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prismatic-bell · 2 months

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If you have ADHD or any other neurodivergence (including physical brain damage) that causes forgetfulness and disorganized thinking, THIS POST IS FOR YOU. (If this doesn’t describe you, it might still be useful to you, but it’s aimed at my fellow forgetters.)

I cannot urge you enough to try going analog.

Look at this.

Of the six things I needed that aren’t crossed off (the fruit butter was optional and I was only getting it if they had plum): three have to be purchased at an ethnic grocery, two of them this store didn’t carry my brand, and one of them I prefer the onion selection at my regular store (this store had really tiny ones). You’ll notice none of these are “I forgot it.” They’re something I need to go to another store for, and that’s it.

There are four things in this cart that weren’t on my list: kosher chicken broth (which I know I’m out of and is always good to have on hand as a staple), a yahrzeit candle for my grandfather whose yahrzeit is coming up, an extra bag of sugar because I’m about to do my Purim baking, and a bottle of red wine vinegar because I know I’m also out of that and while it’s not technically a staple I do use it A LOT. You can literally look at my cart in this photo and match everything (except the chicken broth and red wine vinegar) to the crossed-off items on the list.

Everything on this list is going into planned meals for which I have the recipes on paper. And the dates they’re needed are written on my very analog calendar, hanging on my cupboard.

Compare this to digital lists, where I tend to forget half of what’s on them and fill my cart with stuff I don’t need, resulting in a ton of snacks and disparate ingredients that don’t actually make anything. During Covid I accidentally hoarded 40 rolls of toilet paper, and if you’re wondering how one accidentally hoards 40 rolls of toilet paper, it’s because every time I went to the store I went “…did I buy toilet paper? Better get one just in case, the shortage is still going.” I DIDN’T NEED TO BUY TOILET PAPER FOR A YEAR AFTER THE VACCINES STARTED ROLLING OUT. I was never sure if I’d bought it or just forgot to put it on the digital list. Analog forces me to stop, slow down, and pay attention instead of typing things in at the speed of light.

There’s actually a scientific explanation for this, and I learned it a long time ago so I’m going to ask forgiveness for being kinda vague on specifics here, but the basic version is that you use different parts of your brain for typing and writing, and the writing part is more closely linked with the memory part, so you’re more likely to remember something you’ve physically written down.

And remember: you don’t have to be ~*~*~aesthetic~*~*~ about this. I bought my grocery pad on Etsy because I’d rather give a small business my money than fluff Walmart, but the only reason the pens are two different colors is because the pen I carry in my purse is black and the ones in my mail caddy aren’t. That’s it, that’s literally the only reason. My calendar is color-coded, but it’s not complicated (red is bills going out, green is money coming in, blue is celebrations and events, brown is my work schedule, gray is non-bill deadlines, and turquoise is anything the roommates are doing that I need to be aware of). And it is making a tangible difference in my life. For the last two and a half months—in other words, since I started doing this—my bills haven’t just been paid on time, they’ve been PREPAID. I have the payment in BEFORE IT’S DUE. I’m more cognizant of what I have, what I need to save, and what I need to spend. This coming month is Pesach and my Pesach cleaning is going on there so I can get it all done correctly and timely. The calendar hangs on my tea cupboard so I have to look at it every day and the grocery list is right next to it.

This may not work for you. But pick one thing—a shopping list is an easy one to start with—and try it, just for a month. You might be stunned by how much it changes for you.

I certainly was.

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zablife · 2 months

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A Small Favor

John Shelby & Y/n Solomons (Partners in Crime AU)

Summary: Y/n has called John for a small favor…the removal of a dead body from Alfie’s kitchen. Who was the dead man and why was he there in the first place? That might be the biggest surprise of all.

Author’s note: Requested by @darklydeliciousdesires who wanted to know what this duo would do if tasked with disposing of a body. Ty for the wonderful inspo! Also, Rose is an OC belonging to @justrainandcoffee. She is Alfie's wife and an advocate for women. Quick reminder that Y/n is Alfie's sister.

Warnings: language, mention of a dead body and murder, weapons, blood

You sat watching steam rise from a piping hot cup of tea as John paced before you. “I don’t understand,” he said, twisting his cap in his hands.

“What?” you mumbled as you shoved a biscuit into your mouth.

“How did you manage it?” he asked with a note of genuine surprise, though he should have learned by now not to underestimate you.

You only shrugged as he gestured toward the hulking man splayed out before him on Alfie’s kitchen floor.

“Used me knife," you explained in a flat tone.

“Bloody hell,” he exclaimed with a low whistle. John stood over the mangled corpse stroking his chin thoughtfully before gazing back at you with pride. “Carved him up like a Christmas turkey!”

“Serves him right, filthy wanker,” you spat, wiping the crumbs from your lip with a shaky hand.

"Hey, you alright?" John softened momentarily, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

You narrowed your eyes at him, hating the look of pity you found staring back at you. "You seen the state of him? And you see me?" you gestured toward yourself with a flourish, demanding he acknowledge your victory. When he took a moment too long, you shoved him away. "Course I'm alright," you insisted stubbornly as you settled back into your chair, crossing your arms over your chest.

John let out a long sigh, wishing he'd never asked. Then recalling the trail of overturned furniture and broken glass leading to the kitchen, he changed the subject. "Was he looking for somethin'?" Opening and closing the cupboards as though he might find an answer hidden in the shelves, he called out, "Does Alfie still have that faberge egg?"

“Fuck no!" you vehemently denied. "Sold it ages ago to that toff who wanted it for his dog-faced cunt of a wife. Reckon she eats kibble out of it now or whatever the fuck rich people do."

John snorted out a laugh as he ran a hand down his face. How you could crack a joke at a time like this was beyond all comprehension. Turning back to his search, he opened another door, peering inside with intense scrutiny.

“Dunno what you're expecting to find," you muttered, irritation rising in your throat as you surveyed the room. "Not a sausage...."

John scratched his head as he glanced over his shoulder, “Is that a kosher thing?”

You rolled your eyes before clarifying, “Sausage and mash,” rubbing your thumb against your fingertips. When John still looked at you with a quizzical stare you shouted, “Cash, you daft cunt! If you think Alfie's stupid enough to hide anything of value here, you're a few sandwiches short of a picnic, mate."

He nodded in understanding. “Right, well….don’t matter why that fucker wanted in, we have to get him out.” He stood facing the man in question, removing a toothpick from his pocket and seesawing it between his teeth as he thought.

You quickly grew impatient, eyes darting wildly from the clock on the wall to John’s motionless form. “What are you waiting for? This is your speciality, ain’t it?” you asked in a high squeaky voice, anxious to move things along.

John spun around to face you, “And you’re such a big help sat there like a pudding!” he exclaimed taking a large step to swipe at you before slipping in a pool of the man’s blood.

You raced from the table to catch him, but he was already propelled halfway across the room, finally tumbling over and landing atop the dead man’s barrel chest. “ALLEY CAT!” he roared, face to face with the man’s hideous pallor of death.

Barely containing your laughter, you watched your partner in crime grimace before turning away to suppress a gag. “Smells like cheap whisky and piss,” he proclaimed.

“What do you reckon he smelt like? Bloody roses?” you asked, hoisting him up by the elbow.

John emitted a low growl before brushing himself off. Removing his jacket and tossing it aside, he crossed his arms, mouth twitching anxiously. “Can we get on with it?” he asked with a sigh that sounded like resignation to his fate. “You take one end, I’ll take the other,” he instructed with a nod of his chin.

John began wedging his arms beneath the man's upper body as you took hold of the thick legs which felt like two tree trunks. Hoisting the weight off the floor took a few moments and the body swung precariously between you, grunts and groans passed between you as you struggled to find equilibrium. Eventually you were able to take a few teetering steps backward and out of the kitchen doorway into the hall, but then you realized you didn't know where you were going after that.

“Wait! What’s the plan?” you demanded, knitting your eyebrows in confusion.

John snapped his head toward you, “Are you serious?"

"Well, we can't walk out of the house with him. People will notice," you pointed out.

"Just...keep...going," he instructed through clenched teeth. When you slowed your movements again he warned sternly, "If we stop now, you're going to break my fucking back."

"No...no, I don't like this, Barney," you said, shaking your head.

"You going to fight me the whole way?" he asked, nostrils beginning to flare in frustration.

“Do you want my help or not?” you huffed, dropping the pair of legs you were barely holding to begin with and placing your hands on your hips.

Dropping his half with a thud John laughed mirthlessly. He pointed at you, cheeks rosy with exertion and the tips of his ears beginning to match as his temper ignited. “You asked me to come, you ungrateful horse’s arse!”

"What did you call me?" you asked, rushing him and pinning him to the nearest wall, hand poised over your switch blade.

Just then someone cleared their throat and you both jumped, startled by the noise.

You broke away from John, looking up at a dark haired woman who stood above you in a halo of golden morning light. Her amber eyes were warm and held nothing but concern as she searched your face in wordless communication.

John frowned at you, his eyes darting between you as he wondered aloud, "Who the fuck is she?"

Ignoring him completely, you looked up at her unable to contain the burden of your guilt. You swallowed a lump in your throat as you admitted softly to her, "I didn't want you to see this."

"Is she one of Rose's women or..." he trailed off, watching her descend the stairs slowly and walk into your waiting embrace, placing a tender kiss to your trembling lips. "Do you two know each other?" he asked thickly. "Please, Y/n, I'm so confused," he pleaded.

When you parted, you were still holding her hand tightly in yours. "John, this is Eliana Armstrong."

"And him?" John asked cautiously, pointing at the body. "You know him, don't you?"

You nodded slowly, but Eliana spoke up. "His name is Harold Armstrong,” she said sadly, holding up her left hand to reveal a small gold band on her ring finger.

John's shoulders hunched and his brow creased as he thought.

"Give him a minute," you whispered next to her ear. "Got a nice boat, that one, but he ain't the brightest."

"Oi! M not deaf!” John scowled at you. Then turning to Eliana, he puffed out his chest, ready to defend you. "You had her kill your husband?" he hissed the accusation as he closed the distance in a few long strides. "You had no right to ask that of her!" he shouted, pointing a finger in her direction.

Quickly stepping between them, you placed a hand to his chest to halt his movements. "You've got it wrong," you stated simply.

"He was going to kill Y/n..." Eliana began before you hushed her.

"She told him she was leaving to be with me. He thought he could stop her by..." You stopped to inhale a sharp breath, thinking of the perilous fight you barely survived hours earlier. "Well...you know," you swallowed harshly, not wanting to give details. "I called you cos I knew you'd be there for me no matter what," you explained quietly. John's hands dropped to his sides, fists unclenching as all tension left his body with the shock of what he'd just heard.

"Oh, my God," he said, lowering himself by the banister to sit on the bottom stair. He knew something was off when you opened the door for him, possibly before that, when he heard a slight quiver in your voice on the telephone as you gave the code word for emergencies. His heart clenched in his chest at the thought of you reaching out to him before anyone else, speechless at your show of trust.

After a few minutes of deafening silence you needed to know if John was upset for being asked to clean up your mess. "Will you please say something?" you prodded gently.

John raised his head from where it hung cradled between his large hands, his bright blue eyes observing the body lying before him in Alfie's demolished house. His curious gaze finally resting upon your exhausted and disheveled form, he managed, "Is this why we never shagged?"

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tamamita · 6 months

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is it bad for non-muslims to use "halal" and "haram" casually, to mean something's allowed or not allowed? (similar to the way people say "that's kosher")

Let me tell you this, if you said those words around resistance fighters from Hamas or Hizbollah, they'd laugh and most likely invite you for tea, maqluba and shwarma. You'll do fine, lmao

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precious-little-scoundrel · 1 month

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what's mr. cleven like...down there, yk? obv he's packing, but i want details

Oh Nonnie, I love how these asks are starting to feel like a naughty sleepover, come on in, I’ve got the peppermint tea ready and the fairy lights on and posters of the Major staring beneficently down at us from the wall…he might turn a little pink at what I’m about to say but he can’t contradict me, he’s an honest man after all, and won’t countenance a lie

nsfw (AF) below the cut:

He’s packing alright, but he’s not packing in the grower, holy shit that’s not kosher or legal have a medic on standby Donkey Dick way of Major Egan. Instead he’s pretty much the shape and length and girth of an averagely large sex toy: in plainer words, he’s proportioned like God wanted to really give us recipients a treat both for the feels and the visual. Because he’s quite long, deliciously substantial around but not to the point of toting around a can of Bushes Baked Beans sorta circumference. What lays on his thigh when he’s soft is what you’re gonna get for the most part, he just swells up a little bit when excited. He’s a shower over a grower for sure but hey, it’s an impressive show as is.

Made more-so by the way it juts from those lean hips…

We can’t forget the veins. The veins are gorgous and they ripple and intertwine in ivory skin so prettily the whole of it could be a prototype for a church pillar or the next phallic-coded national monument. But not all of it is ivory skin and blue veins, the tip, oh my dears- the fat tip of him! Blunt and large as anything, I’m deeply distressed to inform you it’s every bit as pretty a shade as his lips and every bit as pronounced as them, too.

And the sheer amount of sputtering dribble that comes from it long before his climax arrives makes for the prettiest glaze all over.

And in case you think I just pulled this out of thin air, enjoy some evidence on at least a few aspects:

#masters of the air #thinking Gale thots #Gale Cleven #austin butler #naughty sleepover #cock-versations

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shanastoryteller · 1 year

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(long ask incoming sorry i copy pasted the recipe)

INGREDIENTS

Yield: One 9-inch loaf

½ cup/115 grams unsalted butter

2 tablespoons/6 grams chamomile tea (from 4 to 6 tea bags), crushed fine if coarse

1 cup/240 milliliters whole milk

Nonstick cooking spray

1 cup/200 grams granulated sugar

½ teaspoon coarse kosher salt

2 large eggs

1 large lemon

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1½ cups/192 grams all-purpose flour

1 cup/124 grams confectioners’ sugar

½ cup/8 grams freeze-dried strawberries

Step 1

In a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add 1 tablespoon chamomile to a large mixing bowl. Pour the hot melted butter over the chamomile and stir. Set aside to steep and cool completely, about 1 hour.

Step 2

Use the same saucepan (without washing it out) to bring the milk to a simmer over medium-high heat, keeping watch so it doesn’t boil over. Remove from the heat, and stir the remaining 1 tablespoon chamomile into the hot milk. Set aside to steep and cool completely, about 1 hour.

Step 3

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a 9-by-5-inch loaf pan with the nonstick cooking spray and line with parchment paper so the long sides of the pan have a couple of inches of overhang to make lifting the finished cake out easier.

Step 4

Add the sugar and salt to the bowl with the butter, and whisk until smooth and thick, about 1 minute. Add the eggs, 1 at a time, vigorously whisking to combine after each addition. Zest the lemon into the bowl; add the baking powder and vanilla, and whisk until incorporated. Add the flour and stream in the milk mixture while whisking continuously until no streaks of flour remain.

Step 5

Transfer the batter to the prepared pan and bake until a skewer or cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean (a few crumbs are OK, but you should see no wet batter), 40 to 45 minutes. Cool in the pan on a rack for 30 minutes.

Step 6

While the cake cools, make the icing: Into a medium bowl, squeeze 2 tablespoons juice from the zested lemon, then add the confectioners’ sugar. Place the dehydrated strawberries in a fine-mesh sieve set over the bowl and, using your fingers, crush the brittle berries and press the red-pink powder through the sieve and into the sugar. (The more you do this, the redder your icing will be.) Whisk until smooth.

Step 7

If needed, run a knife along the edges of the cake to release it from the pan. Holding the 2 sides of overhanging parchment, lift the cake out and place it on a plate, cake stand or cutting board. Discard the parchment. Pour the icing over the cake, using a spoon to push the icing to the edges of the cake to encourage the icing to drip down the sides dramatically. Cool the cake completely and let the icing set.

BLESSINGS UPON YOUR HOUSE

#recipe #asks #anon

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queer-talmid · 13 days

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things that do not need to be kosher for Passover

water

bleach

medication

dish soap

tea that is just dried leaves

carbonated water

#jewish stuff #We need to calm down a bit kay #this is excessive #Jumblr

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fromgoy2joy · 4 months

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Hi! I have been off and on about my converion for a few years. My biggest road block is when I am asked by Rabbi’s or others “what is your reason for converting?”. My answers always seem off putting to the asker (jewish theology resonates with me, jewish ancestry, a love for jewish philosophy and torah principles). I wanted to ask how did you answer and navigate this question at the beginning of your journey?

hello hello! This is such a fascinating question that will merit a *long* response, so sit down, make yourself comfortable, get some tea etc. Sorry for making you wait, but I thought this would be a good post for me to reflect on on a Shabbat I can’t observe. (Family thingz and drama eek)

I entered the Jewish community in a somewhat unconventional way. As a college student, I decided to convert after years of thinking about it and a lifetime of longing for it.

I could go into a whole tangent about that, but short story. I’ve always felt pulled to Judaism and I always tried to fix myself into being a good Catholic girl. One of my earliest memories at 6 was being told to name my stuffed monkey after a saint and I chose Moses for her. Because I wanted her (and me) to be Jewish.

So after years of self torment, I entered college, pretty sure that I was going to convert but completely unknowing of how to start. But school started in September- it was all high holidays and that’s like bursting in on Christmas (not accurate portrayal but from a cultural Christian POV.) I kept on making excuses.

It was a little revelation I had to myself on a seemingly innocuous Friday night. That if if all religion is “disproven” tomorrow, I would still want to practice these traditions, and pass it down to my children. I would still want to be apart of this community and follow the philosophies.

That night was October 6th.

Then I woke up on October 7th and my world had completely shaken. I can’t even put the words into how I felt- it was as if I had blown out the candles of a birthday cake joyfully, unknowing of the darkness I was letting in.

I wept at the constantly playing news. I went to memorial services at local synagogues and struggled through (and got better at ) the Hebrew. I stopped all ham consumption and started to attempt at keeping kosher. And I started going to the Jewish life room provided by our university more and more often.

No one would be in there in the odd times I’d come in, but I started to read “Judaism for Dummies” on their somewhat uncomfortable couch. I was delighted to see that it was too simplistic for me, that there was so much I already knew. Then I moved on to the more complex books about Jewish literacy, philosophy and stories to get more well rounded. But that’s a hard place to start where I know about intense philosophical questions but not the Shema.

I really got involved in the community. I went constantly to shabbats, introduced myself to people around and met with leaders. I went to rabbis’ houses and played with their children. I got involved in advocacy. I walked to a minyan on a Friday night a mile off in the rain. I learnt prayers and butchered the pronunciation.

By the time I actually sat down with my converting rabbi, I’d been immersed in Jewish life for around 3 months.

So I covered bases with him- how I felt about Judaism, how I had learnt and practiced my faith in the limited time I had, but most of all how I had gone through hell and back with the Jewish people and how I never wanted to leave them.

(And then I got assigned 600 pages of reading. So success but at what cost? Just kidding just kidding!

My recommendation to you is- as much as you can- immerse yourself in Jewish community. Make it to prayer services. Help out. And if they ask the “who, what, why, where, when” on your conversion, you don’t have to over-explain. Just smile and say “oh it’s a long story, but this feels like home. “

Because that’s what Judaism is to me - and what it sounds like for you too. Home.

You’ll refine your answers to the other hard questions later. It sound like you already have those answers and your “why” .But making yourself at home here is what I’d (from my experience) recommend you focus on.

#fromgoy2joy thoughts #fromgoy2joy asks #jumblr #jewish #jewish convert #ex catholic to jewish convert specifically #tw October 7 #October 7 #jewblr #jewish convert perspective #jewish conversion #jewish conversion journey #jewish joy

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arlechinav-blog · 1 year

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Using a Working Altar for Trancework

A working altar is something that I use in trancework. It is basically a community tool station and everything that is placed upon it has a specific purpose. Everything on it gets used by everybody who has come to trance. That altar is doing business. It is not there to look pretty, though it can also do that. Every item sitting on it plays an active role in the trance process. A trance altar is a hypnotic trigger (one of many) that aids in the process of trance. The same things are found on it every single time without much deviation. There will be incense (though the type may change depending on the type of trance being done), there will be flowers and herbs for tea (the type may change), there will be some kind of “grounding” food (chocolate, fruit, or dark bread are normal), there will be a plate for money, there will be a bowl and a pitcher of scented water, there will be oils and perfumes (types may vary), there will be votives for those who want to make them, and there will be salt.

(Pictured: The left half of my working altar. Just off camera to the right, you would find a pitcher of scented water and a basin to pour it over. Plus a whole heap of scented oils and wake-up water.) The photo above was taken just before a trance session in either 2016 or 2015. For basic trance, the color of the altar cloth does not matter. It can be anything that you are proud of that only gets used for trance. Everything placed on a trance altar has to be used, consumed, burned, or buried. (Not counting the bowls, plates, and jars.) This encourages a type of reverence and concentrated focus on trance that makes it easier to accomplish--part of the hypnotic trigger that now is time for trance. When these items come together in this way, trancework always follows.

There is a strong emphasis on responsible sourcing of materials. Take time and pay attention to detail when acquiring things for a trance altar.

ITEMS

Flowers & Herbs: Fresh picked or hand dried. Grow your own if you can or pick them wild. Edibles with heavy scents or flavors are best. Flowers can be dried afterwards and harvested for seeds. Beauty, scent, and nature establish a space of spiritual cleanliness.

Foods: Place small amounts of food on the altar but no meat. Fair-trade chocolate is good. Homemade breads are good. Homegrown fruit is good. Those who trance have to eat something when they are done.

Plates & Bowls: Glazed and unglazed pottery and brassware is always nice. Take the time to clean each item before and after trance work. You will need a water pitcher and a basin to catch the water so that people can wash their hands and face before you begin. Keepin' things clean here.

Scented Oils: Choose a scent for yourself that you will only use for trance and use it every time you practice and every time you sit down for a trance session but do not use it in your regular day to day life. It can be anything that has meaning to you but you have to be consistent in how you use it to gain its full benefits.

Votives: Candles, clay, stones--these are all foci that can be used according to your personal religious or spiritual practices. Some people like to light candles and make prayers, some like to shape clay offerings, some like to charge stones. We have diverse backgrounds. Some of us are religious, some of us are not. This is a way of synchronizing what we do together with who you are as an individual.

Salt: Funny thing about salt... “they” say it is used for “purification.” What that means is, “it keeps crawly bitey bugs away.” It also burns in pretty colors and is traditionally very valuable. I lay down chunky koshering salt around the area to keep things away from the places creepy crawly things don’t need to be.

BURNED OR BURIED?

Anything that doesn’t get used or consumed that has been placed on the altar, and is not reusable, should be either burned or buried. This is a pretty standard formula for Mediterranean ritual items. That which is burned goes to the gods/spirits of life. That which is buried goes to the gods/spirits of death. This includes flowers, herbs, leftover food, votives, and any salt that has been left on a plate. This does not include money, vials of oil, boxes of incense, your altar cloth, or your plates & bowls. If you/ your group are non-spiritual, you can either adopt this method, alternate between the two, and file it mentally under hypnotic suggestion OR come up with a different reverent manner of handling these items. No matter what you choose to do or why, there is a psychological benefit to treating trance/ritual items differently than you treat everything else so it is worth it to go through.

MONEY

How your group wants to handle money is totally up to you. I include it mostly because I want to prepare people for what the spectrum of normal looks like in living traditions of trancework around the Med. Just fostering an awareness and good manners. It is okay to ask for donations to cover using a space and buying supplies but you should never expect a single penny. When I lived in a place where busking was more prominent, I used to take whatever money was placed on the trance altar and give it all to the first busking musician I saw after. This was my way of thanking the spirit of the arts. Money given freely is the key. If you are the acting agent of the spirit of the arts and you keep that money, be prepared to accept what that means and what role you play.

When money is placed on a trance altar, it becomes a votive offering. The giver is asking whatever communal forces are at work for something in exchange. It is a very serious thing. There are multiple layers to it as well. The metal of coins, which used to be common currency, had/has a spiritual value. The metal was and is used as an apotropaic focus to break the evil eye, to drive away angry spirits, and to give the gods back what was borrowed to begin with.

Many living trance cults in the Mediterranean use the donations that people bring in to provide for their livelihood but those are almost entirely for possession cults. The people who do this traditionally are born into it and it is all they do. The people who come to them are not learning to trance or learning about trance. They already know what it is and they know exactly what they are paying for. Should you ever find yourself with them, do as they do and understand that it is a part of the experience.

INCENSE

(Pictured: My trance wife taking a smoky bath with stick incense. Note how the fabric is tented over the smoke to catch and hold the scent in. This takes a few minutes. Aim to saturate everything with the scent and be careful not to let hair or fabric come into contact with the burny bits.) Every scent has a purpose. Basic trance uses only one or two fragrances to keep things consistent while you are still building up your hypnotic associations. Catalyst trance utilizes a different scent for each type of trance. Possession trance uses a different scent for every type of spirit. Religious trance uses a different scent depending on the religion/deity involved.

If you are new to this, I recommend starting with labdanum resin or benzoin resin. Labdanum is specifically associated with protection, which is why I use it. Benzoin is also associated with a polite, warm, and welcoming place. Both are very appropriate for this kind of work. Pine resin is also good and easy to gather in some parts of the world.

I buy most of my resins from Greek Orthodox monks because few people take incense more seriously than they do and I know that it has been meticulously prepared. Also, I use a lot of the same scents. Source your incense however you want to and use whatever scents you want with your own group but have a reason for the ones you choose and stick to the same scent every time. Be consistent.

Incense is used to smoke bathe everyone and everything to include drums, votives, all trance wear, and all people involved with the trance session. Resin incense needs to be tended to so that when the resin has burned out, it can be quickly replaced.

Scent is the most spiritual of the senses. Good scents are believed to attract good spirits and bad smells attract harmful spirits. This is why many living traditions for trancework are extremely fragrant affairs. Incense is used in offering to all manner of gods and spirits. It is considered “spirit food.” In many cases, incense is viewed as a gift from a particular spirit or deity. Burning it sends the suggestion that the area is ready for good spirits to attend and be fed. One of the most impolite things you can do at a trance session is show up unwashed and reeking of BO.

That's the basics! Good luck with your magic floppy time!

#trance work #ecstatic dance #hellenic polytheism

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skyedom · 1 month

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ding dong!

who is it?

PEACH ICED TEA, BAYBEE

Honestly I want a GIANT cup of that peach iced tea now.

Iced peach tea for the win!

Edit: that reminds me, I used to order that one iced peach green tea lemonade drink from Starbucks all the time before when I started college and someone told me that the iced teas aren’t apparently kosher because the tea liquid was in the container for way more than 24 hours. :(

#eeeee <3 #finally my first genuine inbox message!!#peach iced tea #first inbox #inbox open #answered #inbox answers

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adminbryantsaki · 7 months

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Masterlist

This is just the list of spices I plan to write a story associating with the spice. The list includes: spices, herbs, and other dried fruits or flavors you may find in your parent or grandparent’s pantry. There will be some spices or herbs grouped into one category so I don’t end up writing more than the 31 stories I want to do for this month. I’d also like to thank my mom for helping me pull together this list of spices that she has shown me how to use in the wonderful meals that she makes. These stories will be themed for My Hero Academia. All the characters in these stories belong to Horikoshi Kohei. If this isn’t your cup of tea, blend of spices (haha in this case), or brew of coffee, move on. Reader discretion is advised.

Paprika- Sero Fluff.

Garlic- Fatgum Fluff

Onion- Tamaki overeating, weight gain, button popping

Star anise- Shouta- ABO

Basil- Hizashi- Naga, oviposition, ABO, aphrodisiacs, non-con.

Black pepper- Kurogiri- Monster fucking.

White pepper- Oboro-in the shower.

Caraway- Shouta- Springtime rut

Chili pepper- Hizashi- coming home from a long trip.

Chives- Fatgum- Road trip/ pulling off to the side/ semi-public.

Cilantro- Oboro/Kurogiri- Caretaker/nurse (Stockholm syndrome.)

Cumin- Shouta- Camping trip/ in a tent.

Turmeric- Gang Orca- Bodyguard- in the tour bus.

Dill (and dill weed)- Oboro/Kurogiri- Camping trip.

Fennel seed- Fatgum- hand job.

Mustard (ground, powder, and seed)-Hizashi- Camping trip

Oregano- Shouta- summer rut.

Parsley- Gang Orca- On a cruise ship

Salt (kosher, black, plain salt, iodized, Himalayan/pink)- Oboro/Kurogiri- On the beach.

Rosemary-Shouta- Fall rut.

Thyme (lemon thyme too)- Hizashi- on a forest trail

Sage- Fatgum-aftercare.

Tarragon- Shouta- winter rut.

Truffle- Kurogiri- in the kitchen.

Cardamom- Oboro- on cloud nine.

Dried fruits (Apple, orange, pineapple, mango, banana, blueberry, strawberry, apricots, dates… any others that I’m missing are thrown in here too) -Hizashi- Cock ring and cock warming.

Mint (and Peppermint/spearmint too) -Oboro/Kurogiri- aftercare

Vanilla- Shouta- aftercare.

Citrus( lemon, lime, orange, grapefruit.) – Hizashi- aftercare

Dried dandelion and nettle- Gang Orca- aftercare.

Pumpkin pie spice (Cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves, and allspice.) – Eri- trick or treat.

@chaos-night @reciproburstbaby @suzuki-violin-school

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nichenarratives · 7 months

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Hurricane Heller 17

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton.

last | first | next

[tw for: period typical anti-semitism; references to the 1918 influenza pandemic; graphic depictions of sickness]

17. Grippe's Grim Grip

It's 1918, America has been involved in the war for a year, but the home front is struggling; winter is clinging on even as March becomes April, forcing Mordecai to burn his last reserves of coal as the rains finally begin, heralding in spring after months of crippling cold. The damp is almost as horrid, feeding a creeping mold he struggles to keep at bay and soaking the tom on his daily commute to the casino, only compounding the resilient chill in his bones as the frost begins to abate.

With the continued economic retraction, food shortages and progressively aggressive inflation, the news of a new strain of influenza sweeping America goes mostly ignored as the tuxedo focuses on keeping his remaining businesses afloat. The customer base of his enterprises continually shrink until only the addicted or hopeless frequent the casinos, drinking establishments and dives in his care. Employees are laid off without warning or compensation, wages have to be cut and prices are raised to cover increasing expenditure, resulting in smaller net gain and general discontent across the board, Mordecai included.

His wage significantly reduced to the extent he's dipping into savings to keep his family fed and warm on a monthly basis, he can feel their new home getting further away each week, his progress draining in the wake of an impending economic collapse. As the boss, with no one to ask advice from and almost eighty employees relying on Mordecai to keep their jobs and livelihoods afloat while businesses sink all around them, work starts to monopolise his free time; every walk to his childhood home or quiet moment over tea is numbers and data, or scrambling for novel ideas to keep their customer base consistent.

Mordecai has even begun growing carrots in his window box, just to ensure there's something to eat should rationing worsen, yet he knows he won't keep them if it does; his family will be in far dire straits then he, and perhaps gifting produce would be a catalyst for reconnection, though he still hopes it does not come to such difficulties for all their sakes.

Preoccupied by these pressing matters, Mordecai pays the news of an encroaching novel influenza strain in Missouri no mind. He's had the flu before, almost everyone has. While exceptionally awful to endure, he considers it little more than an inconvenience. So despite the warning, and with renewed dedication to wearing gloves in public spaces, he ignores the hyperbole surrounding the misnomer-ed 'Spanish Flu'. There are more important things occupying his mind.

Numerous factors play into infection: he hasn't the mental reserves to prepare, nor money to purchase the suggested face coverings; his home is both inadequately heated and ventilated, permitting stale air to preserve viral particles with ease; seeking warmth at the casino due to his icy apartment greatly increase infection risk and finally; malnourishment from rationing that's compounded by kosher meat and dairy shortages, his immune system sits at substandard levels.

Mordecai feels exceptionally naive as The Grippe sweeps the city, and he is one of the first to fall ill.

The Grippe is nothing like common flu; his body aches are consistent with assault, while nauseatingly potent migraines and a wet cough - so violent it makes his ribs feel splintered - wrack Mordecai's body. For three days, he fights to remain conscious. Constantly bathed in cold sweat and weathering a raging temperature, he spends most of his time in a lukewarm bath, both in an attempt to control his fever and to eradicate the awful damp feeling across his entire body, which feels tacky under his fingers.

Despite her elderly, vulnerable state, Mrs Kovitz insists she'll look after him, leaving a bowl of fresh soup on his doorstep each night. Though only vaguely aware of the necessity, Mordecai forces the broths down before dedicating the next three hours to diligently fighting nausea, to keep them down, then falls onto the mattress in an attempt to rest. He sleeps fitfully, especially at the peak of his fever, his mind barely holding on to reality under such duress.

Standing in pinstripe pajamas, the collar open and crooked, the lapel creased, Mordecai glances around the expanse of white he's habiting. There's nothing; no ground, wall or sky, no sound or smell or sensation. He's neither cold or hot, or anything at all. He simply exists in flannel, not a clue where he is or how he materialised there. It's baffling.

"Hello?" He calls, expecting an echo in the void. Instead, it's swallowed, barely heard by his own ears, the sound visible as black sparks amongst light before they fade to nought. Mordecai cups his bare hands around his mouth and tries again. "Is anyone there? Hello?" The black condenses into wisps of emptiness, floating away on incorporeal winds, and this solitaire sensory input blindly forward.

White continues forever, yet he blinks and cobblestones are beneath bare feet, his bare claws clicking on wet stone. The overpowering light is gone, yet darkness is blinding, sucking away his words as heavy liquid pummels his fur, soaking his pajamas, weighing him down. Mordecai shivers from the sudden cold, teeth chattering as his breath mists, searching for cover. Finding an awning he approaches, yet pauses in the downpour when he notices it's already occupied.

The child hugs his knees, head bowed and body shaking with violent sobs, a wound on the back of his head oozing thick, clotting blood. A leather satchel lies beside him, open but discarded, a prayer book tucked into the open flap. He's Jewish, Mordecai realises as he glances around, though the darkness thickens, frustratingly reducing his already meager visibility. He shouldn't be out here alone.

Mordecai turns back to the child and is startled to come eye to eye with constricted emerald eyes not red with tears, but blackened, a darkness so deep it devours reflective imagery and slowly consumes the green, turning eyes into black holes. A familiar split lip has ballooned to a bruise, his chin scratched by sharp claws, all suppressed memories being dredged to the surface as the adult tuxedo recoils from his younger self.

A bolt of lighting crashes into the synagogue behind the younger tom, sending it up in flames. The community center attached is engulfed almost immediately as well, illuminating his small, disheveled form as distinct scents of fresh blood invade the adult tom's nostrils. He gags as iron engulfs his senses; the taste, the smell, the thought of spilled blood his everything as he turns, looking for the source, until another flash of lightning illuminates the truth.

Blood falls freely from the heavens, dyeing his blue pajamas crimson and coagulating in his fur, even dripping in his eyes as he frantically - yet uselessly - tries to wipe the viscous liquid off of his person.

Teenage Mordecai shifts unnaturally, drawing the panicked adult's wide eyes as he jerks his chin sharply to the sky and, with eyes deviating to the far corner of their sockets as if possessed, expels bottomless darkness from his open maw. It coagulates into thick tendrils above him that curl into the night sky, somehow visible despite the pitch black of night, moving as if conscious and celebrating its freedom.

The adult tuxedo is fixated, taking unconscious steps back as it rises and squirms in the downpour above its former host. Breaths become rapid and his heart beats faster as somehow, Mordecai is made aware that the black essence has noticed him. He can sense its desire to inhabit his body, to destroy him from within, tainting all he retains that is good or just. It's his predator and he, hapless prey, a sitting duck ripe for the picking.

He turns and flees, bare claws clattering on the cobbles as thunder finally rolls across the sky, signaling the swarm of black essence in sudden pursuit, filling the air with tendrils as it advances. Mordecai can hear them whipping in the air over the pounding pulse in his ears but dare not look back, convinced that doing so would damn him to its will.

A bare foot slips on the bloody cobbles and he falls with a cry, hands coming to protect his face.

His childhood mattress is surprisingly springy, squeaking as he lands bodily upon it. Expecting the hard cobblestones, he lays there a moment and breathes, suddenly dry, allowing the familiar scents and sounds of home settle his pulse. It was a dream; rolling to his back as the quiet murmurings of a busy home drift through the cracks in the floorboards, tired eyes flutter closed in the safety of his bedroom.

Until wet, gasping coughs shatter Mordecai's inner peace. He sits upright immediately and anxiety thick in his throat, heads for the landing, entirely unaware of the black tendrils slowly suffocating his bedroom walls behind him.

Mordecai walks straight into the living room, unaware of the strangeness that should warrant as wide emeralds settle on his mother, bent double, loose hair obscuring her face and coughing the same, awful cough to take his youngest sister. Black tendrils seep through the ceiling and begin to spread across the popcorn plaster, though he remains unaware of encroaching evil as he approaches the struggling figure.

"Mother," he whispers, kneeling beside her, placing a hand on her leg. There's no hesitation in his comfort, concern in his twisted muzzle and furrowed brows as she continues her coughing into a lace handkerchief. He squeezes her leg, an attempt at reassurance. "I'm trying to get you all out of here, away from this death trap. I just need more time. Please, just hold on a little long-"

The figure sharply jerks to face him and Fiores' flabby face appears from beneath cascading hair. Clouded, sightless eyes lock with terrified emeralds, concave temple bloodied and oozing as the man smiles maniacally. Mordecai recoils, stumbles in his attempt to retreat and falls to his back just a moment before a heavy boot presses down on his chest, restricting airflow and taking him prisoner in one fell swoop.

He grabs at that ankle, clawing at the flesh beneath ragged suit pants desperately. Rancid flesh peels away unnoticed as the deceased underboss leers down, pressing his heel into the lad's sternum as he looms closer. The white returns around them, once again blinding and empty, benign when compared to the evil holding Mordecai at his mercy.

"Our littlest bookie, all grown up," Fiores sneers, then raises the handkerchief to show Mordecai the darkness now wriggling on its surface, the tendrils arcing off the fabric towards the tuxedo. "Your lies are getting out of hand, Katz, suffocating everyone and everything you hold dear."

"Little kike's playin' with th'big boys now," a familiar voice adds. Sharp claws dig into his scalp and yank his head back to look at Jimbo's clouded eyes, his empty gaze boring into emeralds. The bullet wound in his forehead openly bleeds down a pale face and pools at his chin, threatening to drip onto Mordecai's face as he struggles to break free. "Best t'take 'im out now, before Savage figures 'im out an' sends ol' Jack to settle his debts."

Fiores brings his hand down suddenly, pressing the tainted lace to Mordecai's mouth and nose. The tom thrashes under their hold, entire body shaking with revulsion and eyes rolling back in disgust as cold tendrils curl into his nostrils. The slimy darkness swiftly makes its way down his throat and invades his lungs, effortlessly blocking his bronchi and filling his chest with their pulsing, freezing existence, slowly suffocating him as he struggles uselessly against death.

Wide eyes slowly losing focus, chest burning and pounding heartbeat in his ears, his temples, his throat, ribs aching as he claws at Fiores' arm. The man only shifts his boot for better leverage, his fanged smile and lifeless eyes filling Mordecai's spotting vision until-

Mordecai wakes suddenly with a suffocating weight of thick mucus clogging his airways. Pain wracking his aching body with each hacking, uncontrollable cough, he blindly searches his bedside table for a handkerchief, presses it to his face and painfully expels the clumps of bloody phlegm onto formerly pristine cotton. Only then can he suck much needed air into raw lungs, each inhale burning through his intercostals and singeing his airways, entire body shaking in the throes of an almost deadly fever.

Head pounding, body and sheets coated in a freezing film of sweat, yet too exhausted to care for the unsanitary state of it all, Mordecai closes his fist on the tainted handkerchief and fades back into unconsciousness. It won't be until after his fever breaks and he's finally able to think more clearly, in a few days, that certain aspects of the nightmare will haunt his waking moments, feeding an ever present anxiety for his family's health in the wake of the pandemic, and guilt for not visiting on a Sabbath for almost eighteen months.

Wet, gasping coughs echo in his mind the weeks he spends recovering from his near death experience at the hands of the Grippe, until he's determined to return home as soon as the crisis is over. The need to check on his family - mostly his mother - is too strong to ignore.

#niche narratives #hurricane heller #mordecai heller #lackadaisy #lackadaisy cats #fanfiction #lackadaisy mordecai #tracy j butler #no beta we die like atlas may #fanfic #yep we hit the pandemic chapter #pandemic #the grippe #1918 flu epidemic #mordecai #mordecai is very sick #fever dream

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