#purple wandering Jew

[nocturneindream]

Gallows of the Dreaming

~ Chapter two: The Exorcist ~

~ 18+ | Minors DNI | AFAB Reader | No Y/N ~

AO3 | Chapter One

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any characters from The Sandman comics or Netflix series. This is purely creative writing.

Word Count: 8.5k

Chapter warnings: Violence, graphic depictions of gore, religious themes (exorcisms & demons), relived trauma (childhood memories of abuse), foul language, Dream unintentionally being a bit of an ass.

If you might be triggered by any of the above, I'd recommend skipping this chapter entirely (especially the gore TW). There will be enough context in the following chapters to understand what happened.

A/N: Strap in, this chapter’s a long one. Could it have been split up into multiple? Probably. But I like my fics long & wordy. I know this took a while (and that’s an understatement) & hope it was worth the wait for those of you who read the first chapter. If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me a DM. They will be listed in the comments just to keep the actual post length manageable.

As always, feel free to comment, send in any questions, and like/re-blog this post. Enjoy!

- Kathryn ;)

Do NOT re-write, translate, copy, re-post, or claim my writing as your own. Thanks!

“It’s a bit late for a cup of coffee.” You remark tiredly, flopping into the opposite end of the small booth. The brunette’s eyes don’t meet yours as you settle into your seat, too engrossed in people-watching through the dew-drenched café window. She rests her head in one hand whilst the other mindlessly sirs her drink. 

“I could do without sleep for a while.” She says, bringing the plain mug to her lips, face scrunching at the bitter taste. You make note of the light purple rings beneath her eyes as she reaches for a miniature cup of half-and-half between you, wondering how long she’s been awake and what’s kept her up. “Besides, I’ve got a job after this.” 

“Well,” You sigh. “Then I won’t keep you for long. Did you find anything?” You hope she did, hope you’ll finally have something - anything - to point you in the right direction. Wordlessly, she snakes a hand into the tote bag at her side, retrieving a manilla envelope and sliding it across the sleek table.

“What’s this?” You question,  pinching open the prongs and pulling out the scraggly piece of yellowed parchment inside. 

“A family heirloom.” A small smile graces her lips as her eyes glaze with memories. “My Gran used to tell me stories all the time. Fairytales, really.” 

You scan over the drawing in your hands: Two men seated at opposite ends of a tavern table, dressed in period clothing. Late eighteen-hundreds if you had to guess. Beneath the sketch, the parchment reads: ‘The Devil and the Wandering Jew.’ 

“What’s the fairytale behind this?” 

“According to my Gran, an ancestor of mine hunted him down.” She pauses to peel open and stir the creamer into her coffee. “She was shit with managing her money. Nearly lost it all to god knows what, and with creditors pounding at the door she was starting to run out of options. By some miracle, she found that drawing stitched inside a dead man’s pocket and figured anything would be worth the gamble to save her from losing her status and being forced to beg on the streets - or worse.” She sips from her mug, a hum of approval sounding in her throat. “So she hunted him down, and when she found him, demanded riches and immortality.”

“What happened then?” You press, and her brown eyes finally meet yours. “Well, obviously he didn’t grant her immortality, or else she’d be the one having this conversation with you. But, he did offer her a few odd jobs. She earned his respect, and his money.” Respect and money from the Devil. An interesting story, but not what you’d asked for. Perceptive eyes catch your disappointment from beyond the rim of her mug as she takes a long swig.

“What’s the matter? You seem a bit edgy.” You fight against the knit of your brows, the disheartened frown tugging at the corners of your mouth. Her mug gently clangs against the table as she sets it down and leans over her elbows into your line of sight, redirecting your attention from the page.

“I appreciate you digging this up but,” You shake your head, slipping the drawing back into its envelope. “I didn’t need information on the Devil. I needed information on the Sandman.” Your former classmate nods in understanding.

“It wasn’t the Devil she’d tracked.” She reaches across the table, swiftly pulling the envelope from under your fingers and back toward her. “Dream, she called him. Dream of the Endless.” Dream. It’s no lead, but it’s certainly more than you’d managed to find out for yourself over the last three weeks, and you’re grateful for her effort.

“Thank you, Johanna.” She waves away your earnest gratitude, pinning you with an inquisitive glare. 

“Tell me why you’re digging about the business of an Endless.” Her demand catches you off guard, though it shouldn’t. She’s always been quick and to the point, never missing a single piece of the puzzle. If there’s information to be gained, she’ll find a way to get it. No matter the cost. Precisely why you’d enlisted her help.

“It’s a long story.” 

“Then make it short.” Frankly, you’re not sure you should tell her. She might think you’ve gone mad. What should it matter to her? But, the truth - with a mind of its own - erupts under her intimidating stare. 

“Roderick and Alexander Burgess are why” You admit, fidgeting with the tag of your coat. “Had him locked in their basement for almost a century, naked and alone in a glass cage.” 

“Jesus fuck.” She hisses, eyes wide. “So you’ve met him?”

“I freed him.” You shift uncomfortably in your seat, eyes cast down toward your twiddling thumbs. If you thought long enough about it, you could still feel the grains of sand against your cheeks - in your eyes, his chilled hand against yours as you tugged him loose. Your palm tingles with remembrance, and you clench your fist. A poor attempt at replacing the sensation. Johanna spots the movement. Nothing gets past her. 

“If you’re as smart as you were back in school, you’ll move on.” She speaks truthfully, as though that’s the obvious - sane -  answer to your situation.

“Why would I do that? I’ve already put so much time and-” “Move on.” She urges, placing a warm hand atop yours. 

“I need to make sure he’s ok.” 

“You want to make sure the immortal personification of nightmares is ‘okay’?” She chides,  eyes rolling at your sentiment. “You’ve lost the plot, mate.” Ouch. 

You yank your hands from under hers, grabbing at the coat in your lap, muttering, “I should go.” You wiggle out of the booth, ready to leave, but nimble fingers catch your arm. 

 “I don’t work for free. You still owe me for getting you that interview,” She takes the envelope between her fingers, waving it near her face. “And for this.”

“How much?” You watch the cogs turn in her mind as she eyes you up and down, determining her price. No doubt expensive.

“Nothing you can’t work off.” Headlights flash through the window, sharpening the shadows of her cheekbones and jaw as she slides out from her seat, gathering her things. “Let’s go. Cab meter’s ticking.”

The London street lights gleam like a beacon off the silver circle on Johanna’s belt as she steps out of the cab, popping the collar of her pristine, white coat. Her sleek hair whips against her cheeks as she turns to you with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“If you’re going to be messing about with primordial entities, then it’s time you learn what I do for a living.” She rotates on the heel of her boot, long strides swiftly carrying her up the concrete steps ahead. “Maybe that’ll change your mind.” 

“It won’t.” You stubbornly assert. Her pace slows to a stop as she throws a patronizing glance at you over her shoulder. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but believe me. I already know the risks.” You don’t need a lesson in the dangers of magic. The aftermath of the Sandman’s release had been enough of an example. 

You’d awoken the following morning tucked neatly between your soft sheets, unusually well-rested. The memories of the night before were so…hazy, as though they’d been no more than another nightmare. Until you heard them, the muffled sobs that floated down the hall and into your groggy ears. Only then had you realized the severity of the matter - the countless, horrible possibilities.

Though you shouldn’t have cared - not after all you’d seen and discovered, you shot toward the shared bedroom of your bosses, your heart a lump in your throat. The cries grew louder and louder, and as you flung open the door, you realized they’d been coming from Paul. His shoulders shook as he clung to the clammy hand of his partner, pleading into deaf ears, “Come back to me, Alex.”

Alexander Burgess laid before him, cold sweat dripping from his brows, head thrashing against his damp pillow. Continuous, frightened whimpers fell from his open mouth, as though he’d been trapped within his worst nightmare. A fitting fate, you thought as you stared at him, somehow knowing - sensing - the Sandman had delivered his due punishment. You couldn’t help the guilty satisfaction the sight brought you.

Paul hadn’t noticed your presence at first, not until you’d placed a soothing hand on his shoulder, as he had done for you many times before. For his role in releasing their captive, he’d been granted the small mercy of being spared. Though as you watched the tears cascade down his red, swollen face, you wondered if it could be considered mercy at all. He was utterly powerless, forced to watch as his lover suffered a fate worse than death.

“Do something!” He pleaded. Despite knowing there was likely nothing you could do, you stepped around the bed and peeled back Mr. Burgess’ eyelids. His pupils shifted, dilating and constricting rapidly. Heavy, panted breaths heaved from his chest as his body struggled to adjust to his affliction. 

You shook your head, softly confirming, “There’s nothing I can do, Paul.”

There was no cure for this. Not even trained, award-winning doctors had been able to wake patients with the Sleepy Sickness. Nearly one hundred years had passed and patients still suffered, trapped within their dreams and nightmares. Some never slept at all. No cure, no known recoveries, no miracles. In one night, Mr. Burgess was lost to the world. A resentful, nasty piece of you silently thought, good riddance. 

“What do you mean?” He scoffed. For the first time since you’d met the man, his usual pleasant tone was nowhere to be found. “Aren’t you his caretaker?! Fix this!” He demanded. Your eyes searched his twisted expression for some sense of reason, finding nothing but seething, misplaced rage.

“This is your fault, you know! I’d still have my Alex if it weren’t for you!” Snot dripped from his nose, mixing with the avalanche of tears free-falling from his bleary eyes. “Get out!” He bellowed, voice reverberating throughout the room - rattling your chest. He had never raised his voice at you.

Though the words had been born from grief, you couldn’t shake your outrage. How dare he? You wanted to yell, to stoop to his level and throw his actions back in his sniveling face, but part of you understood his perspective. While he had finally pushed himself to right the wrongs of his past, you had been the catalyst. Had you not snooped through the library, Paul would have lived out the rest of his life with the person he loved most, complacent - happy. You bit your cheek, closed your eyes, and held your tongue as he continued his fit.

“I want you out of this house by nightfall or so help me-” He wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his robe, eyes dulling as he turned back to his lost lover.

You weren’t naive. It had been apparent from the moment you laid eyes on the man in the glass that your time at the mansion would soon run out. Though you’d grown fond of Paul, you knew there was no coming back from what had happened, from the knowledge of what he’d allowed. You blinked away your tears, grabbed your things, and haven’t looked back since. You’d done the right thing, even if the fallout had been difficult to witness. 

“Constantine.” You’re torn from your memories by the familiar depth of the voice that calls, breath catching in your throat at the sight of your stranger. 

He’s clothed this time, clad in an all-black ensemble. Your eyes trail down the buttons of his knee-length coat to his slender hands as he tucks them inside his pockets. He’s focused solely on the woman in front of you, and you’re unsure whether he’s unaware of your presence or has purely chosen not to acknowledge it. Does he even remember you? How could he not? Three weeks. Three weeks of searching tirelessly only for him to stumble upon you. 

“We have business, you and I.” He speaks confidently, demanding her immediate attention. She scoffs, squinting at him as though she can’t decide if they’ve met before. 

“Get in line.” Her shoulder knocks against his as she pushes past him, unaware of who he is and the power he holds. “Can’t keep God waiting.” You remain frozen in place, baffled by the coincidence at hand. 

His eyes settle on your figure, a dazzling shade of light blue, far from the feral, black celestial portals you’d seen behind the glass. The arrogant confusion from his interaction with Johanna ebbs away, replaced with recognition. Though wrapped tight within his gaze, you’re faintly aware of the fact that Johanna’s left you behind, entering the church to attend to her work for the night.

“Hi.” You exhale, forcing yourself to remember how to breathe as butterflies swarm in your stomach. Nearly a month had gone by since his release, and seeing him now - outside the glass - floods you with a sense of victory and relief. 

“We meet again.” He offers a slight tilt of his head toward you in greeting before going after Johanna. The butterflies wither, dropping dead in the pit of your stomach as he nears the church behind her. You’d risked your job - your life - to free him and the most he had to say was ‘We meet again’? 

“Hey!” You call, hot on his heels. “Wait up!” His figure slips through the slim opening of the large doors, and as you catch up, pushing them open further, he’s seemingly vanished. The only beings occupying the room are Johanna and another woman who, based upon the white collar around her neck, you presume works within the church. They speak in hushed tones, Johanna visibly wound up by their conversation as the other woman tries to state her case. 

“No! It’s too risky with the royals. I already told the queen.”

“But-” 

“If this goes sideways we’ll have a dead princess on our hands, a demon on the loose, and I’ll have no one to pay my fee.” You softly clear your throat and their heads whip in your direction. 

“There you are!” Johanna waves you over. “Ric, this is an old university mate of mine. She’ll be assisting tonight.” Ric’s wary eyes skim you from head-to-toe.

“Brave soul you are, working with Johanna. You’d probably be better off with the demon.” She laughs, nudging your arm with her elbow in a failed attempt at lightening the palpable tension. Her joke falls flat, smile dropping as Johanna shoots daggers in her direction. 

“What if I triple your fee?” Ric offers, hands wringing the spines of the leather-bound books she holds as distant screams echo from the far end of the church. The scent of rotten eggs permeates the room and you gag, pulling the collar of your shirt over your nose to block out the stench. 

“What the hell is that?”  You ask, disgusted.

“Sulfur.” The women confirm simultaneously. 

“You’re an exorcist?” You question, remembering a Demonology class you two had shared as part of your undergraduate degrees. You never thought she’d make anything of it beyond research. The unbridled shock on your face doesn’t go unnoticed by Ric. 

“You didn’t tell her?” The older woman’s worry-filled eyes flit between the two of you. Johanna simply shrugs. 

“Well,” Ric sighs. “You’ll be needing these.” She hands a book to you both with a tight-lipped smile and offers - mostly to you, “Good luck.”

The church is nearly empty as you step atop the altar platform, illuminated by the golden glow of the few remaining candle stands. The room had been cleared, pews moved out of sight - out of the path of destruction, as though Ric knew things would get messy. You admire the painted figures within the grand mural, heart thumping to the rhythm of the growing footsteps outside. 

An exorcism. You assumed these were rare occurrences in modern times. But according to Johanna, they’re far more frequent than she’d like. You fiddle apprehensively with the book Ric had given you - the Rītuāle Rōmānum, spine straightening as the doors creak open.

Johanna and the Princess enter with another, unexpected figure lagging behind, his fingers entwined with the Princess’. Her immaculate, white smile matches the sleek, floor-length gown she wears, not one blonde hair out of place on her head. Her partner - you presume - appears less than enthusiastic. He forces a small smile as she turns to share her excitement with him, his face falling as soon as it’s out of her sight. It dawns on you at this moment that you and Johanna are about to ruin what should be the happiest day of their lives. Or at least the happiest day of the Princess’ life. Johanna slips around your side, a white collar now tucked into her black shirt, and lightly grips your arm. 

“Just go along with it.” She speaks to you through pearly, clenched teeth as she grins happily at the couple, stepping forward to begin the ceremony.

“It’s a pleasure to be your officiant tonight, Princess. This,” She waves her hand fluidly in your general direction. “Is my assistant and your legal witness. Any questions before we begin?”

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” The question comes from the Princess’ fiancé, followed by cold, calculating silence. 

“Of course I do, Kevin.” She tongues her cheek, a poor attempt to push back her anger. “Why else would we be here?” Her fixed glare pins him in place, a warning that should he press further, there will be hell to pay. 

“I just meant like-” He gulps. “Don’t you want all your family and photographers and stuff and-” 

“No!” She snaps, startling herself and her jumpy partner. She quickly softens her expression and voice, reeling in her irritation. “I just want you.” She nods to Johanna, beckoning her to continue the ceremony.

“Do you, Princess, take-”

“I do.” Johanna’s brow raises at the interruption, but she continues. “Do you, Kevin, take the Princess to be your-” An audible crunch echoes through the room as the Princess’ hand bears down on Kevin’s. You hold in a surprised gasp, feeling awful for the young man before you. He has no idea that he’s hitching himself to a demon.

“Then repeat after me,” Johanna begins, flipping her book open. “Dā locum, dīrissime,” Your mixed voices fill the empty space as the words are recited. 

 “Dā locum, impiissime.” Kevin’s stomach releases a loud gurgle, discomfort overtaking his expression. 

“Sorry,” He grunts out. “Probably just hungry. Y’know how it is before a big game-”

“Kevin!” The Princess whispers sharply. “It doesn’t matter.” She gestures for Johanna to continue. “Keep going.”

“Dā locum, Chrīstō.” Kevin doubles over, coughing and gagging as his hands claw at his throat. The princess is beside herself, scoffing and rolling her eyes at her partners’ obstructive behavior. 

“Kevin, seriously? At our wedding?” Johanna ignores the woman, a lioness targeting her prey as she stalks toward the man, continuing to read from her book. 

“Quī tē spoliāvit, quī rēgnum tuum dē strūxit!” Two large, meaty fingers emerge from Kevin’s mouth. He chokes on them as they slither out, veins protruding from his forehead and neck, eyes beginning to bulge from their sockets as the hands become wrists. 

"Quī tē victum ligāvit, et vāsa tua dīripuit!” The sickening crack of Kevin's jaw echoes throughout the room, his body jerking backward as two full, muscular arms emerge from his mouth. His flesh rips and squelches around them, blood oozing down his neck from every facial orifice. The hands reach around to grip the back of Kevin's head, claws sinking into his scalp as they pull from either side. A loud roar bellows from the Demon inside Kevin as his body shreds in half, leaving the Demon standing amidst a gooey puddle of flesh and shattered bone. 

Intricate, runic scars line its abdomen, spine visible outside its back and pierced between each vertebra with large silver hoops. Blood splatters stain the Princess's white gown, her eyes wide with shock, mouth agape as she stares in horror at the remnants of her fiancé. Pushing your own terror aside, you rush for the Princess, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her out of harm's way. 

"Come with me." You direct her. "It'll be alright, Ric will get you out and safe." You call out for the older woman, guiding the princess toward the nearest exit. Ric promptly takes her from you, stumbling back a step as she fleetingly takes in the gruesome scene. 

"Fucking hell." She gasps, steering the Princess out of your grasp.

"It was Kevin, not the Princess." 

"You don't say." She sarcastically intones, swiftly guiding the Princess out the door. As much as you want to follow them, you - perhaps idiotically -  can't bring yourself to leave Johanna behind.

"Tell me your name!" Johanna demands, Holding a crucifix up to the Demon as it towers over her. The Demon merely laughs, lurching forward and striking Johanna with the back of its massive fist. The impact sends her flying across the room, her back slamming into the mural. She groans as her body drags down the wall and hits the floor, but quickly regains her senses. She rolls over, pushing past the pain to search for her book through blurred vision. Without hesitation, you crack open your copy, hell-bent on finishing what you and Johanna had started, shaking hands making the small text difficult to read.

"Vīsitā, quaesumus," Enraged, the Demon whirls, its long, hoofed legs carrying it in three mere strides across the room. Your knees buckle as it launches toward you. "Domine, habitātiōnem istam et omnis-” 

“Silence!” It snarls at you, surging forward with its giant arm raised like a club, ready to strike again. You shield your head with your arms and squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for the impact that never comes. 

“Agilieth!” You risk a peak, eyes cracking open to find the Demon’s arm halted just before the top of your head. A wicked, sharp-toothed grin splits across its face as it turns to address its caller - the Sandman. He stands in front of the altar and Johanna, hands casually tucked into his coat, undaunted by the sheer size and strength of the Demon.

"Lord Morpheus," It growls. "You're almost unrecognizable without your helm." It mocks, tone dripping with disdain.

"It was traded to a Demon."

"Yes, but which demon?" Its grin stretches as the Sandman's eyes gleam with hope. In your peripheral vision, you catch Johanna pulling herself upright against the altar. Rītuale Rōmānum back in hand, she cracks open the book, resuming her recitation of the Latin prayer and interrupting whatever business the Sandman seeks with the Demon. Her face is that of the cat that caught the canary. Knowing the Demon's name, she holds the power to condemn it straight back to Hell.

“Constantine, stop this at once!" The Sandman shouts as the ground below Agilieth twists into an open pit of bright-orange fire and smoke. With eyes even more desperate than the night of his escape, he stretches his arm toward Johanna, begging her to stop. Why would he have her free the Demon? What could be worth the risk?

“Dream of the Endless commands you!” Agilieth roars, cursing at her as she ignores their pleas. Tendrils of smoke form into hands that scrape and pull at the Demon's mountainous figure, hauling it inch-by-inch into the pit. “I’ll tell you everything I know, my lord!" Its claws leave tracks on the ground as it sinks deeper, only its head remaining above ground level. "Don't let her send me back!” Ash and embers whirl through the hot air, stinging your cheeks. You hold your breath as Johanna fearlessly stands over the Demon, the reflection of hellfire flaring in her eyes.

“Exī, ergō, Agilieth!” With her final words, the Demon slips into the pit, and the ground seals over. The silence deafens you as you watch the Sandman’s shoulders slump, his face turned solemn, staring at the claw marks left across the wooden flooring.

"You have no idea what you’ve cost me." He speaks softly - defeatedly, and the words are a boulder of guilt crashing into you. You did the right thing. Didn’t you? You couldn’t have let the Demon roam free, free to find its next victim, free to create a larger mess than any mortal could be capable of cleaning up.

"I'm sorry," You stutter, apologizing nonetheless. "I thought-"

"Don't apologize, mate," Johanna winks at you, entirely satisfied with herself as she snaps the book closed and tosses an arm around your shoulders. "We've just tripled our fee." You're reluctant to follow as she guides you out of the church, your eyes still locked with the Sandman’s, but her grip is firm and commanding. 

Thunder rumbles above as you step outside, Johanna pausing in the doorway of the church to converse with Ric, likely discussing payment. You step aside to grant them some privacy, leaning against one of the giant stone columns that uphold the awning, and watch as the lightning within the clouds reveals various shades of lavender and coal.

 You’re lucky, you realize. Lucky to have come out unharmed. Johanna will be lucky if she isn’t as bruised as tonight’s sky tomorrow morning. You wonder how she could willingly subject herself to this on a regular basis. The money must be phenomenal, you think, hands still trembling from the commotion - the rush.

"Why are you here?" Your ears tingle at the pleasant depth of the Sandman’s voice, the whisper of pleasant chills rolling across the top of your skull and down your spine. He’s closer than expected, his shoulder brushing yours as he eases into the open space beside you. Icy, piercing blue eyes shimmer beneath the gloomy night lighting, studying - questioning. 

"Why are you?" You counter, residual adrenaline governing your words. “Dream of the Endless.” A faint smirk curls the corner of his mouth at your boldness, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and that guilt… it gnaws at the last remaining sliver of your confidence.

"Something of mine came into Constantine's possession." He divulges, watching you - reading you.

"What could she possibly have of yours?" 

"I answered your question, you will answer mine." A give and take, so be it. You open your mouth to speak, but the words catch on the nervous knot forming in your throat. Your feet shift in place, crunching against the cobblestone as you attempt to clear it away. 

“After everything that happened with Mr. Burgess,” You swallow. “I wondered where you went, what you’d done to him,” His eyes implore you to continue, but you can’t seem to produce another coherent thought under their intensity. So you avert yours, once again finding the colors in the flashing clouds.

 “I-” You take a deep breath, rubbing your arms to settle the goosebumps. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you were ok.” You admit, embarrassment tingeing your cheeks. You know how silly it sounds given the danger involved in pursuing him, but you had questions that needed answers, and - much like your former classmate - you’ve always been relentless in your quest for knowledge. 

When you find the courage to meet his unwavering gaze, you find him scanning your features. Your reddened cheeks, the tense pull of your brow, your lips as you nip uneasily at the chapped skin. For a moment, he seems as though he may apologize, his small smirk and studious stare softening into concern. But, you’d made your choice. He’s no need to apologize when seeing him outside the glass - free - is enough to resolve any lingering guilt over what happened to Alex and Paul - to you.

“My sand.” He answers your earlier question. 

“The Sandman without his sand.” You find yourself giggling, hardly noticing how close he’d stepped until you could feel the comforting heat radiating from his body, shielding you from the harsh wind like a fluffed blanket, pulled fresh from the dryer. It’s dizzying - distracting.

"Morpheus." He corrects.

"Hm?" You hum, mouth disconnected from your mind as it scrambles to process what he’d said and the sudden, intoxicating warmth. He’d been so cold when you’d first met, when you’d pulled him from the glass, when he’d held and guarded you against the nightmare smoke.

"My name." 

"Hate to interrupt your little chat,” Johanna begins, approaching the two of you. She shoots a cagey glance toward Morpheus before opting to ignore his presence entirely, aiming her words at you. “But it’s about time I bugger off.” Her fingertips tap the back of your arm gently. “I’ll be in touch.” Her eyes speak without words, questioning your safety - your comfortability -  with the Sandman’s proximity. You offer a small nod, simultaneously confirming your security and acknowledging what she’d said.

"Constantine." Her name rumbles from his chest as she moves to scurry away, more of a demand than a request. She begrudgingly turns, hands smacking against her sides as she confronts him.

“What do you want with me?” She sneers, arms crossing over her ribs. “I don’t have time for this.”

"You have something of mine.” His expression hardens. “I'd like it returned." 

“What could I possibly have of yours?" 

“His sand.” You chime, watching in amusement as two of the most strong-willed individuals you’ve ever come across continue their stare-down, wondering who will be the first to concede. You’d never known Johanna to back down for anyone, and Morpheus, well, you’d witnessed his endurance firsthand. 

"That was yours?” Her brows raise. “Couldn't even get the damned drawstrings open." Her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek as she ruminates on where she left the sand. “I've no idea where it's at. It's been missing for ages." She concludes.

"We must find it." He asserts, towering over the woman as he emphasizes its importance. "Without it, my realm - humanity - will cease to exist." She rolls her eyes, considering his words far too dramatic for the circumstance.

"Alright,”  She tilts her head to look up at him, a playful smirk sliding up her cheeks as she realizes how vital her compliance is. “I'll help you find it first thing tomorrow-"

"No-"

"Tomorrow." She reiterates firmly. "I'll help you. Trust me, I wouldn't want you and your little friend following me all over the place." You and Morpheus share a look of confusion, focusing your attention in the direction Johanna points. A raven, perched on the edge of the base of another nearby column squirms under each of your stares.

"My friend?" He squints at the bird, stepping closer to investigate. Its eyes quickly shift over Morpheus before scooting aside a few inches to gain some space, head twitching side to side, up and down. Morpheus raises his chin, shoulders squaring as he looks down his nose at the raven. “Tell me your name.” He orders.

"Matthew, Sir." This night is full of surprises, you think, delighted by the nasally voice that comes from the talking bird. Morpheus, however, appears rather indifferent - displeased, even.

"Matthew,” He scowls. “Tell Lucienne that I have no need for a raven-" You turn, ready to share your bewilderment with Johanna, searching your surroundings for a glimpse of her dark hair, only to find that she’s disappeared into the night.

"Morpheus." You call. He ignores you - or maybe doesn’t hear you - as he continues lecturing the raven. 

"If I require assistance, I shall ask-" 

"Uh, y-you do, actually, Sir." Matthew stutters, catching on to your distress and Johanna’s absence. 

“Morpheus!” You shout. Tired and frustrated by his blatant disregard, you tug harshly on the sleeve of his coat. His head whips toward you, initial fury at your action quieting as he notices the absence of your friend - his only chance at reclaiming his sand. 

"She's gone." You sigh. He draws his gaze from over your shoulder, down to your fingers, still curled around the soft fabric of his coat, and back to your eyes. You release him immediately, mumbling a curt apology.  

“Go back to the dreaming, Matthew." Morpheus dismisses. 

“With all due respect, sir. The boss lady sent me here to help you because, like it or not, you need me.” Matthew declares, hopping closer to Morpheus. “Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had thumbs, lived my whole life here. I know how to navigate this world.”

"My last raven was sent to help me too." Morpheus’ cold gaze has the bird’s feet shuffling again, his tone low - warning, rumbling in tune with the rolling thunder.

"Yeah, and what happened to them?” Matthew sasses. “You fire them too? Send them back to the dreaming?" You’re amazed - jealous, even - by Matthew’s confidence as he stands up for himself. 

"She died while trying to save me." You wince as images of the white-bellied raven from your nightmare flicker in your mind's eye. The splattered blood across her bright feathers, her desperate caws as she beat herself against the glass. You doubt you’ll ever be able to rid yourself of the haunting memory. 

"What was her name?" You dare to ask.

"Jessamy." As he meets your pitying gaze, he quickly blinks away the tears that threaten to form, steeling his expression, pretending the memory no longer carries any weight in his heart. 

"I'm sorry for your loss, Morpheus." You feel awful, awful for describing even the smallest crumb of your nightmare to him when you first met. You want to apologize for that too but decide against it, not wanting to push the subject any further.

“Well,” Matthew continues after a moment of respectful silence. “I don’t plan on dying again anytime soon. We'd better get moving if we want to find her by morning. We should have a good eight hours while she sleeps. If we put our heads together, I’m sure we can figure out her-”

"Sleep," Morpheus murmurs to himself. "Yes. If she is asleep, I know exactly where to find her." He extends a hand for you to take, and you do so without a second thought, allowing him to pull you into his chest the same way he had the night you’d freed him. His hands skim the small of your back as they circle around your waist, his head dipping beside your ear, voice just above a whisper as he instructs, “Close your eyes.”

You comply, digging your fingers into the side seams of his coat as a vortex of wind envelopes your bodies. Your feet lift and float away from solid ground, the vortex pushing and pulling your limbs in every direction. You hang onto Morpheus as though your life depends on it, daring to open your eyes just long enough to catch a glimpse of the black smoke that carries you. Your skin blanches with fear, mind sucked back into that bone-chilling darkness, the nightmare void that had nearly swallowed you whole.

You’re left breathless and wobbly as the smoke clears, continuing to cling to Morpheus’s coat with a death grip. Your mouth opens and shuts, words refusing to flow freely. His hands slide from your back to cup your upper arms, squeezing reassurance and holding you steady as you struggle to pull yourself together. You know the fear is irrational, know that he - as proven before - would not allow the smoke to harm you, but the sensation of the nightmare refuses to leave you in peace.

"Breathe.” He reminds, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your shoulders as he tilts his head down to draw your frightened eyes back to his. “You are unharmed." You savor the touch, your heartbeat gradually slowing to match the pace of the soothing strokes. 

"What was that?"

"A method of travel without my sand." 

"Well, it was awful." He retracts his hands, almost as though the words had offended him, fingertips skimming down the length of your arms as they fall back at his sides. 

"Then you will not experience it again." He promises.

"Wait-" 

"The pouch is here.” He confirms to himself, surveying the apartment building he’d brought you to with assurance. “You will remain outside with Matthew." As if on cue, the raven swoops down beside you. His feathers ruffle and twitch as he settles on the ground, beady eyes darting between you and Morpheus. 

"How do you know? Didn't Johanna say she lost it?" You watch as he glides toward the building, as though being lured by some invisible pull. 

"I can feel its power." Morpheus steps inside the ominously dark building, leaving you alone with Matthew.

 After a while, you find yourself enjoying the raven’s dry, witty humor, chatting to pass the time. But as what should have been no more than a few minutes becomes well over an hour, your playful banter begins to slow, both of your eyes anxiously tracing and examining the apartment complex.

Strange, you think. Something about the building rings every alarm bell within you. Though the hour has hardly passed midnight, not a single light shines from the building. Not from the lobby, the porch lights, or any of the visible windows. As you observe the building, you notice the piles of untouched mail littering the main entrance, moving to pick up a few of the grimy envelopes. 

"Matthew,” You begin, scanning over the unpaid electricity bills, violation notices, and letters dated as far back as three months ago. “Something's not right."

 He titters over, talons faintly clicking across the concrete, and you squat beside him, holding your findings out for him to see. He tilts his head, eyes darting over the envelopes in your hand and all across the floor. After a moment of careful consideration, he opens his beak to say, "I think we should let the boss handle it." You scoff, tossing the mail aside as you stand. 

“What happened to that confidence from earlier? I thought you weren’t afraid to help him.” You shoot for the doors, hands clamping over the sleek, modern handles. Matthew’s caw startles you, winds flapping as he lands on top of your hands. 

“That-That’s not a good idea.” He warns, stalling your movement. “You have no idea what’s in there. The boss said-”

“Your boss, Matthew. Not mine.” You remind, and his feet squeeze around your skin. “If you won’t go in there and help him, I will.” He kicks off your hands, talons scraping the concrete as he lands back on the ground, mumbling under his breath, “He’s not gonna like this.”

You tug open the heavy door, streetlights instantly absorbing into the black hole of the lobby, revealing nothing to your squinted eyes as you cross over the threshold. The door clicks closed behind you, leaving you vulnerable in the dark. There’s a sickly-sweet stench lashing at your nose, rolling in your gut. As much as you’d rather not find out what the smell belongs to, your fear of the dark drives your shaky hands into your pockets, reaching for your phone. 

The contents of your stomach turn to lead as the flashlight winks to life, illuminating the half-decayed corpse of a woman not two feet in front of you. You stumble back, feet squelching and sticking to the floor as acid rises in your throat. Her flesh droops and pools beneath her, melting and mixing with other various fluids into the tiled floor. Hollow cheeks and cloud-white eyes stare up at you. The foul scent strengthens, and suddenly you’re retching up the contents of your stomach, mindful enough to avoid her body. You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your coat, willing yourself to face the woman again. How long has she been left here, fusing with the floor? 

“What the fuck happened here?” You breathe feebly, stepping around her. You notice - as you avoid inching too close - the faint twitch of her left eye. “I’m going insane.” But the nearly inaudible gurgles emitting from her throat confirm you’re not. Alive. She’s still alive. How? 

Unable to face her any longer, you shine your light further into the room, revealing a messy trail of gooey footsteps. You follow them, vicious chills spidering down your spine with each step as they lead you up the staircase and down the eerily silent second-story hallway. Some primal instinct inside you screams for you to turn around. You know you should, know that you’d be safer waiting outside with Matthew. But what if Morpheus needs your help? What if he’s been captured again? What if? 

At the end of the long, looming hallway, yellow light flickers beneath a chipped, word-down door. You head for it, ignoring the sticky substance coating the silver knob as you turn it. 

Much like the rest of the building, the room is pitch-black as the door creaks open, no sign of the light you’d spotted. Maybe you’d imagined it. The same way you’d like to believe you’re imagining the slithering, shifting shadows that lurk along the walls and ceiling. Maybe the shock of everything you’ve experienced tonight is finally catching up to you. The flashlight of your phone fizzles out, a red battery symbol mocking you as you frantically shake the device. 

“Just my fucking luck.” You hiss, reaching for the switch on the wall, shuddering at the cold, moist goo that coats your fingers as you flick it upward. 

To your surprise, the room brightens, dimly illuminating the crumb-coated carpet and various discarded dolls strewn about. You carefully step around them, hesitantly following the muffled sound of cartoons playing to your left, the living room - your living room. You lean over the familiar grey couch, mutely stunned, sight caught on the mess of tangled hair poking above it. A little girl, no older than five or six, sways from side to side as she sits on her heels, inches away from the TV screen. Sweet, high-pitched giggles tumble from her belly as she remains unaware of your presence, sucked into her show. Though you cannot see her face, you know - feel - that she is you.

A woman’s voice grates through the laughter, calling your name. Your mother, you realize. Something in your chest tightens with pain as the little girl - little you - doesn’t seem to hear her. Another call of your name, followed by thunderous footsteps. Your sore stomach clenches, heart pausing a beat as you watch your mother’s figure overshadows the young girl. She watches a moment, waiting for little you to notice her in the doorway. When she doesn’t, like a bat from hell, your mother flies into a rage. She snatches little you upright by the collar of her oversized nightshirt, teeth bared as she barks at the child, “You will answer me when I call your name!”

“I-I didn’t hear you! I swear!” Little you stammers, eyes swelling with stinging tears. 

“Of course not! You’re selfish!” Your mother yells, spit stringing between her teeth, the strong smell of alcohol wafting off her hot breath. “You think you can just ignore me whenever you want?!” You close your eyes, body jerking at the sharp smack reverberating in your ears. Your muscles tense, becoming rigid as you listen to the gut-wrenching sobs coming from your younger self.

“I’ll give you something to cry about!” You weren’t selfish or ignorant. You were just a child, completely wrapped up in your favorite escape from this - the abuse. 

Your body relaxes as you hear your mother stomp away from the room, allowing you to open your eyes, to see your younger self. She stands before you, her face cupped inside her palms as she sobs with such soundless intensity that her breath remains stuck in her chest. You round the couch, dropping to your knees before her, your own tears falling as you embrace her. One hand strokes her hair as the other soothingly rubs her back, offering the comfort you wish you’d received. 

“Shhh.” You try to calm her. “It’ll be okay. You’re not alone.” You coo. The pressure in her lungs releases, and she gasps for air, bawling against your shoulder as her small fists curl into your sleeves. 

“I-I didn’t mean to- to-” 

“Shhh…I know. I know.” You hug her firmly, providing as much support as you possibly can. Eventually, as her sobs dwindle into light sniffles, her arms circle around you as best as they can, returning the affection. You rock her gently, swaying from side to side as she had been earlier, humming that special lullaby you’ve always loved. 

Preoccupied with comforting little you - healing that broken shard of your past, you’re inattentive to the preternatural strength of her hold. You rock the child, even as her arms constrict, a boa around a mouse. Your shoulders strain, joints aching under the increasing pressure, threatening to pop from their sockets. As the air begins to thin, you wriggle and writhe against her, leaning back to see her face - its face. 

Sickly green and filled with malice, its mouth - where her cheek once was - opens into a blood-curdling, razor-toothed grin as it says, “We’re ssso hungry.” Its voice is at once one and many, splintering into that of a hundred - a thousand - sneering, distorted children. 

Through your bleary eyes, the facade of your childhood apartment fades away, leaving you in a slime-coated, moldy, abandoned apartment. Choked whimpers bubble from your throat as you watch its face continue to shift, features slipping and sliding across slimy skin. How could you have been so blind, so easily betrayed by your senses? 

"Feed usss." Comes another sinister voice from behind, just above your left shoulder. "Itsss been ssso long." Now above your right as the creature’s nails dig into your skin, warm liquid - blood - dripping down your arms. You hardly register the pain as you watch its eyes roll back into its mutating skull, replaced with glowing, yellow orbs. Its flesh becomes a viscous, gelatinous substance, seeping into your clothes.

Your mind empties of all words except one name, “M-Morpheus!” You rasp, the plea scarcely audible through the many, ravenous voices mimicking and mocking around you. I’m going to die, you think. Your face, heated from the rushing blood and lack of oxygen, twists with dread as you’re suffocated by the creature.

“We’ll devour you whole!” It growls the words as it opens its cavernous mouth, lining you up to ease you down its slick, greasy throat. You thrash in its grasp, hysterical sobs tearing the inside of your throat. 

"Enough!" The creature retracts at the bellowed command, a hand gripping and pulling you up by the back of your neck. Morpheus, you realize, brings you to your feet, shielding your quaking form behind his. His arm lingers protectively across your front, his hand gripping your opposite hip, steadying and reminding you that you are safe now.

"Massster?!" The voices shriek. As you take in the full expanse of the room, you see the many glinting, beady, yellow eyes all along the walls. The creatures cower into their shadows at the sight of Morpheus. You think you might do the same until you feel the gentle, reassuring squeeze of his hand, the only thing holding you upright. 

"We thought you left forever." The monsters chorus, echoing the word over and over.

"You have taken advantage of my absence,” Morpheus says - almost snarls, tone dripping with revulsion. “It ends now." 

With the wave of his free hand, the creatures shrivel, crumbling to dust on the floor until you’re left in the now vacant, dusty room.   Johanna leans against the wall a few feet away, looking almost as shaken as you, teeth gritted, fists clenched and trembling at her sides. 

"You disobeyed me." Your eyes flick up to meet his stormy gaze, blood still pumping loudly in your ears as you throw a weak glare his way. 

“You-” You’re still out of breath, each word a strain to your aching ribs. “You were in-” Your head shakes. “You were in here a while. What-” You force down a deep breath. “What was I supposed to do?”

"Wait. As you were told." You gawk at him incredulously, taking the time to catch your breath. ‘Wait as you were told.’ You’d strangle him if he hadn’t just saved you. You’re not a helpless child. Were you not the one saving his ass no less than three weeks ago, freeing him from nearly a hundred years of captivity? Could he truly fault you for trying to help him again?

“I was trying to help you.” Your voice is hoarse, throat sore as you attempt to defend your actions. “I thought you were in danger.” 

"I do not need saving from a mortal." 

Despite the ache, you square your throbbing shoulders, head held high as you quip back, “You did less than a month ago.”

His mouth folds into a firm line as he breaks your stare-off, sharp profile lit by the moonlight now peaking through the window, eyes darkening into ink-black, cosmic pools.

"Right, can we save the bickering for later?” Johanna intervenes, slicing through the tension. “I'd like to get the hell out of here." 

Rain pours around the stone awning of the building as you limp behind Morpheus and Johanna, nearly drowning out the sound of Matthew’s relieved caws. He swoops up to mount your shoulder chastising, “I told you not to go in there!” His talons dig into your skin for balance as you whip your head to scowl at him. Skittish, he jumps away, hopping after Morpheus. “Boss, I-”

Morpheus gives him a stern look, silencing the raven. His lips purse, brows knitting as he pulls a dark, leather pouch - no larger than the size of his palm - from his coat pocket. The sand. Golden beads glimmer along the strings as he tugs open the pouch, tilting it into his open hand. 

He got what he came here for, and now he’ll leave. He’ll leave you and Johanna behind after all that happened inside that wretched apartment complex, the waking nightmare you’d faced to save him. 

“Morpheus!” You snap, watching in disbelief as grains of sand slip through the gaps of his slender fingers, spinning into a sandstorm around him. He pauses, eyes flicking toward you.

“Where are you going?!” 

“Hell. In search of my helm.” 

In a blink, he’s encased in a swirling tornado of sand, and then…he’s gone. Matthew spirits away in your peripheral vision, a brief fluttering shadow and flap of wings as he follows after his master. You loose a frustrated breath and lean on the opposite wall from Johanna. Whether or not she’s still as shaken as she appeared - as you are - you’ll never know, her face now a mask of perfect calmness. You look to her for any semblance of validation for your discontentment, but she merely shrugs her shoulders.

“I’ll say this once,” She starts. “Only because I consider you a friend.” Her words are steady, not an ounce of residual fear behind them as she warns, “Don’t go after him again. It’ll only get you killed.”

#the sandman x reader #the sandman fanfic #the sandman netflix #the sandman comics #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #johanna constantine #matthew the raven #slow burn #eventual romance #eventual smut #angst #gallows of the dreaming #nocturneindream #nocturneindreams

[mywifeleftme]

270: Purple Mountains // Purple Mountains

Purple Mountains Purple Mountains 2019, Drag City (Bandcamp)

At times David Berman’s final album Purple Mountains feels like it’s from a rock mockumentary: specifically, the album an exaggeratedly burned-out artist would release just before taking a bath with his amplifier or finding religion. I imagine the talking heads saying things like, “It came out of nowhere, nobody could’ve known how Dave was feeling,” while a song literally called “All My Happiness is Gone” plays in the background. Here’s how the record opens:

“Well, I don’t like talking to myself but someone’s got to say it—hell, I mean things have not been going well— this time I think I’ve finally fucked myself.”

And, later on in the same song (“That’s Just the Way That I Feel”):

“A setback can be a setup for a comeback if you don’t let up, but this kind of hurting won’t heal. The end of all wanting is all I’ve been wanting, and that’s just the way that I feel.”

Attentive listeners to Berman’s previous project Silver Jews certainly got plenty of Dave’s biography from his lyrics, but on Purple Mountains he writes like a man who’s been suffering alone for so long he’s lost the habits of social adroitness. Eliding his despair must’ve seemed to him like trying to disguise the spurting stump of a hacked off wrist by holding it behind his back, so he allows his struggles to be the subject of the evening. Even if you don’t know the broad details of his years outside the spotlight (his separation, his monumental credit card debt, his treatment-resistant depression), most of it’s stated quite baldly in the lyrics. “I Loved Being My Mother’s Son” in particular is crushing to listen to on headphones, his slurred voice in your ear seemingly holding in a sob, the lyrics simple and devastating: “I wasn’t done being my mother’s son / only now am I seeing that being’s done.”

This newfound directness shouldn’t be mistaken for a diminution of his gifts as a lyricist. The verses of “Nights That Won’t Happen” use a villanelle-like structure with alternating refrains (“the dead know what they’re doing when they leave this world behind” and “all the suffering gets done by the ones we leave behind”) that give his words a sense of somber inevitability. Meanwhile, “Margaritas at the Mall” hearkens back to the Apocalyptic existentialism of Tanglewood Numbers’s “There is a Place,” only reversed—where on that 2005 song Berman spoke of reaching the bottom of despair and finding there the shadow of God looming over the world, here the presence of God is so subtle as to render life as trivial as drinking sugary booze in a food court.

Still, as gloomy as its subject matter often is, Purple Mountains is never a drag to listen to. It combines the countrified indie rock Berman mastered long ago with the cosmopolitan psych of Woods, who serve as his producers and backing band. The production is warm and richly detailed, and the band has a protean groove (especially on “Storyline Fever”) that makes what otherwise might be a funereal set of songs feel limber and amiable. On “Snow is Falling on Manhattan,” Woods take the lyrical note and turn the tune into a snow globe of organ, twinkling vibraphone, and festive trumpets. Berman’s guitar basically quotes the verse of “Imagine” as he delivers the album’s fondest words, its imagery of wanderers finding respite from the cold embracing the listener: “Snow is falling on Manhattan / Inside I’ve got a fire crackling / And on the couch beneath an afghan / You’re the old friend I just took in.”

I’ve heard Purple Mountains described as an auditory suicide note (and in lazy moments called it that myself), but its real message might be that a person can remain himself despite his illness wracking him toward the point of no return, able to see the world’s strangeness and charm even as the borders of his vision begin to darken. On the catchy “She’s Making Friends, I’m Turning Stranger” and “Maybe I’m the Only One for Me,” Berman delivers priceless jokes with practically his last breaths (“into my mind the thought begins to seep / if no one’s fond of fucking me / maybe no one’s fucking fond of me”). It’s one final bow from the guy that gave us “Honk if You’re Lonely,” like the portion of the wake where the grief has been spent for the moment and everyone’s swapping memories of the good times—and suddenly the departed’s there in the space between, sharing the kind of laughter that purges as it heals.

270/365

#purple mountains #silver jews #david berman #'10s music #indie rock #singer songwriter #alternative rock #music review #vinyl record #woods

[ladybugmeat]

27/09/2022

I haven't written anything cohesive since finishing university in America. Today is the first of 8-9 weeks I have opened my laptop and thought about reaching for some sentences. My year in Upstate New York is mentally too large, sprawling, and admittedly prickly at the edges, to approach today. And so, the future proves the pillow's cooler side. I don't know what I want from this post. Whilst academic writing had felt gratifying in previous months, creative writing is always waste product. Not without value but without destination. 40 hours pizza waitressing as the primary process, my phone notes are fast and half-hot - spat together on the walk home.

I am lying in a new room. It has overgrown blackberry brambles all the way up the one window. It has two wandering Jews in two purple pots. It has a desk with a puddle shaped glass top, I hate it. I have very hot to-do lists awaiting each next day. Tomorrow I will print an expansive calendar spanning the next 9 months. I am waiting on a personal trainer appointment to rock this 25-year-old-body into balance and my finances into fear. Lets see what happens here.

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” ― Heraclitus

#writing excercise #writing #poem #mine #words #writer #work #woman #creatives #creative writing #creativewriting #create #creative #prose poem #poetic #poet #personal #poetry

[mariacallous]

(New York Jewish Week) — On Friday evening, several dozen people huddled underneath umbrellas and raincoats in a new sukkah in Brooklyn that had survived the day’s record-setting rainstorm. 

The sukkah, created by queer textile artist Hilla Shapira, was unharmed: Its light purple walls were made of ripstop, a lightweight and water-resistant fabric. Its soft and pillowy decorations — which included Jewish symbols like hamsas as well as depictions of the four species — were made of dacron, a durable, polyester batting that held up in the deluge as well. 

Shapira said the project — titled Lavender Diaspora — was meant to channel her identities as a queer person who grew up in a religious household in Israel, and also as an immigrant in the United States, where she studied art in Michigan before moving to Brooklyn.

“I try to find parallel relationships between what it is to be queer and Jewish, and to be a person from Israel,” Shapira, 33, told the New York Jewish Week. “It’s especially relevant when we’re talking about Sukkot, which is a holiday that the Jewish people were celebrating in the in-between space, between Egypt and Israel — they were on the way somewhere, but in something that is temporary and stuck in this kind of forever nomadism.” 

Speaking at a Shabbat dinner hosted by The Neighborhood: An Urban Center for Jewish Life, the Brooklyn-based organization that commissioned the sukkah, Shapira said she had designed her structure to celebrate communities that find themselves on the outskirts of society. 

She was speaking on the first night of Sukkot, the weeklong holiday in which Jews build a temporary structure called a sukkah, meant to commemorate in part the structures that the Israelites lived in as they wandered through the desert from Egypt to Israel. Throughout the holiday, which ends at sundown on Saturday, Jews eat, pray and even sleep in the sukkah. 

The Neighborhood has partnered with 12 other Jewish communities and organizations to celebrate and host events in the unique sukkah, including Romemu Brooklyn, Lab/Shul, Jews of Color Initiative and the Prospect Heights Shul. 

“We were really excited to think about not just a sukkah as an art object, but really also as a place to bring different communities and groups of people together in this temporary structure,” Rebecca Guber, the founding director of The Neighborhood, told the New York Jewish Week. 

“We also thought about what were some different perspectives that we could bring into this stuff,” she added. “We wanted something that brings in young families, that would be comfortable if you’re a more observant Jew and that also feels kind of wild.”

Located in the courtyard of Luria Academy, a Jewish day school in Prospect Heights, students will use the sukkah for their meals and programming during the day. In the evenings and on the weekend, The Neighborhood will use the sukkah for its own programming, which includes the launch of a Sukkot zine in partnership with Ayin Press, a family-friendly music jam, a dance event and more. 

As a queer woman who grew up in an Orthodox home in Israel — as well as an immigrant to the United States — Shapira said she’s often searched for a sense of belonging. “The sukkah I tried to create is a space that is offering an alternative, or making a suggestion for a communal space for all the ‘shoulders’ of society,” she said. 

Lavender, the color of the walls of the sukkah, is a symbol of LGBTQ resistance and activism. The other half of the title, Diaspora, refers to both the dispersion of the Jewish people as well as the feeling of marginalization experienced by Jews, LBGTQ people and other minorities — the sukkah is meant to be a temporary space that alleviates that feeling.

The Neighborhood is a community hub that primarily partners with other Jewish organizations to create innovative Jewish cultural and spiritual events for Jewish life. The Lavender Diaspora sukkah was funded by UJA-Federation New York. (UJA-Federation is also a funder of 70 Faces Media, the parent company of the New York Jewish Week.)

“What really resonates for us is the way that this sukkah welcomes everyone in — whatever position you feel you occupy in the Jewish community — maybe some people feel like insiders, other feel like outsiders, we really hope this can be a place where many different people can feel welcomed, and that their perspectives and identities are being honored,” Guber said.

[vergess]

Tell us about the florist!

Oh right the racist florist.

I had to go to the DMV recently to get new ID to prove I'm a Real Human Person so I would be allowed to vote in elections in a place I've lived OVER A YEAR NOW.

So I'm stuck there with me and the GF (who has to accompany me for medical reasons) wearing our respirators and no other masks in the building, settling in for 3 hours of bureaucracy that has no right to exist.

And the woman two rows behind us is a florist.

We know this because she is at this point only speaking loudly enough to dominate the entire wait area (approximately 50 seats, half full). She has not, as of this moment in our tale begun screaming.

She will, but not yet.

She is complaining loudly about her least favourite ever customer, who appeared in her shop once an indeterminate number of weeks or months ago.

So, I'm already mostly panicking because I'm an immune compromised POC wearing a mask in a building with 30 open faced mayo sandwiches.

And I start processing the story I'm hearing.

"Yeah, I work at a garden center and some of these customers!!"

And I'm internally SO relieved because the screaming white woman (which is of course the equivalent to kill bill sirens after decades of living as their punching bag) is not a threat!!

She's just a tired, angry retail worker frustrated with her customers!! What a huge weight off my shoulders!!

"She saw one of my plants and just started screaming at me!"

At this point I'm openly sympathetic, sharing commisserating glances with the GF, nodding along about the mistreatment of retail workers.

"It's called the wandering Jew, I didn't name it."

And this is the moment my heart stopped, and I realized I needed to be VERY quiet and VERY small.

So while you're envisioning me slouching deeper into my folding chair, a pair of panicked eyes the only thing left above my coat collar, let's detour.

The genus Tradescantia, much like myself, is from rural appalachia. (Actually, it's a pan american genus, with species native from Canada to Argentina and everywhere between).

It contains a number of popular houseplants, broadly known as creeping inch or spiderwort. Some varieties with especially showy flowers are called "dayflowers" since blooms only last one sunrise to one sunset.

They're astonishingly fast growing, with a popular myth that they grow "an inch a day," though the name "creeping inch" actually refers to the leaves being about an inch apart.

The leaves are the real showstopper, though.

Check out this "Purple Heart" species, Pallida:

Image from University of Wisconsin Madison. A dark purple mound of foliage spills out of a 10 gallon planter.

Or the truly stunning, variegated Zebrina species:

Image by David J. Stang, CC4 BY-SA. As always because tumblr suppresses links, the CC license will be linked in the replies. A several meter wide patch of striped silver and green leaves.

There's a "tricolore" variant of the main Fluminis (no that's a FFXIV dungeon that's not right) species, where the leaves are bright green, pale almost white green, and PASTEL PINK okay. These are GORGEOUS plants that were a prominent part of my childhood.

The term "wandering Jew plant" had already been mostly retired in English by the time I started elementary school, as evidenced by the fact that we GREW THESE IN CLASS EVERY YEAR TO SELL AT THE GREENHOUSE FUNDRAISER. Occasionally a grandparent might ask to buy them at the fundraiser by the Forbidden Name, but teachers just told us they were saying "jute" and not to repeat it.

These are REALLY cool plants. I need you all to understand that.

Because I was too busy hyperventilating to actually say any of this at the time.

The breathing is about to get worse, because this is the point at which several other (white) people started chiming in to agree about how disgusting Woke Culture is.

And the the florist scared the piss out of me, as if I had any piss left.

"Yeah! It's not like she'd ever even seen a Jew! There aren't any in Maine, hahaha!!"

The folks closest to her laughed along. These were not kind laughs. This was not a joke, it was a promise delivered in laughter.

I thought I might have a heart attack. I was actively gauging whether my crippled ass could get past the crowd and to the exit.

One (1) person with a mask had arrived to the DMV at this point and clearly clocked me sitting in the corner trying not to die.

If you're the ambiguously gendered blond with the blue mask at the DMV on October 3, please understand that you prevented a major incident just by standing near the exit, making eye contact, and nodding when you realized what was standing between me and safely leaving.

You're a good fucking ally.

Thank you.

Anyway, in case you forgot, this was at the DMV so I could get ID to vote, so I needed to try and stay if I could. It's an hour trip each way to the DMV, after all.

Fortunately, a few minutes more of this monstrosity, and the racist harpy was called to the counter. She paid her outstanding taxes, and left. Because to racist freaks, that kind of behaviour is acceptable and normal in public spaces.

Eventually, the rest of her coterie were also called, and then me, and then we left and I had a sobbing meltdown in the car.

Also this was the day of the 50 page Dracula email, so I had a LOT happening there.

#asks #ask answers #agoldenshinywireofhope #life of vees

[fatedwithmbc]

I love break week. There’s something about NOT having to take those purple Alka-Seltzer sized tablets that makes me feel the tiniest bit normal. Aside from still having moderate levels of fatigue, my dysphagia has taken a break from disrupting my eating and I’m sleeping well.

I’m making my leave of absence goals happen too. I may be sleeping late, but I am getting physical movement or chores done every day. I am getting my ass out of bed and doing shit. I’m proud of my new self- but also mourning the old self who could run circles around new me.

The grill I bought yesterday was delivered today. It’s all set-up, tested and now safely covered. I was able to get the old one out to the front yard (Mom-Mom helped with some of the harder parts, i.e. porch stairs). And now I just need to pray that a scrapper will drive by and snag it up Thursday night/Friday morning.

Aside from that, I filled the bird feeder. Checked on the brood in our bird house (still chirping away) which is a highlight for me. Just hearing those little guys and knowing they were born and are being cared for in a couple pieces of wood just makes me happy. And I feel protective of them even though I can’t see them. I see the parents though. The males are known to be aggressive, so I am very careful when I approach the underside of the birdhouse just to get an earful of their warbling. They are House Wrens (if I identified the adults correctly).

Next was filling Bailey’s water dish and watering the Dragon Tail I received from my friend Allace. It was sheer irony that she picked that plant to give me as it was one of my Dad’s favorites. He would select them for his own garden, when he decided to create and tend to one. He had a green thumb and could care for a plant instinctively, without instruction. I think a tiny bit of that may have been passed down to me as I’ve been able to keep my African Violet growing and healthy- same with our Prayer Plant and a Shamrock that I repotted (it had been on it’s last legs and last sprig). It has thrived since repotting. Same with our Wandering Jew. I have a few more I’d like to replant by the end of summer: a Christmas Cactus, a Bird’s Nest Snake plant and I’ll probably find something to nurse at Primex.

Plants aside, I completed the “chores” I had. Mostly admin tasks to ensure my leave of absence is on track to end when my doctor indicated and not earlier. I also enrolled in a vendor program called Prudent RX that will aid me with the costs of my cancer medication until my deductible is met. This will be a huge help. Insurance pays $13,000 per month for this drug and that is definitely not in the realm of affordable for this average “Jane”. I contacted my nurse navigator to get a definitive answer as to where my lab work needs to be completed. I’ve always gone to the cancer center, but I need to ensure it’s in-network and that I don’t need to use Quest or LabCorp. I suspect I’ll have to go outside of the cancer center. I also made an outreach to a local woman who unfortunately lost her teenage son to cancer. She created a foundation and I contribute what I can since it’s inception. But ultimately, I was asking if she had a suggestion for a support group. This was a suggestion from Cheryl and such a good one as now I have a woman who has MBC that I can talk to- who wears my shoes, feels my feelings, and is still coping and living despite the diagnosis.

With the medical chores completed, I was finally able to drop off my Sister-In-Law’s Mother’s Day gift. We were able to spend some time chatting which was nice. It’s been awhile since her and I had some time together- well, my last visit with all of them was Easter and/or Jackson’s first T-Ball game. He has another one tomorrow that I hope to make it to. I briefly saw my brother before they had to pick Jackson up from school.

I went to Starbucks prior to stopping back home to change into sneakers for Walking Wednesday with Brian. We walked about 3ish miles. I didn’t wear my watch or bring my phone, so this is a guesstimate. I like not having my phone or watch - it makes me more present as to what’s on the trail and by the water (animals; mostly the birds, today some deer) and more present in my conversations with Brian. Gosh, I’m just so lucky he was chosen and accepted the role of my God Father. He has been so amazingly supportive. He’s encouraged me to walk everyday, but I’m not sure I’m there yet. I also told him about my blog, and stressed it’s anonymous with the exception of a few close friends and family who know about it. I’m on the fence about sharing with him. He encouraged my writing, stating it’s cathartic and it is. I don’t do this because I’m “good” at it. I do it to clear my mind and my heart. Am I betraying him by not sharing this with him? More food for thought.

I still have my two big projects: yarn donation and closet clean out. I’ll start on them, but they feel overwhelming- maybe because it means I am getting rid of things. I have unusual sentimental attachment to things. Clothes and yarn typically don’t fall into that space, but I don’t know how else to explain the avoidance of either task aside from them requiring significant effort. I will do these things. They will get done. Shoot, I’ve done more difficult things (my small contribution to cleaning out Dad’s apartment).

Well, as midnight approaches, I’m going to let my magical Apple Ring Hybrid Gummy help me drift off to dream land.

El fin.

#fated with mbc #confessions of a cancer patient #stage iv deserves more #metastatic breast cancer #stage iv metastatic breast cancer #breast cancer

[cateyedfox36]

Went to the Master Gardeners sale today- they sell off their cuttings at crazy prices- and as always I went with dork reasons for what I purchased.

I got a plant called the Wandering Dude- used to be wandering jew but obv not a great look- bc my first thought was "holy shit it's the walking dude! From the stand!" It's a spreading plant, hence the wandering part, but it's also hecking purple and pretty!

And then I got a guy called 'Solomons seal' which is metal as fuck!

And another called Dark Heart which is just metal and gloriously purple.

And oregono and peppermint because I swear to the gods I will grow herbs if it kills me!

I also got these two weirdos. Because I am a weirdo. Theyre my sons and I love then.

#Plants! #Dark heart #Solomon seal #Wandering dude #Walking dude #The stand #Master gardeners #Look at his wonky eyes!

[saramerkinwriting]

Ezra

Sara would be in seventh grade when she got her first taste of love. But it was love in the way that a tween obsesses over a pop star, she was in love with the idea of what the person could be, not knowing who they really were. 

Ezra Gold was ordinary if anything. A young awkward Jew with coarse blonde hair and a face that would later grow a beard. He had rectangular wire-rimmed glasses as if his mom was trying to make him look as nerdy as possible. But they fit his thin, lanky body. At the age of thirteen, he was growing slowly, no more than 5”6. In the years to come, he would gain another three inches on his legs, and five inches elsewhere. 

Sara knew that his humor mimicked his friend Jake’s, which mimicked Jake’s older brother’s. But he made Sara laugh and that was all that mattered to her. 

“Hey,” Ezra said one day in math class, turning his head but not moving the rest of his body, to feign innocence should the teacher notice. 

“Yeah?” Sara responded, blushing. 

“How can you make seven an even number?” he asked. 

Sara blushed again. She didn’t know the answer and worried Ezra would think she was dumb.

“Uhh…”

“You take the ‘s’ out,” he said. Sara rolled her eyes. 

Ezra smiled, and she felt reassured as if she’d come out of the conversation looking cooler than she was. 

Their parents were friends, which pushed them to hang out. One Sunday in October, during a barbeque, the rebellious thirteen-year-olds would sneak off into Ezra’s room. 

Sara thought his room was boring. Her room at home was painted purple, which was her favorite color before she discovered the wonders of green. One of her walls was white with purple molding, repainted after a termite incident, with art that her great-grandmother had created. Ezra’s room was barely decorated. There was a boring blue comforter with a boring brown dresser and boring cream color walls. The only decorations were an acoustic guitar on a stand in the corner, a Beatles Abbey Road poster, and some old baseball trophies won for participation. 

“Have you ever seen ASDF Videos?” he asked. 

“What’s that?” 

They moved to his bed and he pulled out his iPad. Normally, Sara would have focused on the iPad, jealous that he had one when all she had was a first-generation iPod Touch, not even the new one that had come out seven months ago. But she was too focused on how close his body was. She wondered if he would kiss her. She’d never been kissed before. 

The video started. Sara was enthralled. It was a black-and-white cartoon of stick-figure people doing things that didn’t make any sense but were somehow funny. 

“Got your nose!” one character said, grabbing another’s face with his thumb, doing the old trick. 

Suddenly, the video cut to a door bursting open and a group of cops with guns running in.

“LOOK OUT HE’S GOT A NOSE,” the frontman yelled.  

Ezra lost himself laughing and Sara giggled along, finding the video funny, not as funny as Ezra did. They managed to watch twenty minutes worth of the ASDF series before Sara’s mom came into the room and told her they were leaving. In the weeks to come, Sara and Ezra would recite lines from the video to each other whenever they could. 

Soon, Ezra would undergo surgery for a twisted nerve in his testicles. He was bedridden for a few days and Sara was worried. A rumor went around that the doctors removed one of his balls. She didn’t know what that meant but she knew it was bad. One night she baked cupcakes for some friends and wandered the neighborhood giving them out. Ezra lived nearby, so she figured she’d check on him and give him a cupcake too. 

He was in his underwear. Boxer briefs. They were blue, a shade that was bright and dark at the same time. The color seemed to have been made on a computer and printed into reality. She’d never seen a boy in underwear before, aside from the occasional TV character, wearing comically large white boxers with red hearts. She blushed.

“Uh.. here’s a cupcake. I was going over to Jessie’s to give her and Allie some, so I thought I would give one to you too.”

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “But you know what you were supposed to say?’

Sara laughed, “I baked you a cupcake”

“Oh boy! What flavor?” Ezra said without missing a beat, repeating one of their favorite ASDF lines.

“Cupcake flavor”

“DUNNURRRRR,” they said together, laughing. 

Their eyes met and then Sara glanced down. Boxer briefs. She rushed out of there as quickly as she could. 

Sara would bring a mini pack of Keebler’s Fudge Stripe Cookies to school as a snack. She usually brought Scooby Snacks. She loved the cinnamon taste of the dog-bone-shaped graham crackers. Plus, there was something funny to her about pretending to eat dog food. She didn’t like those new cookies, though. The chocolate smeared all over her fingers and they didn’t even taste good. She offered the ¾ full bag to Ezra as an afterthought, trying to get rid of them. He gladly accepted. 

Later that night they were texting, and Ezra asked if she was going to bring more cookies tomorrow. 

Sara: 

Yeah I’ll bring them we’re out of scooby snacks :(

Ezra: 

Can I have some

Sara took a deep breath before responding. She was overtaken by a moment of bravery.

Sara: 

U can only have more if ur my boyfriend

Ezra: 

More cookies!

With that, they were the hot new couple of their seventh grade. 

Sara and Ezra dated for five months. But it was a middle school relationship, so most of it consisted of texting. On Valentine's Day, Ezra bought Sara a Snoopy card and chocolate because Sara’s friends told him he had to. In return, Sara kissed him on the cheek. She wondered if this was her first kiss. 

Ezra would break her heart in March with a series of texts about how his friends were making fun of him and how he didn’t want to be in a relationship. They thought it was lame that he was talking to a girl. Girls were gross. Focusing on her meant that he wasn’t focusing on their Minecraft games. Sara was upset that Ezra didn’t end it in person, but it was fitting, in a way, to end a text-based relationship, over text.

She spent the hour afterward playing Adele’s Someone Like You, crying her way through a box of tissues. Then she got up, washed her face, and went to a bat mitzvah. 

When Sara would look back years later she would be in awe of how forward she had been with Ezra. She would ask other boys out but always with a sense of anxiety, it would never be as effortless again. Perhaps it was the fear of young love rejection that fed into her nerves. 

During Junior year of high school Sara and Ezra would get close, and he would break her heart a second time. They had all the same classes, had the same friends, had too much in common to ignore. Working together on group projects turned into talking after class which revived their tween friendship. A sense of their past returned. 

It was fun while it lasted. They never dated, but Sara saw Ezra as something of a boyfriend. They texted, exchanged class notes, and went on slurpee runs. Ezra would get blue raspberry and Sara would get cherry with a drop of Coke. Once, she decorated his locker with cutouts of Shia LaBeouf’s head because of another video they loved. She sat at the end of the hallway and watched as he opened his locker. He shook his head upward in shock, whipped around, and yelled toward her, “SARA!”

One weekend, Sara went over to Ezra’s house during Shabbat. They had to read “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead" for their AP Lit class and figured they would do it together. Sara read for Rosencrantz and Ezra for Guildenstern. They divided up the other parts equally. Ezra laid on his back and held the book up in the air. Sara joined him, her body shaking a bit as she positioned herself. 

“Heads,” she read from the text.

“Wait-” Ezra said, interrupting

Sara scanned the rest of the page. “Bro you don’t speak for another five lines, let me read.” 

“Give me a sec.” 

Ezra got up to dig around in his night table drawer.  

The absence of his body next to hers stung. As he searched on the other side of the bed, she lifted her head towards the ceiling, worried he would see her with a double chin.

“Got it!”

Ezra lifted a quarter in the air. 

“Oh my god,” Sara said rolling her eyes. “But what if you don’t get heads every time like the play says?”

“It’s a chance I’m willing to take,” he said with a wink. 

Ezra paused as he adjusted himself to the bed. He laid down, closer to Sara than before. 

“Wow,” Ezra said two hours later, when they’d finished reading. “That was definitely something.”

“I think I need a year to process whatever the hell just happened there,” Sara agreed. 

“What a weird play.”

They lay silently for a moment.

“Tom Stoppard needs to be stopped,” Ezra said, laughing at his own pun. 

Sara gave a half laugh, too focused on the realization that only an inch separated their shoulders. 

Ezra called her up on a random Monday night, November 23rd to be exact. After three months of flirting, he told Sara that he didn’t want to date her.

“I just don’t see this working out,” he said. 

“Are you gay?” Sara asked, unable to comprehend how he could spend months flirting with her, only to end things. It was 2015. 

“No,” he said, “I just can’t do this.” 

When they hung up, Sara said out loud to no one in particular, “What the fuck just happened here?” 

She was hurt so she spent a lot of time with other people instead. A month later, Ezra would yell at her for abandoning him as a friend. Blindsided, she couldn’t speak. In February, he would apologize but she would continue to keep her distance. She would barely remember what was said but would be left with a heavy feeling of hurt in her chest for a year. Time would pass to soften the blow. 

The summer between Junior and Senior year was good for Sara. Ezra went off to camp and she let herself forget him. 

Their high school graduation party would take place on a party bus, with poles that they were too innocent to understand how to use. There were flashing LED lights to give the appearance of a club, but it was just some sweaty ex-high schoolers, illegally drunk. As a designated driver, Sara was sober.

She sat down next to Ezra on the bus and they chatted about how boring graduation was. By then, around a year and a half had passed since their falling out and they’d gotten to a friendly place. They’d do school work together, hang out in group settings, and occasionally send memes. 

“Can you believe that Mrs. Kanner actually spoke for ten minutes?” Sara said.

“Yeahhhh,” Ezra slurred a bit. He didn’t know how to handle his alcohol yet. “And she just kept saying the same stuff over and over and over and over and-”

“It was a lot,” Sara said, cutting him off because God knows how long he could’ve gone in his state. She’d never seen him drunk before. 

Ezra lifted his arm and put it around her, pulling her in close. Sara stopped breathing and snuggled up against him, her mind racing as fast as her heart. She’d always heard that being drunk brings out people’s true feelings. 

His index finger traced her shoulder in circles. She didn’t really like chills, but now, she welcomed them. This felt different. She noticed his hand moving steadily towards her chest. 

Sara grew uncomfortable. When his hand reached the spot where her chest met her armpit, where that little bit of fat protruded from the pressure of underwire, she picked it up and moved it back to the center of her shoulder. Ezra continued his circles, too drunk to be aware of what had happened. 

A minute later a girl from their grade came up and whispered in his ear. Sara had always been jealous of her. She was impossibly sure of herself and easily funny. At least her boobs were smaller. 

Ezra lifted his arm and went to join the girl. They spent the night wetting each other’s faces with their drunken slack-jawed mouths. 

In the years after high school, Sara and Ezra would keep in touch, texting and hanging out from time to time. Sara would go to college in New York, Ezra in Boston. Eventually, she would fall into a serious relationship with Oliver. As the Oliver era was spiraling to an end, Ezra would visit New York for a weekend. Sara met him at one of her favorite bars, 212 Hisea’s. It was an Asian-fusion restaurant/bar with an extensive cocktail list. The drinks were the size of a 16oz solo cup for only $7. In New York City, that was beyond cheap. And, the drinks packed a punch. Sara ordered her go-to, a lychee mojito that tasted nothing like alcohol but got her to the perfect level of tipsy. She convinced Ezra to order the ‘adios,’ a neon blue drink with enough alcohol to make the drinker’s sobriety go bye-bye. 

Loose, they talked about everything that had happened between them over the years. She asked him why he broke up with her back in middle school, why he rejected her, yelled at her during junior year, why he never kissed her. He explained his struggles with depression in high school. She had had no idea. 

As they were leaving the bar, Ezra turned to her,  “You know, I did always think we would date at some point.”

“I did too, the timing just never made sense, I guess.” 

He nodded. 

“Can I walk you home?” 

This was the moment Sara had dreamt of for years. But, she was in a relationship with a boy who would hurt her more than Ezra ever could. 

“I’m…Gonna go to my boyfriend's apartment. I’ll see you around,” she said. 

That was August. In October, Oliver would leave her for Ana. In November, Sara would return home for Thanksgiving and sneak into Ezra’s house, not wanting to deal with the awkwardness of explaining to his parents why she was there. They entered his room and he shut the door as quickly as he could while trying to stay quiet. He swung around and threw his arms around her waist, hungry to start kissing. She pushed away to slow him down and look around the room. It was just as boring as always. 

Their bodies easily folded into each other. The kisses were fine but the past made them feel electric. When she pulled his pants off, she paused to look at him in his boxer briefs. They were a light grey this time, she wondered if that showed a sense of maturity from his computer-blue middle school days. They definitely fit him better, tightened around a bulge. 

“You remember in seventh grade when I came to visit you after your surgery?”

“Honestly, not at all,” he said.

“You were in your underwear and I didn’t know what to do with myself,” she admitted. 

He laughed, pushed her down onto the bed, and kissed her hard. 

Sara pulled away. “Okay, but I just have to ask, do you still have both of your balls?”

“What the fuck? Of course, I do.”

She resumed kissing him, relieved for his sake and hers. She didn’t want to know what a man with only one ball would look like.

If anything, the sum of their night together felt like two ghosts passing through each other. Neither of them finished. Both of them were too hopped up on antidepressants and mood stabilizers. But Sara found solace in not having the amazing experience she assumed she would. She recognized that she no longer had an attachment to Ezra, no obsession. She knew what she wanted out of a partner, and Ezra wasn’t it. Sara’s breakup with Oliver had changed her, matured her. She didn’t want to waste time on past failures. Ezra was living in Baltimore anyway. Sara was in New York City. They were different now from the awkward seventh graders, dramatic high-schoolers, and even the drunk old friends they’d been a few months before. All they knew about each other was their younger selves and she wasn’t interested in the effort it would take to figure out if they were compatible. 

She kissed him goodbye, washed her face, and moved on.

#creative writing #non fiction #mfa #the new school #dating #jewish #relationships #personal essay #memoir #love #judaism #shabbat #asdf #middle school

[sexintheatx-blog]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Large Purple Heart Varigated Live Plant.

[thegardenprepper]

Wandering Jew Leaves Curling (3 Most Common Reasons)

Wandering Jew is not the name of a single plant, it is a common name for several other plants in the genus Tradescantia. It also has some common names such as Wandering Jew plant, inch plant, and flowering inch plant. The scientific names of these plants are Tradescantia zebrine and Tradescantia fluminensis. The beauty of Wandering Jew is its blue heart-shaped leaves with purple or silver…

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[nyc-uws]

There are Indoor Plants that Grow in Water without much maintenance. You can grow them in clear vases and jars to use as a centerpiece.

Philodendron In all the philodendron species, heart-leaf philodendron is quite adaptable for growing in water. Keep a 6 inches long cutting in a clear glass jar or bowl in a location with bright indirect light. Don’t forget to change the water once in 3-4 days and it’ll keep growing.

Lucky Bamboo Famous for its forgiving nature, the lucky bamboo is one of the best indoor plants that grow in water. Narrow vases are perfect for this plant, depending on the size. Make sure the roots are submerged in the water and add some gravels around them for firm placement.

Pothos With its glossy heart-shaped foliage, pothos is one more option to go for. Grow it in water, in a clear fishbowl and keep that on a shelf, cascading pothos leaves will look wonderful. Keep changing the water every few days to maintain the right oxygen level.

Chinese Evergreen & Dumbcane With variegated and leathery leaves having a silvery pattern, the dumb cane and Chinese evergreen plant can be grown in water. You can easily propagate the cuttings in a transparent vase filled with small aquarium rocks. After a few months, once the roots appear and become bigger, transfer them in the soil.

Spider Plant Spider plants look quite interesting with their narrow arching foliage and baby spiderettes. You can either grow them permanently in a glass jar or change the cuttings into a new pot, once they root. Keep changing the water every 2-3 days. Check out these indoor spider plant care tips here.

Arrowhead Plant Like other climbers and vining plants, the arrowhead plant is pretty straightforward to grow indoors in water. Keep adding fresh water twice a week and it’ll keep on growing. If you like, transplant it into a potting soil once the cutting sets new roots.

Coleus Having colorful and serrated leaves, coleus will be the most colorful addition to glasses and jars. Since it likes indirect light, you can keep it as a tabletop centerpiece in a wine glass or decorative mason jar filled with water.

Tip: Adding compost tea in the water will enhance their growth.

Wandering Jew Wandering jews are tough plants that grow like a weed in warm climates. The astonishing purple-colored and variegated varieties make them desirable houseplants. The best part is you can grow them in water in terrariums.

Dracaena Many indoor dracaena varieties can adapt to growing in water. Glass jugs and narrow jars are good for them. Just remember to use chlorine and fluoride-free water. Also, never let the water in the jar to become mushy and unclear and keep changing it two to three times a week.

Begonia Like impatiens, growing begonias in water is also possible. You can keep them in a clear bowl for around two months before they start to fade. Don’t forget to change the water every week to save the begonia cuttings from rotting.

Ornamental Sweet Potato Ornamental sweet potato vine in a glass jar will add a tropical touch to your kitchen windowsill. Trim a few 6 to 8 inches long stems just below the leaf node, remove the lower leaves and submerge them half in water. Keep changing the water and it’ll grow.

English Ivy English ivy can your next indoor water garden plant. You can grow its cuttings in vases for a long time. Snip all the bottom leaves of an ivy stem and transfer it into a glass jar and enjoy it on a bright windowsill.

Monstera Monstera is a popular large indoor plant because of its huge cut foliage and stems. It creates a tropical atmosphere in any room. Adding this tall plant can make a huge impact on the interior of any home.

Herbs Not just the houseplants, there are herbs and vegetables that you can grow in water. Some of the best ones are mint, green onions, fennel, basil, and celery.

waterplants #indoorwaterplants #easytogrowplants

#Indoor Plants #waterplants #Plants

[emmaoliverblog]

How to Make Wandering Jew Bushy Like Jungle?

Wandering Jew, also known as Tradescantia Zebrina is a well-known houseplant. It is popular for its wandering stems and bushy growth. It has the quality to make any space look attractive because of its heart-shaped leaves with purple stripes and silvery green foliage. But with all this beauty comes the pain of the wandering jew getting leggy. Most gardeners complain that their wandering jew has…

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#indoor plants #wanderingg jew

[the-bottle-tree]

Bird Bath Garden

Area Name: Bird Bath Garden

Area Type: Flower Bed

Size: 5 x 5 x 3

Light: Some sun / Some shade

Notes:

Plants:

#garden bio #bird bath garden #purple heart spiderwort #celosia

[juliaseiderdown]

symbols!

shoutout to the random teacher on google named Mr. Rose who wrote this, credit to him.

colors

Red: blood, passion, emotion, danger, or daring

Black: passivity, death, evil

White: innocence, purity, light.

Green: new life, fertility, hope

Yellow: caution, decay, decrepitude, old age Blue: peace, serenity, eternity

Pink : innocence, femininity

Purple : royalty

Brown : earth, soil, humility and poverty Orange : heat, sun

Gold: riches, sacredness

seasons + nature

🌸🌱🌿Spring: birth, new beginning

🌞🍉🌻Summer: maturity, knowledge

🍂🍁🥮Autumn: decline, nearing death, growing old

❄️☃️🌨️Winter: death, sleep, hibernation, or stagnation

🌅Dawn: illumination, hope

💡Light: truth, safety, warmth, knowledge Darkness: evil, ignorance, danger

🍎Apple: temptation, loss of innocence

🌱Weeds : evil, wildness/outcasts of society

🌼Flowers: beauty, youth, strength, gentleness

🌹Rose: budding youth, romance

💧Water: purification, cleansing Evergreen tree: immortality

weather

🌬️🍃Wind and storms: violent human emotions

⚡️Lightning : power and strength

🌅Morning : purity and promise

🌈Rainbows : heralds of good fortune, heaven

⛈️Thunder : God’s wrath, punishment

🌁🌫️Fog/Mist: isolation; confusion, obscurity

☔️Rain: sadness or despair

animals

🕊️Dove : peace, purity, simplicity

🦊Fox: slyness, cleverness

🪶Raven: death, destruction, impending doom Lion: strength, power, authority

🦚Peacock: pride, vanity

🐭Mouse : shyness, meekness

🦅Hawk : sharp, keen eyesight

🦉Owl : wisdom

🐈Cats : cunning, forethought, and ingenuity

🐑Lamb : sacrifice element, the children of God

🦅Eagle: freedom

🐴Donkey: humility, patience, stupidity

🦤Buzzard/Vulture: warning of impending death

clothing

🦸🏻‍♀️Cape: withdrawal into oneself or into God.

🎭Mask: demonic tendencies

🧥Cloak: human trickery

settings

🌳🦌Forest: usually a place of evil or mystery

🌵🏜️Desert: isolation: alienation, loneliness

⛲️🏡Garden: paradise of a haven

🏞️Park: a place for retreat and renewal

objects

💀Skull: death

👑Crown: wealth

💍Ring: long-term commitment

🪓Axe: battle, work

🥋Belt: protection, chastity

🪟Window: freedom or lack thereof Door: opportunity

🕯️Candle: light in the darkness

⭕️Circle: wholeness, perfection

🔥Fire: Hell; pain, death

🧋Pearl: incorruptibility

⚔️Sword: protection, strength

🚙Journey: the call of fate, adventure

NUMBERS

Zero (0): the ultimate mystery; nothingness

Three (3): tripartite nature of the world; signifies fulfillment Consider: Holy Trinity; 3: beginning, middle, end; past, present, and future;

Five (5): human perfectionConsider: Five senses, five fingers on each hand, five toes on each foot, five wounds of Jesus

Seven (7): totality; divine abundance Consider: Seven days of creation, seven days of the week, seven sacraments, seven deadly sins

Twelve (12) universal fulfillment Consider: Twelve tribes of Israel, Twelve Apostles, twelve days of Christmas, 12 months in a year

Forty (40): penance, purification Consider: 40 days of lent, Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness, the Jews wandered the desert for forty years, Moses spent 40 days on Mt. Sinai, the Great Flood was caused by 40 days of rain

my notes

really interesting to note how a lot of symbols are Biblical.

make up your own symbols and meanings!

symbolism can be shown in a number of things from parts of your characters to their clothing and surroundings... be creative!

[gengacanvas]

#InchPlant

[succulentsplantsorg]

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