109 book

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He held me hard against him then, without speaking, and I could feel the pulsebeat in his throat, hammering like my own. His hands went to my bare shoulders, and he held me slightly away, so that I was looking upward into his face. His hands were large and very warm, and I felt slightly dizzy.

“I want ye, Claire,” he said, sounding choked. He paused a moment, as though unsure what to say next. “I want ye so much— I can scarcely breathe. Will—” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Will ye have me?” 

By now I had found my voice. It squeaked and wobbled, but it worked.

Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll have you.”

“I think …” he began, then stopped. He fumbled loose the buckle of his kilt, but then looked up at me, bunching his hands at his sides. He spoke with difficulty, controlling something so powerful that his hands shook with the effort. “I’ll not … I can’t … Claire, I canna be gentle about it.” 

I had time only to nod once, in acknowledgment or permission, before he bore me back before him, his weight pinning me to the bed. 

He did not pause to undress further. I could smell the road dust in his shirt, and taste the sun and sweat of travel on his skin. He held me, arms outstretched, wrists pinioned. One hand brushed the wall, and I felt the tiny scrape of one wedding ring chiming against the stone. One ring for each hand, one silver, one gold. And the thin metal suddenly heavy as the bonds of matrimony, as though the rings were tiny shackles, fastening me spread-eagled to the bed, stretched forever between two poles, held in bondage like Prometheus on his lonely rock, divided love the vulture that tore at my heart.

1.09 The Reckoning

Kennings for the Vanir: Skáldskaparmál.

How should Njörðr be referred to?

By calling him…

“…the god of wagons, 
the descendant of the Vanir, 
one of the Vanir, 
the father of Freyr and Freyja, 
or the god of gift-giving.”

How should Freyr be referred to?

By calling him…

“…the son of Njörðr, 
the brother of Freyja, 
the god of the Vanir, 
the descendant of the Vanir and one of the Vanir, 
the god of a good year (the harvest god), 
and the giver of wealth. 
He is also called the foe of Beli.”

He is the possessor of Skidbladnir and the boar Gullinbursti, who is also called Slidrugtanni:

“Invaldi’s sons set to work in days of yore to contract Skidbladnir, the besty of ships, for bright Freyr, the bounteous son of Njörðr.”

Ulf Uggasson once said this:

“Battle-skilled Freyr rides in front of Óðins son’s (Baldr’s) pyre on golden-bristled boar and governs hosts.”

How should Freyja be referred to?

By calling her…

“…the daughter of Njörðr, 
the sister of Freyr, 
the wife of Óðr, 
the mother of Hnoss,
the possessor of those fallen in battle, 
of the hall Sessrúmnir, 
of male cats 
and of the necklace of the Brísings, 
the god of the Vanir, 
the household deity of the Vanir
and the god whose weeping is beautiful.”

“Any goddess can be referred in kenning by associating her characteristics possessions, activities, or family members with the name of another goddess.”

Gold is sometimes referred to using Freyja:

“…the tears of Freyja…”
“…the rain or shower from Draupnir or Freyja’s eyes…”

Heimdall is also referred to, at times, using Freyja:

“…the seeker of Freyja’s necklace…”


SOURCES:

  1. Snorri Sturluson, The Prose Edda, translated by Jesse L. Byock. (London: Penguin Books, 2005), 109-10, 112, 114.
  2. Snorri Sturluson, Edda, translated by Anthony Faulkes. (repr., 1987; Everyman, 1995), 75, 86.
I remember reading one time about Vincent Van Gogh eating yellow paint because he thought yellow was a bright colour and that it would make him happy. So he ate it in an effort to make himself happy. People think he was crazy but I beg to differ. If he was crazy then we are all crazy just sit back and think about it for a minute. Van Gogh ate paint, and it was toxic and poisonous. Then there are people who drink excessively, or smoke or are on drugs or self harm or starve themselves or binge and if you were to examine the situation with non-judgmental eyes you would see that those things are our yellow paint. We’re all searching for a way to ease the pain a little… to find happiness perhaps. Because I know as well as anyone that no one drinks for the taste of the alcohol. They drink to make themselves forget, to enter a state where all their problems seem worlds away and all the lines are blurred. At the end of they day, we’re all just looking for our yellow paint and no matter how much we deny it, we crave happiness.
— 

 01/07/2015

2:33 am

~Excerpts from the book I’ll never write #109

It was a funny thing, being friends with her ex. She felt like she could tell him anything, really, but there was always an unspoken boundary to never bring up their past relationship. They talked about old times—like when she toilet papered his house because he dared her to, or when he rear-ended someone because he was looking over at her instead of the road—but they would never talk about how much they loved each other. For them, being friends meant they could never speak of what happened between them.

But one day, she let her curiosity get the best of her. She sat down on his couch beside him, and she asked a question that had been eating at her for months. “The scrapbook that I gave you for your birthday,” she said. “What happened to it after…everything?”

He looked up from his computer, and froze.

She knew, then. “You threw it out.”

Instead of acknowledging, he asked her, “What about my Georgetown sweatshirt? You gave back everything else, but you kept that one. What did you do with it?”

She wanted to lie. She wanted to say she gave it away or that it was donated to Goodwill, but she wasn’t a liar and she wasn’t going to start today. “I still have it. It was a token, I guess. A physical reminder that we did exist, and we were important. Because sometimes, with the way we act around each other, it’s easy to forget.”

It was quiet for a bit, but eventually, they went back to pretending. It was a funny thing, being friends with her ex. Even as friends, he’s the only one who’s ever been able to hurt her so deeply.

—  excerpt from an unfinished book #109
Everyone wishes they could be someone else, but nobody realizes that while you’re wishing for someone else’s face, or their body, or their smile, there’s somebody out there wishing they had yours.
—  D.N. // excerpt from a book i’ll never write #109
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قالَ أَمِيرُ الْمُؤْمِنِينَ عَلِيُّ ابْنُ أَبِي طالِبٍ (عَلَيْهِ السَّلامُ):
تَعَّلَمُوا الْقُرآنَ فَإِنَّهُ أَحْسَنُ الْحَدِيثِ وَ تَفَقَّهُوا فِيهِ فَإِنَّهُ رَبِيعُ الْقُلُوبِ وَ اسْتَشْفُوا بِنُورِهِ فَإِنَّهُ شِفاءُ الصُّدُورِ وَاحْسِنُوا تِلاوَتَهُ فَإِنَّهُ أَنْفَعُ الْقَصَصِ.

Amirul Mo’minin ‘Ali ibne Abi Talib (as) has said: “Learn the Qur’an for it is the best of narrations, and understand it thoroughly for it is the best blossoming of the hearts. Seek cure with its’ Light for it is the cure of the hearts. Recite it beautifully for it is the most beneficial of narrations.”

Nahjul Balagha, Sermon 110 (109 in some books)

I never really payed attention when people used to say their loved ones died in an untimely manner, until my father died.
In life, he was the sea and I was the coast, we would have raging arguments together, followed by sparse periods of calm.
After he went, I changed as a person. I found the beauty in the films he always watched, the serenity to be discovered in music I’d never listen to, the humour in jokes I always wished I could tell him.
It was sad then and it is sad now and I can still hear his voice and smell his cologne.
He always was, he always has been, a little too far away.
—  #109- excerpts from the book I’ll never write