo could feel her seductive energy enticing him into a tangled net. She playfully giggles while stroking Ricardo’s bare, sweaty chest with her long black nail flirtatiously.

“Poor baby, him carve yuh up?” She spoke with her Jamaican Patois. Mama Dalma looks Ricardo up and down like she wanted to mount him. She was so happy she couldn’t hide her beautiful smile.

“Did ya heal me, Mama Dalma? I thought I was gon’ die by a white man’s hand.”

“I’ve seen yuh fight big brawla, I’ve seen yuh cap a shot, I’m impressed wit’ yuh...haven’t seen a man deh brave in a while...queng dem white boys.”

“...ya been watching me?” He squints his whiskey colored eyes,“who ya for ya to be watching me?”

“Mhm, I been watching yuh, handsome...It’s because I want to save yuh...give yuh a better life than this.”

Ricardo was shivering, his skin pale and cool, difficulty breathing, mentally confused, and his blood pressure kept dropping. His chest was rapidly moving from breathing too fast, heart rate beating so fast it was almost painful, and he felt like he was running a fever.

“Easy nuh, yuh going into septic shock.” She takes her hand to pet his dreaded hair like a baby with the back of her hand.

“W-what?” His lips trembled. He was numb.

“Awoah. Muh herbes are keeping yuh stable but if I take deh herbes away...yuh die.”

Ricardo closes his eyes.

“Unless...yuh have two options, handsome.”

“One’s that I should trust? How do I know ya not poisoning me? Hm?”

“I’m gonna ignore deh...here are yuh options. Yuh can stay here on muh table and die slowly...or I can give yuh immortality.”

“Imòtalite? Baron Samedi?” He almost choked on his own spit from trying to speak.

“Better than the power of a Loa...yuh be immortal until meeting deh true death. Yuh have superhuman physical abilities, senses, flight, and healing.”

“What power is dat?” Ricardo’s eyes are glossy. He didn’t have much time. Mama Dalma was cunning, she could have healed him with her voodoo but what’s better? Healing him with the possibility of him dying again or turning him into what she became 175 years ago back in her little shack in a tree in Cuba, hanging onto her last breath. Ricardo was perfect in every way and she wanted to walk the earth with someone close to her...someone attractive and strong.

“Yuh ain’t got much time...make a decision, Ricardo Dupoux,” Tia strokes his face, “It could all be yours…”

Ricardo’s eyelids fluttered before he nodded his head. Anything to stay alive. Anything to get revenge. If he was going to come back stronger and immortal, he could wipe out every single one of them. He needed to get off of that table. Mama Dalma was convincing. Maybe it was her magic that persuaded him but none of that mattered.

“I’m glad Yuh agreed.”

Sharp, fangs extended from her teeth while she looked at him excitedly with hungry eyes. She came down on Ricardo with superhuman speed like a blur, causing his eyes to grow wide with surprise. It was almost painless, more like a pinprick considering how his body felt at the moment. The sharp points sank into his flesh like a knife to soft butter. His body twitched as his blood pooled around the back of his head, dripping to the floor of the shack and seeping between the wood. He started feeling even more woozy and lightheaded. She was really applying pressure with her fangs. He could feel his body going cold and then it felt as if his soul had left his body. Ricardo didn’t know how long this went on but it felt like forever.

Mama Dalma retracts her fangs, lifting her face from the crook of his neck slowly before staring down at Ricardo with her enchanting eyes. Her fangs pop out again and now she bites her own wrist before placing it over Ricardo’s mouth. He hesitated at first but Mama Dalma opened his mouth for him. Ricardo tasted his own blood before from his busted lip or if his gums were bleeding. He even tasted blood during a sacrifice at a Vodou ritual. It was vile with a salty metallic taste. However, Mama Dalma’s blood was surprisingly sweet, and scrumptious. Just that small amount dripping on his tongue gave him the effects of alcohol consumption.

“Deh is enough, Ricardo,” She tells him, “Ricardo...deh is enough.” She says with a more stern voice.

Ricardo wraps his hand around her wrist, applying pressure to keep it there. He could feel his body changing for the better already. Her blood...he couldn’t stop. He grunted, growled, and moaned from the taste. His tongue swiped her wrist and his own teeth tried to bite her for more but he was still so weak.

“Ricardo, deh is ENOUGH, no more!!!!!”

Mama Dalma yanked her wrist away speedily, her eyes staring down at her wound healing before her. She gave Ricardo a cold look, one that has him wishing he would have listened.

“When I tell yuh to stop, yuh listen,” She spoke with a spiteful tongue.

“It was so good,” Ricardo spoke with a weakened voice, “I want m-more.”

“Soon, muh child…” Mama Dalma kisses his lips, “Now we go to rest,” Mama Dalma wraps her arms around Ricardo and then with her superhuman speed they were out of her shack and laying in a dug up ditch. The soil was cold against Ricardo’s back. Mama Dalma places him in a wooden coffin, the moonlight creating a halo around her. His eyes drooped shut and he could feel his body shutting down like his organs were no longer working. Mama Dalma crawled into the coffin with him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping a single leg around his waist.

“When yuh wake, muh child, yuh will be Erik Stevens now...Ricardo Douboux died tonight.”

Mama Dalma kissed his cold cheek before she shut the coffin so they could finally rest until tomorrow night when Erik Stevens will finally be immortal.

#killmonger #Erik Killmonger #black panther killmonger #nahimjustfeelingit-writes

238 notes · View notes

emerald-studies · 4 years

Photo

The complex Nina Simone

“Born Eunice Kathleen Waymon in Tryon, North Carolina on February 21st, 1933, Nina’s prodigious talent as a musician was evident early on when she started playing piano by ear at the age of three. Her mother, a Methodist minister, and her father, a handyman and preacher himself, couldn’t ignore young Eunice’s God-given gift of music. Raised in the church on the straight and narrow, her parents taught her right from wrong, to carry herself with dignity, and to work hard. She played piano – but didn’t sing – in her mother’s church, displaying remarkable talent early in her life. Able to play virtually anything by ear, she was soon studying classical music with an Englishwoman named Muriel Mazzanovich, who had moved to the small southern town. It was from these humble roots that Eunice developed a lifelong love of Johann Sebastian Bach, Chopin, Brahms, Beethoven and Schubert.After graduating valedictorian of her high school class, the community raised money for a scholarship for Eunice to study at Julliard in New York City before applying to the prestigious Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. Her family had already moved to the City Of Brotherly Love, but Eunice’s hopes for a career as a pioneering African American classical pianist were dashed when the school denied her admission. To the end, she herself would claim that racism was the reason she did not attend. While her original dream was unfulfilled, Eunice ended up with an incredible worldwide career as Nina Simone – almost by default.

One fateful day in 1954, looking to supplement her income, Eunice auditioned to sing at the Midtown Bar & Grill on Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Word spread about this new singer and pianist who was dipping into the songbooks of Gershwin, Cole Porter, Richard Rodgers, and the like, transforming popular tunes of the day into a unique synthesis of jazz, blues, and classical music. Her rich, deep velvet vocal tones, combined with her mastery of the keyboard, soon attracted club goers up and down the East Coast. In order to hide the fact that she was singing in bars, Eunice’s mother would refer to the practice as “working in the fires of hell”, overnight Eunice Waymon became Nina Simone by taking the nickname “Nina” meaning “little one” in Spanish and “Simone” after the actress Simone Signoret.At the age of twenty-four, Nina came to the attention of the record industry. After submitting a demo of songs she had recorded during a performance in New Hope, Pennsylvania, she was signed by Syd Nathan, owner of the Ohio-based King Records (home to James Brown), to his Jazz imprint, Bethlehem Records. The boisterous Nathan had insisted on choosing songs for her debut set, but eventually relented and allowed Nina to delve in the repertoire she had been performing at clubs up and down the eastern seaboard. One of Nina’s stated musical influences was Billie Holiday and her inspired reading of “Porgy” (from “Porgy & Bess”) heralded the arrival of a new talent on the national scene. At the same mammoth 13 hour session in 1957, recorded in New York City, Nina also cut “My Baby Just Cares For Me,” previously recorded by Nate King Cole, Count Basie, and Woody Herman. The song was used by Chanel in a perfume commercial in Europe in the 1980’s and it became a massive hit for Nina, a British chart topper at #5, and thus a staple of her repertoire for the rest of her career.

Nina Simone’s stay with Bethlehem Records was short lived and in 1959, after moving to New York City, she was signed by Joyce Selznik, the eastern talent scout for Colpix Records, a division of Columbia Pictures. Months after the release of her debut LP for the label (1959‘s The Amazing Nina Simone), Nina was performing at her first major New York City venue, the mid-Manhattan-located Town Hall. Sensing that her live performances would capture the essential spontaneity of her artistry, Colpix opted to record her September 12, 1959 show. “You Can Have Him,” a glorious torch song previously cut by Peggy Lee and Ella Fitzgerald, was one of the highlights of the evening. The song opened with a dazzling keyboard arpeggio that would become her signature for decades. So momentous was the Town Hall performance that it inspired some of the same musicians, featuring the vocals of Nina’s only daughter, Lisa Simone Kelly, to do a tribute to a sold out audience over forty five years later.As Nina’s reputation as an engaging live performer grew, it wasn’t long before she was asked to perform at the prestigious Newport Jazz Festival. Accompanied on the June 30th, 1960 show by Al Schackman, a guitarist who would go on to become Nina’s longest-running musical colleague, bassist Chris White, and drummer Bobby Hamilton, the dynamic show was recorded by the Colpix. The subsequent release in 1961 of the old blues tune “Trouble In Mind” as a single gave Nina her third charted record.Her stay with Colpix resulted in some wonderful albums – nine in all – included Nina’s version of Bessie Smith’s blues classic “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down And Out.” Issued as a single in 1960, it became Nina’s second charted Pop and R&B hit and one of two Colpix tracks to achieve such a feat during her five year stint with the label. Other stand out tracks from that era were the soulful song “Cotton Eyed Joe,” the torch tune “The Other Women,” and the Norwegian folk rendition of “Black Is The Color Of My True Love’s Hair” – all beautiful examples of Nina Simone at her storytelling best, painting a vivid picture with her skill as a lyrical interpreter. During this time with the label, Nina recorded one civil rights song, Oscar Brown Jr.’s “Brown Baby,” which was included on her fifth album for the label, At The Village Gate.“Critics started to talk about what sort of music I was playing,” writes Nina in her 1991 autobiography I Put A Spell On You, “and tried to find a neat slot to file it away in. It was difficult for them because I was playing popular songs in a classical style with a classical piano technique influenced by cocktail jazz. On top of that I included spirituals and children’s song in my performances, and those sorts of songs were automatically identified with the folk movement. So, saying what sort of music I played gave the critics problems because there was something from everything in there, but it also meant I was appreciated across the board – by jazz, folk, pop and blues fans as well as admirers of classical music.” Clearly Nina Simone was not an artist who could be easily classified.

Nina’s Colpix recordings cemented her appeal to a nightclub based U.S. audience. Once she moved to Phillips, a division of Dutch-owned Mercury Records, she was ready to expand her following globally. Her first LP for the label, 1964’s In Concert, signaled Nina’s undaunted stand for freedom and justice for all, stamping her irrevocably as a pioneer and inspirational leader in the U.S. Civil Rights Movement. Her own original “Mississippi Goddam” was banned throughout the South but such a response made no difference in Nina’s unyielding commitment to liberty; subsequent groundbreaking recordings for Philips like “Four Women” (recorded September 1965) and “Strange Fruit” continued to keep Nina in the forefront of the few performers willing to use music as a vehicle for social commentary and change. Such risks were seldom taken by artists during that time of such dramatic civil upheaval.For years, Nina felt there was much about the way that she made her living that was less than appealing. One gets a sense of that in the following passage from I Put A Spell on You where she explains her initial reluctance to perform material that was tied to the Civil Rights Movement.“Nightclubs were dirty, making records was dirty, popular music was dirty and to mix all that with politics seemed senseless and demeaning. And until songs like ‘Mississippi Goddam’ just burst out of me, I had musical problems as well. How can you take the memory of a man like [Civil Rights activist] Medgar Evers and reduce all that he was to three and a half minutes and a simple tune? That was the musical side of it I shied away from; I didn’t like ‘protest music’ because a lot of it was so simple and unimaginative it stripped the dignity away from the people it was trying to celebrate. But the Alabama church bombing and the murder of Medgar Evers stopped that argument and with ‘Mississippi Goddam,’ I realized there was no turning back.”

Nina was deeply affected by these two events. In 1962, she had befriended noted playwright Lorraine Hansberry and spoke often with her about the Civil Rights Movement. While she was moved by her conversations with Hansberry, it took the killing of Medgar Evers and the four girls in Birmingham to act as catalysts for a transformation of Nina’s career.There were many sides to Nina Simone. Among her most amazing recordings were the original and so-soulful version “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” and “I Put A Spell On You” (which had reached to #23 in the U.S. charts), eerily moody, unrestrained, drama to the max; “Ne Me Quitte Pas” tender, poignant, filled with melancholy; and with gospel-like fervor, the hypnotic voodoo of “See-Line Woman.” In her own unrivaled way, Nina also loved to venture into the more earthy side of life. After she signed with RCA Records in 1967 (a deal her then husband/manager Andy Stroud had negotiated), her very first recordings for the label included the saucy “Do I Move You?” and the undeniably sexual “I Want A Little Sugar In My Bowl” which were from the concept album entitled Nina Sings The Blues. Backed by a stellar cast of New York CIty session musicians, the album was far and away Nina’s most down-home recording session. By this time, Nina had become central to a circle of African American playwrights, poets, and writers all centered in Harlem along with the previously mentioned Lorraine Hansberry, James Baldwin and Langston Hughes. The outcome from one of the relationships became a highlight of the LP with the song “Backlash Blues,” a song that’s lyrics originated from the last poem Langston Hughes submitted for publication prior to his death in May, 1967 and gave to Nina.Nina’s seven years with RCA produced some remarkable recordings, ranging from two songs featured in the Broadway musical “Hair” (combined into a medley, “Ain’t Got No – I Got Life,” a #2 British hit in 1968) to a Simone-ified version of George Harrison’s “Here Comes The Sun,” which remained in Nina’s repertoire all the way through to her final performance in 2002. Along the way at RCA, songs penned by Bob Dylan (“Just Like A Woman”), the brothers Gibb (“To Love Somebody”), and Tina Turner (“Funkier Than A Mosquito’s Tweeter”) took pride of place alongside Nina’s own anthem of empowerment, the classic “To Be Young, Gifted, & Black,” a song written in memory of Nina’s good friend Lorraine Hansberry. The title of the song coming from a play Hansberry had been working on just prior to her death.After Nina left RCA, she spent a good deal of the 1970’s and early 1980’s living in Liberia, Barbados, England, Belgium, France, Switzerland and The Netherlands. In 1978, for the first time since she left RCA, Nina was convinced by U.S. jazz veteran Creed Taylor to make an album for his CTI label. This would be her first new studio album in six years and she recorded it in Belgium with strings and background vocals cut in New York City. With the kind of “clean” sound that was a hallmark of CTI recordings, the Nina Simone album that emerged was simply brilliant. Nina herself would later claimed that she ”hated” the record but many fans strongly disagreed. With an eighteen piece string section conducted by David Mathews (known for his arrangements on James Brown’s records), the results were spectacular. The title track, Randy Newman’s evocative “Baltimore,” was an inspired Nina Simone choice. It had a beautifully constructed reggae-like beat and used some of the finest musicians producer Creed Taylor could find including Nina’s guitarist and music director, Al Schackman.

Aside from 1982’s Fodder On My Wings that Nina recorded for Carrere Records, two albums she made of the independent VPI label in Hollywood (Nina’s Back and Live And Kickin’) in 1985, and a 1987 Live At Vine Street set recorded for Verve, Nina Simone did not make another full length album until Elektra A&R executive Michael Alago persuaded her to record again. After much wining and dining, Nina finally signed on the dotted line. Elektra tapped producer Andre Fischer, noted conductor Jeremy Lubbock, and a trio of respected musicians to provide the suitable environment for this highly personal reading of “A Single Woman,” which became the centerpiece and title track for Nina Simone’s final full length album.With two marriages behind her in 1993 she settled in Carry-le-Rout, near Aix-en-Provence in Southern France. She would continue to tour through the 1990’s and became very much ‘the single woman’ she sang about on her last label recording. She rarely traveled without an entourage, but if you were fortunate enough to get to know the woman behind the music you could glimpse the solitary soul that understood the pain of being misunderstood. It was one of Nina’s many abilities to comprehend the bittersweet qualities of life and then parlay them into a song that made her such an enduring and fascinating person.

In her autobiography, Nina Simone writes that her function as an artist is “…to make people feel on a deep level. It’s difficult to describe because it’s not something you can analyze; to get near what it’s about you have to play it. And when you’ve caught it, when you’ve got the audience hooked, you always know because it’s like electricity hanging in the air.” It was that very electricity that made her such an important artist to so many and it will be that electricity that continues to turn on new people all over the world for years to come.Nina Simone died in her sleep at her home in Carry-le-Rout, Bouches-du-Rhone on April 21, 2003. Her funeral service was attended by Miriam Makeba, Patti Labelle, poet Sonia Sanchez, actor Ossie Davis and hundreds of others. Elton John sent a floral tribute with the message, “You were the greatest and I love you”.” (source)

Watch “What Happened Miss Simone?”

#blm #blacklivesmatter #nina simone #black musicians #black artists #black royalty

34 notes · View notes

alecmagnuslwb · 4 years

Text

Soulmates

Writer’s Month 2020 Day Five

Read on AO3

Everyone has a soulmate, even impossibly a bastard like John Constantine. Not that he thinks he’s got some great, beautiful souled person out there that’s destine to be his. No John assumes that a bastard is destine for a bastard, no matter their gender.

He hasn’t really thought about soulmates in years, not since he was a child and his mother told him stories about the moment everything bursts into color and you suddenly know the names of every color before you. He’s grown accustom to the way his eyes see the world, but lately the black and white vision he lives with every day has grown tiresome. He plays with his magic, still learning and growing stronger every day and wonders if it casts in different colors, wonders what those colors are if they do. He lights the flames in the palms of his hands and can only feel the burn without being amazed by the orange and red glow he’s been told they have whatever that might mean.

He's barely over twenty but he’s old enough to know that the world isn’t black and white by any means. It’s mottled with greys and shades of everything that he can’t see, but he can sense.

Tonight is another black and white night for him. He pushes open the door to the bar he’d seen a few nights ago when heading back to the motel he’s been crashing in. A rush of noise washes over him as he steps inside some hokey rock band that fancies themselves the next Billy Idol playing a horrendous cover of ‘White Wedding’ onstage.

John grits his teeth praying they don’t butcher something by The Clash next, he’ll have to leave America immediately if they do.

He shuffles over to the bar, taking a seat on an empty stool near the far end and flags down the bartender ordering himself a whiskey. He gives the man behind the bar a wink when he places the drink down in front of him and the bartender walks away completely ignoring the flirtation.

John just shrugs unbothered by the rejection and spins around watching as the band plays the last chorus. When they’re done the other patrons clap and John hopes they’re all drunk with the enthusiasm they’re putting behind it. The room transforms into a clutter of voices and clinking glasses after that so John swivels back around downing his first drink and ordering a second.

Behind the bar a poster catches his eye, a top hat adorning the center. He’s just reading the words Mistress of Magic across it when a deeply bad and deeply fake British accent sounds into the microphone on stage. John turns back around to find the lead Billy Idol wannabe yelling for everyone to quiet down.

“Alright, now we know your claps for us were bullshit and this is the real show you’re here for,” he says gesturing to the space around. “So, without further ado, the Mistress of Magic, the silver-tongued siren, everyone’s favorite majestic magician Zatanna!”

If John had known there was a magic show tonight, he might have found a better drinking hole. He’s got no need to watch someone pull cheap tricks and poorly concealed rabbits out of a hat.

John’s about to swivel back around, order one more drink and be on his way, but he finds himself frozen halfway when Zatanna appears on stage, not through a cloud of smoke hiding a trap door in the floor, but through a real bonafide portal.

That alone would capture his attention, but the woman herself has him sliding back to face the stage completely. She’s stunning, the goth princess of his dreams in knee high boots, fishnets, leather shorts and a corset with a bowtie.

Her arms are bare something whispered under her breath sending a trail of sparkling magic down them as she flips her long dark hair over her shoulder and gives the patrons a dazzling smile.

John doesn’t need to see color to know she’s a vision, but he’d pay good money to know what colors that magic is flowing down her arms and how it looks against her skin.

“Ready to see some real magic tonight boys, girls and non-binaries?” she says, her voice a melody. The audience roars and if John wasn’t so frozen in place he might too.

That’s when the show really begins, she conquers the stage, keeping everyone’s eyes on her the entire time. She twists magic around the room, her power strong and thick in the air. She speaks in languages he doesn’t recognize until eventually he realizes it’s backwards magic, a rarely used magic that she’s clearly no novice in.

There’s something about her that’s familiar, but he doesn’t have the right of mind to think too hard about it. To think beyond the absolute captive hold she has on him with every move she makes and every spell she utters.

Zatanna knows how to work a stage, how to hold an audience in the palm of her hand.

He’s certain he could meet his soulmate right this second and have the world burst into color and he still wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from the front of this bars.

He doesn’t so much as blink for the forty-five minutes she’s on stage.

“Alright, for my last trick, I need another volunteer,” she says and hands shoot up all across the bar, even the bartender who seemingly has a job to do sticks his high in the sky.

She scans the audience carefully tapping her finger to her lips until her eyes fall on him.

“You,” she says pointing his way. “At the bar.”

John pulls his eyes from the stage for the first time certain she’s pointing at someone else, like the eager bartender behind him.

“Yeah you in the tie, that’s right, come on,” she says making a come-hither motion with her finger that John couldn’t resist if he was chained down on his deathbed.

John slips from his seat picking his way through the bar and onto the stage. And if she was gorgeous from far away up-close John’s not sure how anyone could resist those piercing eyes. He wonders what color they are.

“I’m Zatanna, as you know,” she says smiling at the audience quickly before holding out a hand in his direction. Her nails are painted with little clusters of shimmering stars on them, a tiny detail he couldn’t see all the way from the bar. “And what’s your name handsome?”

He tries to force down a smile and fails, there’s no doubt she calls every poor schmuck she pulls up on the stage that and makes them blush, he’s not special even if he wishes he was.

“John,” he says putting his hand in hers and that’s when it happens. His vision blurs for a moment and then like paint being splattered on a canvas color blooms all around him. The curtains are red, the stage a deep brown and Zatanna’s eyes a deep, dark blue. She’s looking into his eyes too, a small soft smile on her lips.

Her eyes drop down to his tie briefly and she chuckles then quickly as if their whole worlds hadn’t just changed she’s turning back to the audience. A performers quick mind keeping up appearances for the show.

John barely recalls the trick he assists her with just knows that he trusts her implicitly and at one point ends up floating. When it’s over and he’s stepping down from the stage she touches his hand softly, a silent request to stay so she can find him after the show.

John nods stepping away as she gives the audience one last light show. A burst of rainbow sparks from her fingers before she disappears into another portal casting him one last glance.

John’s finally pulled from his daze once she’s out of sight and immediately books it for the door. He should stick around, really meet this person who’s his person, but he can tell from one look at that soft smile she’d given him she’s far too good to be stuck with the likes of him.

The universe fucked up, there’s no way a man like him deserves a woman like her.

He doesn’t get far, just barely out the door when a shimmering portal like the one on stage appears in front of him and Zatanna steps out now in a leather jacket with a shining silver top hat pin on the lapel.

“Oh, you’re here,” she says looking at him with that same soft smile.

He looks up and around her wondering if he can make his escape.

“Oh, you’re leaving,” she says disappointed. Her hands fall to her side uselessly.

“Look, it’s not you,” he starts and she lets out a sharp wounded breath.

“Ouch, I’ve heard that one before,” she says attempting to laugh off what she’s seeing as a rejection. He’s not rejecting her though, far from it, he’d love to curl up next to her and never leave he’s fairly certain. He’s rejecting the universe cursing this soft smiling magical being to getting saddled with jaded, piss poor soulmate like him.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that, I swear it, I’d stay in a heartbeat if it was only my heart on the line. It’s just there is no way a woman like you deserves to get stuck with a mess like me, trust me.”

He sidesteps and starts to walk past her, but a hand on his forearm pulls him to a stop. She spins around so she’s standing face to face with him.

“Look I won’t act like I understand the magic or science or whatever it is behind this system and I won’t act like it’s perfect, but something out there thinks you and I fit, thinks we could fit. So, shouldn’t I get to decide what I deserve?” she says with pleading eyes. “Please, don’t take that choice away from me.”

John takes a deep breath. He really doesn’t want to hurt her, but if he leaves right now that will hurt her more than if he stays and maybe one day down the line messes up. She’s right. He’s a coward who tried to run.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” John says pulling his pack of cigarettes out. He pats around for a lighter and Zatanna leans in saying a quiet ‘erif’ her fingertip bursting in a yellow orange flame and lighting the cigarette he sticks between his lips.

“You’re forgiven, as long you don’t run off on me again,” she says smiling as she blows out the flame on her finger.

He takes a long drag blowing it off to the side and away from her.

“I won’t,” he says hoping he can keep that as a promise.

“Great. So, let’s try this again, I’m Zatanna Zatara,” she says holding out her hand. Zatara. Suddenly the familiarity of her makes sense, the backwards magic coming so easily for her much clearer now. If he was worried he wasn’t worthy of her before the last name doesn’t help that worry lessen. She’s a magical dynasty doing stage work in a dive bar.

He doesn’t run just because of that shocking development however.

“John Constantine,” he says putting his hand in hers. This time there’s no blurring vision, no burst of color, just a warm, soft hand holding onto his.

She smiles, “I like your tie John Constantine.” He looks down noticing the bright red of it for the first time. The irony that the rest of both of their outfits are black and white on the night where color came into their lives is not lost on him. “It’s a nice pop of color.”

He laughs, letting go of her hand to tug at the tie.

“I didn’t actually know it was red when I nicked it.”

“Nicked it?” she says eyes going a little wide. It sounds a little funny coming from her lips with no British accent.

“Uh,” he says twisting up his face. “Bought it?”

The question mark on his words is clear and she just laughs threading her arm through his as he tosses his cigarette at his feet stamping it out.

“Come on we’re having dinner and you’re telling me all about how you stole that tie, soulmate,” she says tugging him along into the neon lit night.

He likes the sound of that, even if he’s convinced the universe made a colossal mistake.

#my fic #writersmonth2020 #johnzee #john constantine #zatanna zatara

10 notes · View notes

canonmisogynyvictimstournament · 7 months

Text

PROPAGANDA

MARWA (WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS (TV SERIES)) (CW: Mind Control, Domestic Abuse)

2.) WHERE TO START my god. Marwa is introduced into the story as one of a crowd of women who are interchangeable to the man summoning them, WHO IS HER CANONICAL HUSBAND but he gives less than half a fuck about her, which is played for laughs. The writers made it completely unclear whether she is a real person or basically a magical simulation with no inner life and did not bother to clarify that at any point. Her plotline consists of her husband using magical wishes to modify various aspects of her body and mind and the writers never explore whether she is aware this is happening or not, much less how she might be experiencing it. It is a terrifying psychological horror story from her perspective but we are not given any insight into her perspective so who cares I guess!! For example, he wishes for her to have a rounder ass and then wishes that all of her preferences align perfectly with his own, so that she’ll stop nagging him about wanting different colored flowers at their wedding than him. There are SEVERAL more examples. Her experience of having all of her desires replaced with her husband’s desires shows up only for jokes, plus one moment that is used to confirm that her husband’s real love interest is one of the other male leads in the show. (I ship the two male characters, I’m not complaining about that, but like COME ON SHE WAS A HUMAN PERSON ONCE AND SHE IS LIVING IN A HORROR MOVIE AND THIS IS WHAT YOU’RE DOING WITH THAT???) THE WORST PART is that when it’s time for her to exit the story because her body and personality have already been essentially replaced by magic and she is now a boring toy, she is LITERALLY PHYSICALLY AND MENTALLY transformed into a random British man so that her husband can have that guy as a love interest instead of her. She (he? It? Again it is never NEVER explored whether Marwa is like, alive inside this British man’s mind somehow? Or if she was ever really alive in her body?) moves to England to be in love with the original British man she was based off of, so basically her twin. This is also played for laughs. Her entire personality and body are not even killed off with like a death scene but literally ERASED FROM REALITY AND REPLACED WITH A COPY OF THIS SHITTY WHITE DUDE.

3.) (Context: Nandor is a vampire who has been alive for a while. When he was human he had 37 wives. (Btw some of the wives were men but that’s besides the point.))

Additional links: Article about the Freddie thing:

She likes what he likes:

Also This:

AZULA (AVATAR THE LAST AIRBENDER) (CW: Child Abuse, Ableism)

1.) Azula was totally screwed over by the writers of both the show, and its post-canon comics. When this fourteen year old abuse victim isn’t being portrayed as weirdly adult, she’s having her charecter massacred to make her precious older brother seem like a good guy for shoving her in an asylum. My girl deserved better than to be an extremely negative portrayal of mental illness who only exists to be a prop bad guy.

2.) I think everyone else has said it better than I can, but I’ll add that in the comics she’s shown to be heavily suffering from trauma and mental illness and she’s treated like she’s crazy and evil for having those issues, when her male relatives are supported

3.) Everyone hates for doing pretty much the same stuff zuko was doing pre-redemption (also the way people talk about her is so ableist)

#polls #round 2 #week 3 #new #cw mind control #cw domestic abuse #cw child abuse #cw ableism

35 notes · View notes

blackqueerblog · 5 years

Text

6 trans women and non-binary activists you should have learned about in history class. Part 1

March is Women’s History Month, and so, here are some wonderful trans women the history books often don’t include. Many of these figures existed before the word “transgender” even did.

1. Chevalier d’Eon (1728-1810)

The Chevalier d’Eonthis link opens in a new tab was many things, but most of all she remains a mystery. Here are a few things we do know: First of all, she served in Louis XV’s network of spies, le Secret du Roi (translation: “the King’s Secret”). As secretary to the ambassador of France, she helped negotiate an end to the Seven Years War between France and Britain. And in 1763, she was named minister plenipotentiary, with the status of ambassador, to the British court. Then, in an epic double-cross, she published a scandalous book detailing all of her diplomatic correspondence as minister, and threatened to reveal even more.

d’Eon lived as a woman for 33 years and died in London in 1810 at 81. It’s difficult to know for sure if she would identify, today, as transgender, but given her desire to live full-time as a woman despite how disempowering that was in patriarchal Europe, she is undeniably a part of trans history and worth remembering.

2. Mary Jones (1784-1864)

One of the earliest recorded stories of a trans womanthis link opens in a new tab in America, Mary Jones was a black sex worker in New York. One night in 1836, Robert Haslem, a white mason worker, found her in an alley and decided to pay her for sex. But on his way back home, he discovered he was missing $99.

Jones was brought to court for theft, and despite the constant jeers, she arrived in elegant women’s clothing each day. She testified that she always dressed that way in New Orleans and amongst other people of color. After days of insults and jokes at her expense, the court sentenced Jones to five years in prison.

Adding insult to injury, Jones’ sentence was celebrated in a crude illustration that dubbed her “the man-monster.” Despite the discrimination she faced as a queer sex worker of color, though, Jones refused to give up her identity.

3. Lili Elbe (1882-1931)

One of the most iconic and tragic names in early trans history, Lili Elbe serves as a reminder of both how far we have come and how much we have failed to move forward. A Danish painter married to another painter, Elbe’s story began, according to her own accountthis link opens in a new tab, when one of her wife Gerda’s models failed to show. So Gerda asked Elbe to sit for her instead. The moment was astonishing to Elbe: it just felt right to dress in women’s clothes, to be depicted as one. She continued to do so in private at Gerda’s encouragement. But she was also confused by these feelings.

The dysphoria was overwhelming and inexplicable for her. Doctors shook their heads at her, and Elbe became despairingly convinced that “my case has never been known in the history of medical art.” In 1930, she planned to kill herselfthis link opens in a new tab. The legendary doctor Magnus Hirschfield—who was working on determining how sex, sexual orientation, and gender were connected—briefly saved her, claiming he could implant a womb into Elbe using new experimental procedures. Elbe, who was divorced by then, took the risk, undergoing multiple surgeries. She began living in society as a woman, despite rejection from many who had known her before, and said she wanted to give birth, though tragically she died the yearthis link opens in a new tab after Hirschfield’s uterus implantation.

4. Lucy Hicks Anderson (1886-1954)

A true unsung pioneer, Lucy Hicks Anderson was born in 1886 in Kentucky. From a young age, she wanted to present as female and said she wished to be called Lucy rather than her birth name, Tobias, which worried her mother. Astonishingly for the time, a physician advised that Lucy be raised a girlthis link opens in a new tab.

Anderson married two men in her lifetime, fighting for her marriages to be accepted as legal and for her to be accepted as a woman—making her an early fighter for both marriage equality and transgender acceptance.

However, she was accused of having “lied” under oath during her marriages by not disclosing that she was assigned “male” at birth. Her response, while not accepted, was powerful. “I defy any doctor in the world to prove that I am not a woman,” she told reporters.this link opens in a new tab “I have lived, dressed, acted just what I am, a woman.”

5. Coccinelle (1931- 2006)

Born in Paris in 1931, the actress and showgirl Jacqueline Charlotte Dufresnoy (best known by her stage name Coccinelle, French for “ladybug”) was one of the earliest trans women to undergo sex reassignment surgery. She began hormone therapy in 1952, the year Christine Jorgensen became America’s most visible trans woman, and seven years later underwent a vaginoplasty.

The entertainer quickly became a star, enjoying features in films and performances (like this one)this link opens in a new tab. Italian singer Ghigo Agosti even dedicated a song to her, called “Coccinellathis link opens in a new tab.”

Her surgery and subsequent marriage in France led to the country amending its lawsthis link opens in a new tab so that the gender on one’s birth certificate could be amended after a similar surgery. It also led to France allowing trans citizens to legally marry. Coccinelle went on to found a number of organizationsthis link opens in a new tab devoted to helping trans and gender-nonconforming individuals.

6. Christine Jorgensen (1926-1989)

Before Caitlyn Jenner, there was a trans woman with the same initials: Christine Jorgensen. She was a singer and performer from the Bronx, and in 1952, after taking her first steps toward sex reassignment surgery, she catapulted to national attentionthis link opens in a new tab. Jorgensen’s transformation was often treated as evidence of scientific advances (she was compared to rockets and bombs, for example) rather than an affirmation of trans identity. She was called “America’s First Transsexual”this link opens in a new tab — inaccurate, but indicative of how iconic she was at the time. She was glitzy and glamorous and performed for $12,500 a week in Hollywood.

Despite Jorgensen’s fame, she also attracted fury and fear, especially when the American public began to learn more about what transitioning entailed. For example, many Americans initially thought Jorgensen could menstruate and give birth and reacted negatively when they learned she could not. Jorgensen died in 1989 with both fame and infamy, with many cisgender Americans still clueless about what it might mean to be trans. But they were, at least, aware that trans people existed.

#womenhistorymonth

1K notes · View notes

ozarkhealingtraditions · 5 years

Text

From the Archives: Witch Animals

More information on my website

Witches have long had associations with certain animals. In the Ozarks we inherited a folk tradition from European, African, and Native sources, so when we talk about witch animals we have a wide variety to mention. First we can talk about white and black animals and their supernatural associations. Often black animals, like crows, ravens, cats, are thought to be witches in disguise and are looked at with a cautious eye by hillfolk. There’s also the boogers, a whole class of supernatural animals most often linked to black dogs, cats, wolves, pigs, etc. The boogers are specifically seen as the animal form of certain malicious witches, but on rare occasions they are creatures of their own, linked to ghosts (or haints/hants) and spirits of the land in general or a specific haunted site. It’s seldom that a black animal is seen as a creature of good or celestial power but instead are bringers of doom. White animals, on the other hand, while still held with great suspicion, are most often associated with otherworldly, although not necessarily evil, powers. Creatures like the snawfus, a giant white stag, can be bringers of ill omen as well as entities with the power to bestow great boons on those who are fortunate to find them. For example the white stag often grants hunters certain powers over game, allowing them a sure shot that never misses. This gifts, much like those given by the fae in British/Irish lore, comes with a price, and there are many stories about these supernatural creatures coming to claim the gifted man’s soul at the hour of his death. White birds, often with no real-world counterparts, are sometimes bringers of great power. I’ve heard stories from many healers that traced their gifts back to the finding of a white bird. One story that I incorporated into one of my Mr. Green folk tales says that a strange white bird was seen one day hovering in the air near a cabin. A boy watched on as the bird fell to the ground and was transformed into a patch of white clover. The clover was eaten by a cow resulting in quickly filling udders. The boy milked and milked the cow, buckets full, but the udders remained bursting with milk. The boy drank up the extra until the cow finally stopped giving. The boy delivered the milk back to his mother and told her the tale of the bird, and the clover patch. Hearing the boy say he drank up some of the milk the mother knew in that moment that her son had been given healing powers. Occasionally you will hear a story about a healer that can turn into a white animal (or sometimes just an animal in general, with no color association) but most often the white animal is more ghostly, connected to spirits of ancestors or of the land itself. It’s unknown whether Ozark hillfolk inherited their beliefs about owls, a well known witch bird, from their European ancestors or from the indigenous peoples of the Appalachians. The Cherokee, it seems, have had their own beliefs about owls being witches for hundreds of years before contact with Europeans, and certainly this association with owls can be found in the folklore of many Old World cultures. My best guess is that the owl, being a night bird, has had this association with witchcraft and darker magics across the world. Crows and ravens have a similar story, being associated across cultures with death and therefore ill omens and witchcraft. The Cherokee have their raven mockers, witches that hover around a person’s deathbed looking to suck the last breath from their bodies. This belief found its way into Ozark lore where the crow is almost always seen as a witch spy or bringer of some evil power. See a crow, still living, while driving on the road is an ill omen in the Ozarks, while alternately see a dead crow is a token of good fortune. Toads, while having a deep tradition of association with witches in European folkways, seem to not have translated into Ozark lore, or at least I haven’t been able to find the same associations here. Red birds like the cardinal are seen as both bringers of good and bad fortune. There’s a story of a woman who beat her daughter without mercy everyday until redbirds started pecking on her window. Seeing this as a ill omen the woman changed her ways before something much more terrible happened to her. This redbird lore seems to at least in part come in from Cherokee sources where the bird is seen as having a connection to the supernatural. For more information see the story of “The Daughter of the Sun” collected by James Mooney.

#ozarks #traditional witchcraft #folk magic #folklore #Ozark Folklore #ozark folk magic #ozark folkways #ozark folk medicine #traditional healing #traditional medicine #spiritual healing #spiritualism #spiritism #ozark healing traditions

152 notes · View notes

rockislandadultreads · 4 years

Photo

Check out these history books from our bottom shelf! All these titles need some love, so check them out today!

Summaries and Ratings from goodreads.com

Conquistador: Hernán Cortés, King Montezuma, and the Last Stand of the Aztecs by Buddy Levy

4.19/5 stars

It was a moment unique in human history, the face-to-face meeting between two men from civilizations a world apart. Only one would survive the encounter. In 1519, Hernán Cortés arrived on the shores of Mexico with a roughshod crew of adventurers and the intent to expand the Spanish empire. Along the way, this brash and roguish conquistador schemed to convert the native inhabitants to Catholicism and carry off a fortune in gold. That he saw nothing paradoxical in his intentions is one of the most remarkable—and tragic—aspects of this unforgettable story of conquest.

In Tenochtitlán, the famed City of Dreams, Cortés met his Aztec counterpart, Montezuma: king, divinity, ruler of fifteen million people, and commander of the most powerful military machine in the Americas. Yet in less than two years, Cortés defeated the entire Aztec nation in one of the most astonishing military campaigns ever waged. Sometimes outnumbered in battle thousands-to-one, Cortés repeatedly beat seemingly impossible odds. Buddy Levy meticulously researches the mix of cunning, courage, brutality, superstition, and finally disease that enabled Cortés and his men to survive.

Conquistador is the story of a lost kingdom—a complex and sophisticated civilization where floating gardens, immense wealth, and reverence for art stood side by side with bloodstained temples and gruesome rites of human sacrifice. It’s the story of Montezuma—proud, spiritual, enigmatic, and doomed to misunderstand the stranger he thought a god. Epic in scope, as entertaining as it is enlightening, Conquistador is history at its most riveting.

The Story of Tibet: Conversations with the Dalai Lama by Thomas Laird

4.18/5 stars

The Story of Tibet is a work of monumental importance, a fascinating journey through the land and history of Tibet, with His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama as guide. Over the course of three years, journalist Thomas Laird spent more than sixty hours with His Holiness the Dalai Lama in candid, one-on-one interviews that covered His Holiness’s beliefs on history, science, reincarnation, and his lifelong study of Buddhism. Traveling across great distances to offer vivid descriptions of Tibet’s greatest monasteries, Laird brings his meetings with His Holiness to life in a rich and vibrant historical narrative that outlines the essence of thousands of years of civilization, myth, and spirituality. His Holiness introduces us to Tibet’s greatest yogis and meditation masters, and explains how the institution of the Dalai Lama was founded. Embedded throughout this journey is His Holiness’s lessons on the larger roles religion and spirituality have played in Tibet’s story, reflecting the Dalai Lama’s belief that history should be examined not only conventionally but holistically. The Story of Tibet is His Holiness’s personal look at his country’s past as well as a summation of his life’s work as both spiritual and temporal leader of the Tibetan people.

Country of My Skull: Guilt, Sorrow, and the Limits of Forgiveness in the New South Africa by Antjie Krog

4.09/5 stars

Ever since Nelson Mandela dramatically walked out of prison in 1990 after twenty-seven years behind bars, South Africa has been undergoing a radical transformation. In one of the most miraculous events of the century, the oppressive system of apartheid was dismantled. Repressive laws mandating separation of the races were thrown out. The country, which had been carved into a crazy quilt that reserved the most prosperous areas for whites and the most desolate and backward for blacks, was reunited. The dreaded and dangerous security force, which for years had systematically tortured, spied upon, and harassed people of color and their white supporters, was dismantled. But how could this country--one of spectacular beauty and promise--come to terms with its ugly past? How could its people, whom the oppressive white government had pitted against one another, live side by side as friends and neighbors?

To begin the healing process, Nelson Mandela created the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, headed by the renowned cleric Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Established in 1995, the commission faced the awesome task of hearing the testimony of the victims of apartheid as well as the oppressors. Amnesty was granted to those who offered a full confession of any crimes associated with apartheid. Since the commission began its work, it has been the central player in a drama that has riveted the country. In this book, Antjie Krog, a South African journalist and poet who has covered the work of the commission, recounts the drama, the horrors, the wrenching personal stories of the victims and their families. Through the testimonies of victims of abuse and violence, from the appearance of Winnie Mandela to former South African president P. W. Botha's extraordinary courthouse press conference, this award-winning poet leads us on an amazing journey.

Highway to Hell: Dispatches from a Mercenary in Iraq by John Geddes

3.62/5 stars

Present-day Iraq: a crucible of torture, chemical warfare and Islamic terrorism, and straddling over it all the mighty US Army and its allies; but there's another western army in Iraq that dwarfs the British contingent and is second only in size to the US Army itself.

It's a disparate and anarchic multi-national force of men gathered from twenty or more countries numbering some 30,000. It's a mercenary army of men and a few women with guns for hire earning an average of $1,000 dollars a day. They are in Iraq to provide security for the businessmen, surveyors, building contractors, oil experts, aid workers and, of course, the TV crews who have flocked to the country to pick over the carcass of Saddam's regime and help the country re-build.

Not since the days when the East India Company used soldiers of fortune to depose fabulously wealthy Maharajas and conquer India for Great Britain, and mercenaries fought George Washington's Continental Army for King George, has such a large and lethal independent fighting force been assembled. Once upon a time such men were called freelances, mercenaries, soldiers of fortune or dogs of war, but today they go under a different name: private military contractors. There's a far more fundamental sea change, too, as women have joined their ranks in significant numbers for the first time, bringing a new and interesting dynamic into the equation.

In Iraq today the majority of their number are men who come from 'real deal' Special Forces units or former soldiers from regular units and regiments; all of them know what they're about and rub shoulders together more or less comfortably with at least a shared understanding of basic military requirements.

One such man is John Geddes, ex-SAS warrant officer and veteran of a fistful of hard wars who became a member of the private army in Iraq for the eighteen months immediately following George W. Bush's declaration of the end of hostilities in early May 2003. Now, for the first time, John Geddes will reveal the inside story of this extraordinary private army and the private war they are still fighting with the insurgents in Iraq.

Please Enjoy Your Happiness by Paul Brinkley-Rogers

3.56/5 stars

Please Enjoy Your Happiness is a beautifully written coming-of-age memoir based on the English author's summer-long love affair with a remarkable older Japanese woman.

Whilst serving as a seaman at the age of nineteen, Brinkley-Rogers met Kaji Yukiko, a sophisticated, highly intellectual Japanese woman, who was on the run from her vicious gangster boyfriend, a member of Japan's brutal crime syndicate the yakuza. Trying to create a perfect experience of purity, she took him under her wing, sharing their love of poetry, cinema and music and many an afternoon at the Mozart Café.

Brinkley-Rogers, now in his seventies, re-reads Yukiko's letters and finally recognizes her as the love of his life, receiving at last the gifts she tried to bestow on him. Reaching across time and continents, Brinkley-Rogers shows us how to reclaim a lost love, inviting us all to celebrate those loves of our lives that never do end.

A Thousand Hills: Rwanda's Rebirth and the Man Who Dreamed It by Stephen Kinzer

4.19/5 stars

A Thousand Hills: Rwanda's Rebirth and the Man Who Dreamed It is the story of Paul Kagame, a refugee who, after a generation of exile, found his way home. Learn about President Kagame, who strives to make Rwanda the first middle-income country in Africa, in a single generation. In this adventurous tale, learn about Kagame's early fascination with Che Guevara and James Bond, his years as an intelligence agent, his training in Cuba and the United States, the way he built his secret rebel army, his bloody rebellion, and his outsized ambitions for Rwanda.

6 notes · View notes