Your arms are no longer
Swinging blades
Hanging by the thread made out of skin
You’ve learned to hate.

Let them be a bandage
For every wound you’ve opened upon yourself
As if they were doors towards
A deeper labyrinth.

Let them stitch the gaps you’ve flayed
Between the sinew and the soul.
All of this is reparable;
All of it is your own body to conquer.

Be no longer the enemy of yourself.
No, you are reborn from the cinder
As a new a kind of smoke— the kind
Which soothes the ache
Instead of leaving you to choke.

—  Lorne Ryan, Write A Love Poem to Yourself (After becauseofstars)
  • Best friend:Are those the loud ones? *in reference to my new classmates who are annoying as hell*
  • Me:Yes, I want to commit murder and slowly flay each one alive. Then! I'll feed their cooked flesh to their families in a pie. They'd be all like "oh what flavour is this pie?" and then I'd be all like "MURDER FLAVOURED!".

i was watching beat bobby flay and the challenger one and his name was neil so when he one it showed a clip of him saying “NEILED IT!” like…”nailed it”…and i don’t know if it’s because i’m tired or what but i made the ugliest cackle after i heard it

I’m a little bit unsettled by how my theater section seems to believe (not all, but several members) that ‘real theater’ involves the complete destruction of the self. Their attitude towards criticism is ‘the more self-destructive and flaying, the better’.

Maybe I’m weak and idealistic, but I didn’t get into theater so that I could hate myself, hate the work that I’m producing. I got into it so that I could find a way to actually be satisfied with myself in the work (and also so that I can play superheroes and fabulous people and monsters and stuff!).

And maybe this is just extra-stupid, but I’d like to know what I’m doing right as well as what I’m doing wrong. I don’t think that’s coddling. I think that’s direction. I don’t want to destroy myself in this school. I don’t want to come out of it hating theater, hating acting. This is what I really love to do, but I’m only feeling more and more out of place.

I get so frustrated cos I’m forced to live with these dichotomies when it comes to the people I care about:

  • I want to spoil the heck out of them, but I’m broke as fuck
  • I want to be supportive, but most of the time I’m stuck hundreds of miles away ineffectually saying “I’m sorry” or “that sucks” through a computer screen
  • I want to repeatedly stab and then flay anyone who ever hurts them in any way, but apparently that’s illegal in most countries
  • I want to make them beautiful pieces of clothing, but I don’t have the materials or funds to make it happen
  • I want to listen to them talk about their passions and hopes and dreams for hours, but the internet or cell reception is crappy and doesn’t always hold the words we need or the meaning we crave

The first time John met Mary, it was four months after Sherlock’s suicide. She was visiting his clinic, complaining of odd pains. Mary instantly recognized him; she had been an avid reader of his blog. Apparently, Sherlock had solved the case of her missing father several years before John had met the man.

She told him quite honestly that she couldn’t believe that Sherlock had been lying about her father. She believed.

He prescribes her some painkillers and tells her to return if the pain is back.

—-

The second time John meets Mary, it is several weeks after he saw her first. The pain has returned, worse than before. But Mary is a strong woman, almost frustratingly stubborn in John’s opinion. Their meeting lasts longer than it should, due to John regaling her with a story of one of Sherlock’s exploits. The pain of the loss of one of the best men John has ever known is beginning to calm to a dull ache.

Mary leaves the clinic with a date in her calendar to have an ultrasound, and a date of an entirely different kind.

—-

John thinks he’s in love.

Mary thinks so too.

Mary also knows she has a tumor.

—-

They get married in the spring, almost a year after Sherlock’s death. Mary is a joy to be around, despite her illness. She’s strong. It’s because of Mary that John decides to turn the cases he was on with Sherlock into full-blown novels. Mary helps him get them published.

Due to the media frenzy over the ‘fraudulent detective’, it’s no surprise that John’s stories are bestsellers in less than a year. He spends a lot of his money to tend to Mary. Eventually, he leaves his job at the clinic to care for her, the money arriving from his books more than enough to sustain them. 

Sometimes John hates being a doctor. He knows when it is impossible to survive a fall, how to check a pulse. He knows how to sew a man’s entrails back into his body.

He knows the survival rate of people with an advanced stage of stomach cancer.

—-

Mary passes away nearly three years after Sherlock. John has run out of tears.

For a month he wants to do nothing but lie in bed, silent, too scared to fall asleep and have the nightmares return.

Until one day, when he visits the graveyard where the two greatest people he had ever known lie. 

Suddenly, strong arms wrap around his neck from behind. He is too shocked to retaliate with his battle-bred instincts. And the feel of the wool, the smell of chemicals and something else he can’t quite place, is all too familiar, although the fact that they were shaking with what he believed was grief was fairly new.

"I am so very sorry, John."

8

THIS IS A MAJESTIC TWIRL OF DEATH AND DESTRUCTION APPRECIATION POST

AND IT IS LONG OVERDUE

LOOK AT THAT MAJESTIC MOTHERFUCKER SPIN

WHAT’S THAT YOU SAY? HAIR? GETTING IN THE WAY?!

THIS SON OF A BITCH DOESN’T CARE, YO

HE GON’ FLIP THAT HAIR LIKE IT’S A MIDDLE FINGER

AND CUT UP SOME ORCS/WARGS/GOBLINS LIKE A FUCKING SHREDDER ON CRACK

WATCH THIS GLORIOUS BASTARD MOVE LIKE HE’S NOT ALMOST AS GODDAMN TINY AS A HOBBIT

HE GONNA MOW YOUR GOBLIN LAWN FOR YOU FOR FUCKING FREE

AND THEN PROBABLY SMILE LIKE HE’D JUST HAD A FUCKING ORGASM

FUCK

4

Vajra Flaying Knife

  • Dated: circa 15th century
  • Culture: Tibetan
  • Medium: steel inlaid with gold and silver
  • Measurements: L. 22 11/16 in. (57.7 cm); W. 3 1/4 in. (8.3 cm)

This flaying knife (Tibetan: triguk; Sanskrit: kartrika) is styled in the Indian manner—with a long, hooked steel blade for both butchering and flaying. A vajra, symbol par excellence of Tibetan Vajrayana Buddhism, forms the handle.

The lower “thunderbolt” emblem metamorphoses into a wide-jawed sea monster (makara), from which issues the blade, finely damascened with gold and silver and displaying an interlacing floral design.

Workshops in the region of Derge, Kham Province, in eastern Tibet, excelled in such fine metalworking techniques, providing the probable source for this knife.

Source: Copyright © 2014 The Metropolitan Museum of Art

For numerous travelers, Naples is the darkest gem of the Old Continent, concealing in its streets countless artifacts of a macabre nature. With skulls, bones, petrified saints, and holy blood, the iconography of death seems to have spread everywhere. Moreover, Naples is paved with obscure legends. Behind every door, under each alcove, vivid tales linger on, tangling together the Italian aristocracy, exalted quests for knowledge, and, of course, cold blooded murders. Included in these is the story of the Anatomical Machines.

Located in the basement of the Sansevero Chapel in the historic district of Naples, the bodies of two people, a man and a woman, stand in an elaborate display. Their skin and their muscles are gone, leaving them open and naked. Yet they proudly present their vascular systems, their skeletons, and some of them inner organs.

It’s evident that our couple is not an object of devotion, so their dramatic internal nudity in one of the most sumptuous chapels in town is paradoxical. Who are these two people and why is their anatomy displayed in this sacred place?

For that answer and more… Morbid Monday: The Macabre Myth of Naples’ Anatomical Machines

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