#conversations with dead people

[grogusmum]

November: Mourning Moon

A Conversations with Dead People Companion

This one probably does require reading the original fic; you can find it here

FRANKIE MORALES X F!READER with Holly

W/C 1400ish

WARNING: angsty, dead wife, ghost, that's about it.

A/N Welcome to my very late November installment for @yearofcreation2023 (a fantastic notion by @oonajaeadira.)

Frankie climbs the steps of the 400-year-old cemetery, this time with his daughter, Julieta. Snow has been falling for a good twenty minutes, and last night's snow crunches underfoot. It’s not unheard of to have snow in November in the Northeast, even if it’s becoming more rare. It’s been a little more than a year since Frankie’s first visit with Holly. It only takes a moment before she falls into silent step with them. Slipping between them, as they seem to have left space for her, she takes each of their gloved hands in her bare ones.

“I'm so glad to see you, my loves.”

“Holly,” Frankie sighs. “Missed you, babe.”

“Mama!” 

“Oh jellybean, I'm so glad you came," Holly brings her daughter's hand to her cold cheek, then turns to her husband, “You came.”

“Yeah.”

“But not just to say hello.”

“Yeah,” Frankie looks at his wife, looking just as she did in life. This isn't going to be easy. “I've- I-”

Holly smiles, right up to her eyes -

“You've met someone.”

Frankie just gives a tight smile, she always makes things easier, he should have remembered.  His eyes go bright, and he rubs his face with his free hand. 

“Darling, that's truly wonderful. You deserve it, Frankie. And you deserve a mama.”

“I only have one mama, but I like her,” Julieta says. 

as they reach the top of Burial Hill the wind kicks up, snow swirling unable to decide which way is down. They are alone, no dog walkers, no couples taking in the view. It's beautiful but cold.

“We just wanted to tell you that. I don’t know, I couldn't just… not without your blessing.”

“You know my answer,” Holly says, giving Frankie a chilly kiss on the cheek, he shivers and smiles. “Tell me all about her.” 

Frankie tells Holly where you are from, what you do… how he feels when he's with you. Julieta shares stories of the first time you came to her soccer game, and how you make the best hot chocolate- with a quick apology, meaning no offense to Holly’s cocoa. To which Holly gifts them with the hearty laugh they love so well. 

“You aren't offending me, jellybean, it comes from a box!  But watch out, I hear the Swiss Miss gets migh-ty jealous!”

“We told her all about you. She wants to come and visit,” Julieta says, swinging Holly's arm as they walk and hold hands.

Holly looks at Frankie, then at Julieta-

“Me me? Or my -” Holly nods at the white gravestone a few paces away. 

“I told her I talk to you a lot, and about that time last fall…” 

“You did?”

“Yeah, and she wasn't weirded out at all. She doesn't expect you to come to her- make yourself um… known. She just wants to put a wreath on your grave, pay her respects.”

You sat in the little coffee place on the main street, mindlessly stirring your tea, watching the windows for Frankie and Julieta. The wreath you made of blue spruce, juniper berries, pine cones, and of course, holly, a wide white grosgrain ribbon tied in a single fluffy bow sits on the seat next to you. You don't expect to see Holly. No. But you figure she'll hear you… you thought about all the things you wanted to tell her, trying to imagine being at the receiving end of it. As if you are the one who lost her life, the love of her life, and the apple of her eye… you close your eyes, a small tear slips down. 

Are you being weird? Performative? 

Just then you see the two most important people to come into your life, saving you from spiraling.

They wave. Frankie gives Julieta some money and kisses her head, then comes to your table while his daughter goes to the counter. He kisses your forehead and sits, “Jules is ordering us a warm-up. It's freezing up the hill. The wind.”

You nod, and another sneaky tear rolls down.

“Hey,” Frankie's brows knit together, “are you- did something happen?”

Frankie looks around for the culprit. You huff a smile at his protectiveness. You found yourself a bulldog, complete with soft, sad brown eyes, who loves his belly rubbed.

“I'm just- it's an emotional day. I guess.”

“I guess it is,” Frankie nods.

After hot chocolate and coffee (and the cookie the size of Jules' face), everyone is warmed up and bundles up to climb back up the hill.

Holly keeps her distance this time, watching the three of you reach the crest of the hill. Frankie puts his hand on your lower back, guiding you on the snow-covered brick path toward Holly’s stone. Holly pines for that hand, warm and solid on the small of her back, just one more time. Pearly tears spill over. She isn't jealous, well, that's not true. Holly is envious of you; she's just not angry with you. She feels swindled, but not by you. You are again bringing joy to her husband and child, love and care that Holly can not provide anymore. She's grateful for you, just incredibly sad for herself. 

Holly pops over to the stone, their destination, and continues observing you. You have kind eyes, carrying a rueful smile. At least now it is, understandably, but Holly can see the shadow of crinkles around your eyes and laugh lines. You have a lovely wreath. If Holly had to picking one out of a million for herself, she would have chosen that one. 

You look at Jules and kiss her brown curls; they look at Frankie like you're looking for some help. He gives your hand a squeeze.

“It's a beautiful stone,” you murmur. Frankie puts a little rod, like a shepherd's hook, in the ground before it. Since it’s so early in the season, the ground isn't frozen hard despite the snow. Then, you hang the wreath on it. 

“Thank you for your family,” you say, and then cringe a little; Frankie kneels next to you, taking your hand in his. He nods.

“I'm…” you look at them with pleading eyes.

Julieta takes your other hand and introduces you. You kiss a thank you on her temple.

“I just wanted to come and give my respects, to um, tell you that I love your husband, and your kid here is a delight. By the photos all over the house, I can see she is the perfect combination of the two of you. I just wanted t-to assure you that they will be cared for, I hope nearly so well as when they were with you. Because, I can see your love everywhere in that house. The nursery room mural you painted full belly pregnant with Jules here, Frankie's shown me photos of your gardens. And the recipe book you put together b-before… everything, so Frankie could make all his and Julieta’s favorites. I can't replace you, of course, no one can. But I hope - well, I just-”

You look up at the white stone, your knees cold in the snow but your face hot, trying to find the words.

Holly moves to stand behind the headstone, looking down at your worried face, and puts out her hand. You blink. A graceful hand suddenly appears before her stone, right between the carved words wife and mother. Your eyes slowly follow the wrist, then arm, to the face of Holly Morales. 

After a small gasp, you take her outstretched hand and stand. Frankie and Jules slowly follow.

“Thank you for loving my family,” Holly says, placing her other hand over yours. You can feel the seeping cold through your glove, but you feel no reason to shiver. Her eyes are so full of love and gratitude and grace. “I am entrusting them in your care.”

“I do,” you say, “I mean, am, I will love and care for them with all my heart.”

“and let them care for you, and love you,” Holly so wisely adds.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes.

“I will.”

Holly looks at Jules, hand grazing her cheek. Her eyes travel to Frankie's, his tears falling freely. Unnoticed, the snow had stopped falling, and sunshine fought its way past the clouds.  Only noticed now when a shaft brightened the hill, causing a swirl of snow caught on the wind to sparkle like diamonds. And in that shimmer of snow and light, Holly is gone.

Frankie presses a kiss to your temple.

“She likes you.”

THANKS FOR READING! 💚

Year of Creation: the Wheel of the Year Masterlist

MAIN MASTERLIST

If you care to be tagged for any of my works, my taglist form can be found here! I've added my Year of Themed Creations Series

#wheel of the year #year of creation #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x f!reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #conversations with dead people

[herinsectreflection]

Buffy + love and pain.

#'i hate it when vampires conflate love and pain' says the woman who conflates love and pain #buffy summers #parallels #conversations with dead people #smashed #never leave me #intervention #something blue #spike

[girl4music]

“Intent guys. Intent.”

I’ve been saying this forever when it comes to this.

Spike’s chip works like an intention alarm. If he does not intend to do harm, then his chip does not go off.

People have cited “Tara” as the excuse for this. But I’ve already argued that the reason why his chip goes off in that scene even if he never intended to hurt Tara is because he intended to hurt Mr. Maclay.

So it’s not just about physical harm. His trigger goes off only if he INTENDS to do any kind of harm. Physical or not. This arc makes far more sense this way rather than if it was just physical harm.

So rather than something being wrong with Buffy in Season 6 as to why Spike can hurt Buffy without his chip going off, maybe it’s more so because he never actually intended to hurt her. It’s just performative.

Deep down, his attempts of violence and assault were not about causing Buffy any harm. They were, in a way, huge respect and faith in her level of strength and power. And the writers decided to completely go against that in what happened in ‘Seeing Red’ because Spike never intends to hurt Buffy. He does hurt her, sure, but it’s not his intention and therefore his chip wouldn’t go off.

Putting Spike’s ability to harm Buffy down as Buffy’s fault was a huge mistake. She is not to blame for Spike’s sense of entitlement of her affection and reciprocation at all. I think this is how they put it right. They make it clear that Spike always had a choice by showing he doesn’t now with The First.

In a way, Spike’s chip was a very cruel trick because it taught Spike to not intend to cause harm. It’s like an animal shock device and The First is now using that functionality to take advantage of Spike. Spike’s chip doesn’t go off at all now because Spike is not the one intending to harm. Instead… The First is.

It’s not a fault or a defect. It works the way it’s supposed to. There’s actually nothing wrong with Spike’s chip until it actively starts harming him without there being any logical reason for it to.

Doing harm is different from intending to do harm. You can harm someone without intending to harm them and Spike never intends to harm anyone anymore except those that actually deserve it.

And a huge problem with ‘BtVS’ is that they make a huge distinction between human/demon as good vs evil by saying that only demons deserve to be hurt.

‘Wynonna Earp’ handles good vs evil much better in that they have the “heroes” question their intentions. I would very much say Spike was prime for that if ‘BtVS’ was brave enough to go there. To change the lore up to “good is as good does/evil is as evil does”. They only give Spike this “hero” status now because he has a soul and not because he already learned his lesson.

#buffy the vampire slayer #conversations with dead people #sleeper #buffy summers #sarah michelle gellar #spike #james marsters #spike’s chip #intention #functionality #misinterpretation #good vs evil #buffy reaction #sofiereacts

[still-nix-d-goffic]

Sign that "Conversations With Dead People" is actually the scariest episode of the series, I just have to hear that salsa music start playing while Dawn is home alone and my skin starts to crawl.

#btvs #rewatch rambles #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy #dawn summers #conversations with dead people

[buffysummers]

now do a top 10 best episodes don't be shy<3

Sorry, just now getting to this ask!! It's so tough choosing a top 10 Buffy eps, and I feel like my list is constantly changing. But this is what I think currently (with #1 being the best):

The Body 5.16

Once More, With Feeling 6.07

Becoming (Part 2) 2.22

Hush 4.10

Innocence 2.14

The Gift 5.22

Passion 2.17

Chosen 7.22

Graduation Day (Part 1) 3.21

Restless 4.22

#honorable mentions: #enemies #conversations with dead people #tabula rasa #amends #doppelgangland #the wish #prophecy girl #becoming part 1 #graduation day part 2 #anonymous #answered #buffy thoughts #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer

[elliebartlets]

No seriously the moment Willow realized it wasn’t Tara talking through Cassie I legit got fucking goosebumps. I actually got scared and had to turn on my light cause I’m a baby. Poor Willow did not deserve that. That was so cruel. I read Cassie was originally supposed to be Tara, but Amber Benson didn’t want to appear as “evil Tara”, plus scheduling conflict. When I originally found out Willow was talking to Tara I was like “why didn’t they bring back Amber Benson!?” but seeing how this turned out I’m like, ok yeah I’m really glad it wasn’t her. That would’ve been even crueler. (Is crueler a word?)

Loved the entire sequence with Dawn and Joyce. So fucking creepy. For some reason it reminded me a bit of the Exorcist (could be way off base with that, as I’ve never even seen the Exorcist). I think it was the cuts she got on her face and, y’know, trying to expel a demon. Of course the house was in complete disarray and the windows exploded, again. Seriously how many times do you think they’ve replaced those windows?

Buffy having that whole conversation with the vampire was funny and different, cause y’know she usually just kills them, and obviously important as it showed some insight into her character and how she thinks of herself, but I just felt like it went on for too long. Just my opinion though. I also thought why didn’t they bring back someone minor who we remember (kinda like the equivalent of Harmony) but I know now she needed a stranger so she could open up.

I missed Xander and Anya so I wonder how adding them in would’ve changed the episode/my opinion on it. (I already read that they thought about having Xander haunted by Jesse, his friend from season 1, and Anya have with Halfrek but there wasn’t enough time/scheduling conflicts.)

Spike is out siring people, which just proves having a soul means nothing. I’m wondering if it’s cause he was in the school basement for so long and the big bad got to him?

And what the fuck even is the big bad? It turned “Cassie” into something with a joker smile and then turned inside out and disappeared? No thank you. Were Joyce and Warren also part of the big bad?

Oh and Jonathan died, I guess? I mean out of the trio I’d pick him but I’m not really upset about that.

**as always, if anyone actually reads this (ha, as if) please do not give spoilers please and thanks**

#btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #conversations with dead people #la la la la la talking to myself about buffy #conversations with dead people more like conversations with myself

[flyteitout]

ME: Okay, so, now that I’ve caught you up on the last 400 years, I *really* need to know: WTAF did the angels look like when they were chilling with Adam and Eve?

MILTON: You went to the moon?

ME: Yes. Please focus. Was it the horrible floating eye creature that the internet is obsessed with or—

MILTON: Was my friend Galileo right? Is it a planet like Earth?

ME: Wha—no, not exactly—Please. I need to know. If angels were terrifying floating orbs of eyeballs and light, how could Lucifer get disfigured? Like, how could he possibly be any worse than—

MILTON: I think it’s great that he got those other four planets named after him, for what it’s worth. The ones around Jupiter, I mean. He definitely deserves it.

#Milton #paradise lost #conversations with dead people

[elisaenglish]

Testimony to a Ghost-Like Heritage

The objective here isn’t to offer a critique of Flaubert or an intertextual reading of Madame Bovary and Jean-Paul Sartre’s L'Idiot de la famille, both of which bear more than scant relevance to the matter at hand. However, I do want to take Flaubert’s general cultural position as an “apostle” of his craft and the ideology of “pure art” as it pertains to his mid-nineteenth century experiential despair and do a little thinking.

And no, I’m not going to record what I’m thinking. I’m just leaving you two contextual steers—a) Flaubert is arguably the quintessential post-Romantic; and b) He fashioned quite the line in rage-against-an-unliveable-bourgeois-reality angst—and twenty-one excerpts from his letters that push the sacred envelope right off a meta-literary cliff. “Psychobiographique,” Sartre called it. I prefer to frame it as elucidation or, at least, the potential for something rather special—if, of course, you’re predisposed to such a thing. And it’s always a mighty big “if...” but still, it amuses me.

So, to what extent do you agree? Did Flaubert know the moment then? Or prophecy the decades hence and predict the burden now?

Three... two... one, ma fleur...

“Mediocrity is creeping in everywhere; even stones are becom­ing stupid [bêtes], and highways too are stupefying [stupides]. Perish though we may (and perish we shall in any case), we must employ every means to stem the flood of excrement [merde] invading us. Let us take flight in the ideal, since we no longer have the means to dwell in marble halls and don pur­ple gowns, have humming-bird feather divans, swansdown carpets, ebony armchairs, tortoise shell floors, solid gold can­delabra, or lamps carved in emerald. And so let us blast out [guelons] against gloves made of shoddy, against office chairs, against mackintosh, against economical stoves, against imita­tion luxury, against imitation pride. Industrialism has devel­oped to ugly and gigantic proportions. How many good peo­ple who a century ago could have lived without Beaux Arts now cannot do without mini-statues, mini-music, and mini­ literature! Take a simple case—the ominous proliferation of bad drawings by lithography... We are all fakes and char­latans. Pretense, affectation, humbug everywhere. Crinoline has falsified buttocks. Our century is a century of whores, and so far what is least prostituted is the prostitute.” [January 29, 1854]

“I hate bourgeois poetry, domestic art, although I engage in it. But this is the last time. At bottom it disgusts me. This book, composed of calculations and of stylistic ruses, is not of my blood. I do not carry it in my entrails... I feel it is an entirely willed and factitious thing. This will perhaps be a tour de force that certain people (a very small number indeed!) will admire, and others will find in it some truth of detail and observation. But air! Air! The grand turns of phrase, the large and full periods rolling like rivers, the multiplicity of metaphors, the great bursts of style—all that I love will not be there. At best I shall emerge from it better able to write something good later on.” [May 21-22, 1853]

“What drives one to despair is thinking that, even if it is success­ful in attaining perfection this [scene in Madame Bovary] can only be acceptable [passable] and will never be beautiful be­cause of its very subject [or content—à cause du fond même]. I do the work of a clown; but what does a tour de force prove after all? No matter: “God helps those who help themselves.” The cart is, however, at times quite heavy to be extricated from the mud.” [July 12, 1853]

“At the present moment I believe that a thinker (and what is an artist if not a triple thinker?) should have neither religion, country, nor even any social conviction. Absolute doubt now seems to me so completely substantiated that it would be al­most silly to seek to formulate it... Yes, it would be a relief to vomit out all this immense contempt that fills the heart to overflowing. What good cause is there these days to arouse one’s interest let alone one's enthusiasm?” [April 26, 1853]

“They [socialists] have denied suffering, they have blasphemed three­ quarters of modern poetry, the blood of Christ which is active in us. Nothing will extirpate it, nothing will dry it up. The point is not to desiccate it but to make it turn into streams. If the sentiment of human insufficiency, of the nothingness of life were to perish (which would be the consequence of their hypothesis), we would be more stupid [bêtes] than birds, who at least perch in their trees.” [September 13, 1852]

“Have patience, when socialism is established, we will arrive at the peak of this genre [the sufferings of the artist]. In this reign of equality—and it is approaching—one will skin alive all those who are not covered with warts. What difference do Art, poetry, and style make for the masses? Give them vaude­ville, treatises on work in prisons, on worker cities and the material interests of the moment, yet. There is a permanent conspiracy against originality,—this is what must be crammed into their brains. The more you have of colour and relief, the more you offend them. From whence the prodigious success of the novels of Dumas? It’s because to read him you need no initiation. The action of the novels is amusing. One is distract­ed while one reads them. Then, the book once closed, since no impression remains with you and all of it has passed by like clear water, you can return to business. Charming!” [January 20, 1853]

“You know that I’m a man of passion and weakness. If you could only know the invisible nets of inaction which enmesh my body and all the mists which befog my mind. I sometimes feel so much weakness that I could die of weariness when I’ve got to do anything, and it is only by the greatest effort that I can grasp even the clearest idea. My youth drugged me with some kind of opium of boredom for the rest of my life. I hate life! That has escaped me in spite of myself—well let it stand! Yes, life, and everything which reminds me that I must en­dure it.” [October 21, 1851]

“What is characteristic of great geniuses is generalisation and creation. They encapsulate diverse personalities in a single type and bring new personages before the consciousness of humanity. Don’t we believe in the existence of Don Quixote as in that of Caesar? Shakespeare is formidable in this respect. He was not a man but a continent; there were in him great men, entire crowds, landscapes. Writers like him don’t have to worry about style; they are powerful in spite of all their faults and because of them. But as for us, the little people, our value depends on perfected execution. Hugo, in this century, will rout everybody, even though he is full of bad things: but what lung-power! I will here risk a proposition that I wouldn’t dare utter anywhere else: that very great men often write very badly—and bravo for them. To discover the art of form, one should not go to them but to writers of the second order (Horace, La Bruyere). One must learn the masters by heart, try to think like them, and then take leave of them forever. To learn technique, it is more profitable to go to the erudite and skillful.” [September 25, 1852]

“What crapulous low-life these peasants are! Oh! How I believe in race! But race no longer exists! Aristocratic blood is ex­hausted; its last globules no doubt have coagulated in a few souls. If nothing changes (and this is possible), perhaps before a half-century has passed, Europe will languish in great shad­ows and those sombre epochs of history where nothing shines will return. Then a few, the pure, will keep among them­selves, sheltered from the wind and hidden, the imperishable little candle, the sacred fire, where all illuminations and ex­plosions come to take flame.” [March 25-26, 1853]

“There are two kinds of literature, that which I shall call na­tional (the better one) and then the lettered, the individual. For the realisation of the first, one must have in the masses a fund of common ideas, a solidarity (which does not exist), a bond; and for the entire expansion of the other, one must have liberty. But what may one say and concerning what should one speak now? Things will get worse; I wish and hope for it. I prefer nothingness to evil and dust to rottenness. And then there will be renewal! Dawn will come again! We shall no longer be around. What difference does it make?” [December 28, 1853]

“Humanity hates us [artists]. We do not serve it, and we hate it because it injures us. Let us love one another in Art as mystics love one another in God, and may all else pale before this love... Lovers of the Beautiful, we are all banished ones. And what joy we feel when we encounter a compatriot in this land of exile... Oh! practical men, men of action, sensible men­ how I find you inept, asleep, blinkered!” [August 14-16, 1853]

“One must shut oneself off and pursue with lowered head one’s work—like a mole. If nothing changes, there will be formed in a few years guilds [compagonnages] more tight-knit than all secret societies. Above and beyond the crowd, a new mysticism will grow and elevated ideas will sprout up in the shade and on the brink of precipices, like fir trees.

But a truth seems to me to emerge from all this. It is that one has no need of the vulgar, of the numerous element of majorities, of approbation, of consecration. 1789 demolished royalty and nobility, 1848 the bourgeoisie, and 1851 the people. There is no longer anything other than a low-life and imbecilic mob. We are all plunged at the same level in a com­mon mediocrity. Social equality has passed into our minds and hearts. One makes books for everybody, Art for every­body, science for everybody, as one builds railroads and public heating rooms. Humanity is seized by moral abasement, and I have a grudge against it because I am part of it.” [September 21-22, 1853]

“What seems beautiful to me, what I should like to write is a book about nothing [un livre sur rien], a book dependent on nothing external, which would be held together by the strength of its style, just as the earth, suspended in the void, depends on nothing external for its support; a book which would have almost no subject, or at least in which the subject would be almost invisible, if such a thing is possible... From the standpoint of pure Art one might almost establish the axiom that there is no such thing as subject, style in itself being an absolute manner of seeing things.” [January 16, 1852]

“Life is such a hideous thing that the only way to put up with it is to avoid it. And one avoids it by living in Art.” [May 18, 1857]

“I remember having had flutterings of the heart, to have felt a violent pleasure in contemplating a wall of the Acropolis, an entirely blank wall... Well! I ask myself whether a book, independently of what it says, can produce the same effect. In the precision of its assemblages, the rarity of its elements, the polish of its surface, the harmony of the whole—is there not an intrinsic virtue, a kind of divine force, something eternal like a principle? (I speak as a Platonist.)” [April 13, 1876]

“The author in his work should be like God in the universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere. Art being a second nature, the creator of this nature should act by analogous procedures. One should feel in all the atoms, in all the as­pects, a hidden and infinite impersonality. The effect for the spectator should be a sort of astonishment.” [December 9, 1852]

“As for my “lack of conviction,” alas! Convictions suffocate me. I burst with repressed anger and indignation. But in the ideal that I have of Art, I believe that one ought to reveal nothing of oneself, and that the artist should no more appear in his work than God in nature. Man is nothing, the work is every­thing! This discipline, which can take its departure from a false viewpoint, is not easy to observe. And for me, at least, it is a sort of permanent sacrifice that I make to good taste. It would be quite agreeable for me to say what I think and to alleviate Mister Gustave Flaubert by phrases; but what is the importance of Mister Flaubert?” [December 20, 1875]

“One does nothing great without fanaticism... Fanaticism is faith, faith itself, ardent faith, that which creates works and is active. Religion is a variable conception, an affair of human invention, finally an idea; the other is a sentiment... In Art as well, it is the fanaticism of Art that is the artistic sentiment. Poetry is only a way of perceiving external objects, a special organ which filters matter and, without changing it, trans­figures it.” [March 31, 1853]

“I am turning toward a kind of aesthetic mysticism (if those two words can go together), and I wish it were more intense. When you are given no encouragement by others, when the outside world disgusts, weakens, corrupts, and stupefies you, decent and delicate people [gens honnêtes et délicats] are forced to seek somewhere within themselves a more suitable place to live. If society continues on its present path, I think we shall once again see mystics, such as existed in all dark ages. Unable to spend itself, the soul will become concentrated. The time is not far off when there will be a resurgence of universal lan­guishing, beliefs in the end of the world and the expectation of a Messiah. But lacking any theological foundation, what will be the basis of this enthusiasm that is ignorant of itself? Some will look to the flesh, others to old religions, still others to Art; and Mankind, like the Jews in the desert, will adore all sorts of idols. People like us were born too soon. In twenty-five years, the point of intersection will be superb in the hands of a master. Then prose—prose especially, the younger form­—can play. Books like the Satyricon and The Golden Ass will re­turn, but overflowing psychically as those overflowed sensually.” [September 4, 1852]

“For me the sad grotesque has an unheard-of charm. It corre­sponds to the intimate needs of my buffoonishly bitter nature. It does not make me laugh but dream at length [rêver longue­ment]. I take hold of it wherever it is to be found, and I, like everyone, carry it in me: that’s why I love to analyse myself. It’s a form of study that amuses me. What prevents me from taking myself seriously, although I have a rather grave spirit, is that I find myself very ridiculous—not with that relative ridiculousness which is the theatrical comic but with that ridiculousness intrinsic to human life itself and that springs from the simplest action or from the most ordinary gesture. For example, never do I shave without laughing, so stupid [bête] does it seem to me. All that is very difficult to explain and must be felt.” [August 21-22, 1846]

“What seems to me the highest thing in art (and the most difficult) is not to evoke laughter or tears, or lust or anger, but to work as nature does: that is to say, to induce reverie [faire rêver]. And the most beautiful works have in fact this quality. They are of severe aspect and incomprehensible. As for their technique, they are immobile like cliffs, stormy like the ocean, full of foliage, greenery and murmurs like woods, sad like the desert, blue like the sky. Homer, Rabelais, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, Goethe seem to me inexorable. Such works are unfathomable, infinite, multifarious. Through little gaps one glimpses precipices; there is a darkness below, diz­ziness.” [August 23, 1853]

#writing #quote #love #life #art #meaning #existential musings #all eternal things #love in a time of... #intelligence quotients #depth perception #understanding beyond thought #literary sensibilities #essential thinking #perspective matters #please be philosophical #underneath it all #the play's the thing #conversations with dead people #great minds #this is who i am #elisa english #elisaenglish

[alexandthensome]

More Danny & Jason Being Ghostie Bros. Because I said so

Danny gets sick a lot, like 90% of the time he’s functioning with a cold, or some sort of flu.

Half of it is because he’s got the immune system of a glazed donut after getting fried, dyed, and layed to the side, and the other half is because he’s got like -30000% self preservation skills. 

Jason on the other hand would rather fist-fight the devil than ever get sick even once, and one day he makes one too many jokes about Danny always having a cold

So sick Danny decides it would be a fun idea to fight even more crime just to prove that he’s better than Jason

This results in a lethargic Danny running around Gotham insisting that he’s fine while everyone else is trying to get him back into fucking bed

I imagine it would go something like this

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Danny: *perched atop a building watching Gotham from a distance* I am the protector of this city

Tim: Oh shit, hey buddy, we need you to get down from there please

Damian: *on the phone* Jason, come get your half-corpse boyfriend before he dies again

Jason: first off he’s not my boyfriend, and second he’s fine, you guys got this

Tim: *struggling* Danny no, put the baseball bat down

Danny: *being held down by Tim* I am vengeance

Jason: *sigh* I’ll come get him

#danny fenton #danny phantom #dc x dp #dp x dc #jason todd #tim drake #red hood #red robin #damian wayne #dc robin #bruce wayne #dick was not involved because this is above his pay grade #so Jason is in charge and that goes about as wel as you’d expect #Danny keeps whispering “I see dead people. #and for a second everyone forgets that he legit can see dead people #so they all freak out and poor Alfred has to listen to this whole conversation #he just walks in and goes “Master Fenton rules the ghost realm so technically yes he does see dead people #my post #my stuff

[thisisallthehattersfault]

Someone makes a choked, shocked sound. Someone else yelps. It occurs to Ace, somewhere between the howling in his ears and the ache in his lungs and the taste of salt and iron flooding his mouth, that this is probably pretty surprising for his brothers to witness. Maybe even downright upsetting.

The thing is, Ace was wading into the jungles on his own as early as four years old. Dadan taught him how to do basic shit like talk and wipe his ass, but he honestly didn't have a ton of human interaction before meeting Sabo. And the thing about Sabo was that he had more than enough human interaction for the both of them. Ace learned some manners from Makino, but while Sabo was still around, there wasn't really any reason to get... good, at people.

But then Sabo died, and Ace needed to teach himself not only to talk his way out of trouble but also how to be the nice brother, how to treat Luffy with the softness he needed and deserved, how to gentle his hands and his voice and his words. So Ace did that, because he needed to, and it turned out to actually be pretty useful for dealing with people when he wasn't actively looking for a fight. So he stuck with it.

Which is all to say that by the time he'd joined up with Whitebeard, Ace was as close to tame as he had ever been. Almost downright domesticated.

Ace snaps his head to the side, putting some real momentum into it, heaving with all his weight until something tears. When he drops to his feet he springs right back up again, lunging. He spits out his mouthful as he goes, lets his jaw drop open.

The thing is, Ace is a child of the wilderness. He raised himself among that wilderness, and then he raised Luffy among that wilderness. He's a son of the jungle at heart, no matter how good he's gotten at pretending to be a person.

The sea-stone cuffs are chaffing his wrists. He feels tired and heavy, but he doesn't need his fire to be dangerous. Doesn't even need his hands.

Teeth find an artery. Body-hot blood sprays his face as Ace bites down, lock-jawed and snarling. Rears back and rips.

Another marine goes down. Ace spits out a chunk of the man's throat and is already rounding on a third. Notices, with a vague annoyance, that he's gonna need to find a toothpick -- there's a scrap of tendon or something caught in his teeth.

Mmm. Boar. They had pork for dinner, ah, the other night? Three days ago? Something like that, but it doesn't taste the same as wild boar does. And anyway, meat on the Moby is always overcooked. Ace is allowed to eat blue steak, but everybody always yells at him when he tries to steal bites of poultry or Sea King or whatever else while it's still tender and bleeding. This fight is giving Ace a real craving!

Duck. Lunge. Bite down, hard, thunder of a rabbit-quick pulse against his tongue, bulge of tender flesh against his soft palate. Iron and salt in his mouth.

Fear has a flavor. It is bitter and acrid, reminiscent of char, and Ace hadn't liked it much when he was young and still learning how to hunt. It stiffens up the meat, too, makes it kinda chewy. Somewhere along the line, he'd acquired a taste for it, though. He still marks it as a point of pride, his ability to hunt and kill prey without it ever knowing he was there, roasting something that is tender-sweet and gives easily under his teeth -- but the taste of fear isn't so bad either. Sometimes he even prefers it, gets a craving for it. Like wild boar, he hasn't had it in a while. Maybe he'll chase down his own dinner tonight.

Ace rears back. Muscle fibers split, skin stretches until it snaps. A heave, and a body crumples to the ground, gurgling. He gnaws kind of idly on his mouthful while he catches his breath, snorting blood out of his nose and straining his ears. Sounds like the fight's over, then.

Another lump of trachea gets spat into the dirt. Ace turns to face his brothers, counting heads -- good, it looks like nobody got hurt too bad, everybody is still standing! He grins. Ah, they're all pretty pale though, that's a little bit concerning, he hopes nobody's in shock. He learned from Marco that that can happen to anybody, even if they've been in a whole lot of fights.

"Hey!" Ace chirps. "Is everybody okay?" His wrists are killing him. Also, he really needs a shower. He's got blood in his ears, how the hell did that happen? But first he jogs over to where the others are all standing, clumped together, still just. Kinda staring at him.

Okay. Concerning. "You guys alright?" He asks again, lower. "Is anybody hurt? What happened?"

"Ace, man," Deuce says. His voice sounds kind of shaky. He drags a hand through his hair, fucking it up even worse than it already is. "What the fuck was that?"

#One Piece #portgas d ace #fire fist ace #feral jungle child ace my beloved #cat in human body ace my beloved #Do you think ace has ever proudly presented whitebeard #with dead marines or enemy pirates or whatever #the way a cat presents their humans with a bird they caught? #Do you think ace gets lectured about the dangers of cannibalism and blood-born disease #because he ends up with human blood in his mouth during fights so often #and he gets offended and confused every time the conversation comes up #he's not a cannibal! He doesn't EAT people! What's wrong with you! #he's just fighting!!! That's all!!! #Marco tries to explain that blood in the mouth is blood in the mouth no matter how the blood got there #Ace is. Not listening. #Luffy does this too btw #Sabo did this once before his memories came back #and got the blood born disease lecture #and then he gets his memories back and goes right back to biting people #because it's What Ace Would Have Wanted

[grogusmum]

I am so excited to share this commission!

I jumped at the chance to have the ever talented and always delightful @stealyourblorbos make one of my fics come to life visually.

I chose Conversations with Dead People (Frankie Morales x OFC)

For folks who haven't read it, there's a little plot twist, so if you want to read without knowing anything, I'll put the picture under the cut.

Look at his smile! His NECK!! There is so much love in his eyes! 😭😭😭

Thank you so much, Jules. I am.so so happy with it. I can't even tell you how much!!

#fic art commission #pedro pascal #frankie morales #conversations with dead people

[chuthulhu-reads]

[ID: Two panels from Dungeon Meshi. The first scows Senshi clutching his face as tears start to spill out of his eyes, saying, "I've always... always wanted to have this soup one more time." He's not wearing his helmet in this panel, so his face is unusually visible, detailed and vulnerable. The second panel shows himself as a youngster, surrounded by his old mining team, all smiling at each other, one of them rubbing Senshi's head. Modern-day Senshi continues, "Thank you. All of you. Thank you." End ID.]

Holy shit. I anticipated some tragic backstory from the "I must feed the young ones" panels, but what I'd guessed was that Senshi might have become so devoted to cooking and eating literally whatever because he'd previously survived a famine and had seen children starve to death. I did not expect him to have been the child who was the sole survivor of a doomed travel party, one of whom was determined to feed Senshi first because he was the youngest, and that Senshi has lived with the fear of having inadvertently committed cannibalism by eating stew that he'd never quite known the contents of. I'm happy for him that Laios deduced and confirmed for him that it was griffin meat, that he was able to taste the meal that saved his life once more and remember the friends he lost. Seriously, I'm crying, and also earnestly relieved that while his backstory is pretty dark, it's not the type of fucked up I'd been preparing myself mentally for.

#Dungeon Meshi #Delicious in Dungeon #Dunmeshi #though it IS really worth exploring the ethics of cannibalism in survival situations #The podcast You're Wrong About has a really interesting pairing of episodes #in the Donner Party and Flight 571 Crash episodes #Both about disasters in which people wound up eating their dead to survive #and an interesting connection they drew was that it wasn't the cannibalism itself #that destroyed the lives of the Donner survivors #it was the horror and disgust and societal rejection they got for having eaten human flesh #even the children who had no idea what they were eating were treated with revulsion #and this is clearly the response Senshi feared facing if anybody knew what he'd eaten #But Flight 571 like a century later #the survivors were faced with a lot of understanding when rescued #relatively little condemnation and revulsion #by and large commentators acknowledged that they did what they had to do #and sympathized with how difficult and painful it must have been #which is what Senshi gets from his party #Laios wants to figure out the truth because he knows it's hurting Senshi not to know #But at one point Marcille straight up says that none of them would think less of Senshi if he did eat dwarf stew #Okay so this is Marcille 'ardent student of blood magic' Donato #but Chilchuck agrees #anyway I think that would be a particularly interesting conversation to have in a cooking manga #how do you safely eat a dead friend when that's all you have to survive on? #what are the nutritional benefits other than 'better than starving'? #what are the risks? There's prion diseases and all sorts you can get #they write it off as eating the dragon part but they DO spend seven days eating Falin at the end #ARE there any in/famous cannibalism cases in this world? #Do peopel argue about whether or not it's cannibalism if a dwarf eats a tallman? #enquiring minds (mine) want to know

[girl4music]

FAVOURITE BTVS EPISODE FOR EVERY SEASON

Season 1: Nightmares

Season 2: Becoming (Part 1)

Season 3: Doppelgängland

Season 4: Restless

Season 5: Family

Season 6: Once More, With Feeling

Season 7: Conversations With Dead People

Yours?

#buffy the vampire slayer #favourite episode for every season #season 1 #nightmares #season 2 #becoming part 1 #season 3 #dopplegangland #season 4 #restless #season 5 #family #season 6 #once more with feeling #season 7 #conversations with dead people

[silver-horse]

I discovered something huge about Rolan and Cal and Lia!

I hope I am the only one who didn't realise this until now but Cal and Lia are NOT Rolan's actual siblings.

I killed them just to use speak with the dead spell on them and Rolan's corpse said he has no family. He said only Cal and Lia are brother and sister and "Cal says I am family, but..." and the way he said it is so sad.

#rolan #this totally puts things into new perspective #he is so devastated when those two are captured and he feels so responsible for not protecting them #and it's not because they are his siblings... it's kinda worse than that... because #he has absolutely nobody and these two strangers who are siblings care for him like he is a third sibling #that would make the guilt so much worse! losing people like that who cared for him even though he had no blood relation to them #they simply knew each other since childhood based on their conversations #and he feels like he needs to earn his right to be part of the family but he let them down and they may be dead because of that #Lia #Cal #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #my post #my posts #bg3 mine #video #links #youtube #speak with the dead

[trans-androgyne]

“Transmascs just can’t handle transfems talking about transmisogyny!”

The talking in question: “Transandrophobia truthers are raging transmisogynists and should be killed”

#count is up to two on people calling for violence against transmascs this week #this is NOT about most posts about transmisogyny at all or criticizing transmisogyny theory OR about most transfems #but like I said ‘I want [transandropbia “truthers’’] dead’ & ‘we should start killing them’ have been going around #and that’s what a lot of people are responding to; not being called out for sincere transmisogyny #which absolutely can be perpetrated by transmascs and is probably present in the transandrophobia conversation bc every conversation has it #but this is about misrepresentating what these people are responding to #transandrophobia #transphobia #transandrophobia tw #violence tw #mine

[elliebartlets]

ummmm conversations with dead people??!!?!

#HELP #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #conversations with dead people