Bricks made of good intentions
Mortar thick with benevolence
Stained glass colored by holy mens’ tears
While they fell for the broken and destitute
We have built these castles
As monuments to our ‘graciousness’
Ignoring the tapestries woven from pride
And the vault overflowing with greed
Flags are hoisted atop the highest towers
Waving in the breeze of massive applause
Oils of self-gratification paint
The most elaborate of self-portraits
All of this
From His point of view in the heavens
Is merely dirty shacks
Filled with objects of depravity
Mom mom mom! How is Nathan gonna keep kosher if he's a werewolf? I think I might have missed whether or not he can control himself while he's a wolf, but how does it work?
True blooded werewolves in Hunger Pangs are better able to control what they do as wolves, with full moons being the exception where the human brain takes a backseat and tries not to cringe too hard at the stuff that goes on. It’s sort of accepted mythology that an agreement with the gods was reached, and that in exchange for their powers they have to go through the change once a month without fail as payment for their long lives and supernatural abilities, and as with any culture when new people come into it, certain new traits and beliefs shifted and changed over the years, and at some point the werewolf culture in Nathan’s part of the world, began to include the practice of keeping kosher during human phases of their life, as a means of separating themselves from actual wolves.
And I’ll level with you at this point, this idea is something purely from my childhood.
My dad was raised by his Jewish grandmother, he grew up keeping kosher and went on to become a kosher butcher and our household was kept kosher purely out of habit and familiarity even though us kids were all baptized Christian.
He was also a story teller and liked to mix and match his myths, and at the time when I was getting super into the local Celtic mythology and reading everything my grubby little hands could reach in the library, was also when my dad started writing stories for me and telling me about Great Grandma who was Different from my other Grandma and also why we had two kitchen sinks in the house and two fridges and two sets of knives for everything, and why the family sometimes lapsed into Yiddish when arguing, because I dunno if you’ve ever heard angry Scottish people arguing in Yiddish, but it’s a damn fine way to be expressively ticked off.
One of the stories was a werewolf (wulver in Celtic lore) whose angst came from needing to atone for the things he ate as a wolf, not because he was inherently a monster, but because he was Jewish and couldn’t keep kosher on full moons. And my dad made it funny, he made up stories about all the things this wulver would do to try and keep to his faith, about going to see his Rabbi and asking really specific and weirdly obscure questions and the Rabbi was eventually like listen, kid, whatever is going on, take it up with the Big Guy, you’re doing your best and that’s all you ever can do. If He doesn’t like it, that’s His problem for letting it happen, tell him that…in the meantime…make amends however you see fit for…whatever you got going on. Just be a good person, kiddo, or…whatever you are. G-d will understand.
Which was how my dad worked in the Celtic lore part about how wulvers would guard children and feed starving families and give money to charity and just generally be a swell guy who after the end of every full moon had a tendency to brush his teeth really hard while muttering about being chosen for this life. In the end, the man realizes it is not a curse, but a means to help people who need it the most. What is actually a small inconvenience to him (ie not always being able to keep kosher due to circumstances outwith his control), has prompted him to do great wonderful things for those around him, and perhaps without his monthly suffering he would not be the good, kind person he became. Which I suppose was my father’s heavy handed way of trying to tell me—in the way his grandmother told him—you can overcome suffering, and that which you cannot overcome, you persevere with and try to do good anyway.
A little thickly laid on perhaps, but it stayed with me, evidently, as some 20 years later I write about a werewolf who doesn’t quite know if he believes in gods, but still keeps to their in-world-version of kosher out of habit and looks at the suffering in the world around him and decides kindness is the remedy.
Here is 3/? of my podcast recommendations for the avid listener. These can all be found on iTunes.
there’s a podcast that hasn’t featured on either of my posts that you
think deserves a shout out, let me know what it is and I’ll give it a
listen. I’m always looking for new podcasts to listen to, especially
So, going by the tags on my recent jump gifsets, the difference between jumps is apparently still a source of great bewilderment for some people. Now I could link you to some excellent posts on the topic, but since I am, as usual, an extra lil piece of dirt with too much work to do and a lifetime’s worth of procrastination, I’ve decided to put together my own layman’s guide to identifying figure skating jumps (stressed on the layman part).
First, here be a flowchart, since everybody loves flowcharts, right?
If the flowchart works as intended and you can now tell the jumps apart, great! If you need a bit more explanation and illustration, read on.
The rhododendron, growing every minute somewhere in Alpine meadows, are far happier than we, for they know neither love, nor hate, nor the Perillo slipper system, and they don’t even die, since all nature, excepting man, is one undying, indestructible whole. If one tree somewhere in the forest perishes from old age, before dying, it gives the wind so many seeds, and so many new trees grow up around it on the land, near and far, that the wold tree, especially the rhododendron doesn’t mind dying. […] Only man minds and feels bitter, and burdened as he is with egotistical pity for himself.
Unreality is a condition of life. Everything is shifted and exists a step away, with a purpose other than it was named for. On the level of reality, only God is alive. He is reality. All else is divided, multiplied, canceled out, factored-annihilated.
I think that if the beast who sleeps in man could be held down by threats - any kind of threat, whether of jail or of retribution after death - then the highest emblem of humanity would be the lion tamer in the circus with his whip, not the prophet who sacrificed himself.
If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?
I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn’t it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?
The grass grows over the graves, time overgrows the pain. The wind blew away the traces of those who had departed; time blows away the bloody pain and the memory of those who did not live to see their dear ones again—and will not live, for brief is human life, and not for long is any of us granted to tread the grass.
He walked around all the useless things in the courtyard and touched them with his hands; for some reason, he wished that these would remember him, and love him. But he didn’t believe they would. From childhood memories he knew how strange and sad it is after a long absence to see a familiar place again, for these unmoving objects have no memory and do not recognize the stirrings of a stranger’s heart.
What would your good be doing if there were no evil, and what would the earth look like if shadows disappeared from it? After all, shadows are cast by objects and people. There is the shadow of my sword. But there are also shadows of trees and living creatures. Would you like to denude the earth of all the trees and all the living beings in order to satisfy your fantasy of rejoicing in the naked light?
…neither fate, nor history, nor the anger of the State, nor the glory or infamy of battle has any power to affect those who call themselves human beings. No, whatever life holds in store —- hard-won glory, poverty and despair, or death in a labor camp —- they will live as human beings and die as human beings, the same as those who have already perished; and in this alone lies man’s eternal and bitter victory over all the grandiose and inhuman forces that ever have been or will be…
Human life is insignificant. What’s ominous is the movement of the spheres. When I settled here, a sun speck sat on the doorjamb at two in the afternoon. Thirty-six days passed. The speck jumped to the next room. The earth had completed another leg of its journey. The little sun speck, a child’s plaything, reminds us of eternity.