tristețea asta...  tristețea asta și-a făcut loc în trupul meu și mi s-a lipit de oase, s-a impregnat în ele. îmi atârnă de piele, mi s-a înfășurat pe organe, mi s-a strecurat prin vene...  am fericirea în fața ochilor, pe un ecran. este? e departe.  prea departe.  de fapt, în mâinile mele nu e nimic. nu a fost niciodată. m-am ținut numai de aer până acum și eu care credeam că mă ține ceva suspendată deasupra hăului ăsta infect.  nu e nimic.  e doar aer.  doar iluzii.  și cad.
Flori de mai

Petale pale
pierdute-n zare
Și zâmbete largi
Și-emoții vagi.

Fluturi liberi, colorați în pete
Își zbat aripile
Cu viață și cu sete.

Și dansul lor cu zborul sacadat
Devin bătăi de inimi
Într-un suflet uitat.

Doar uitat?
Dar e marcat
de vise și speranțe,
de plăceri și șanse,
de zâmbete contagioase,
de timpul fără oase
E-un suflet nud în iubire,
pierdut printre flori de mai
încercând să o găsească pe a19-a.


Stone steps winding down a narrow lane lead to Misfah Old House, a small inn located in the mountainous village of Misfat Al Abryeen, Oman. To welcome his guests, Haitham Al-Abri offers sweet, sticky dates and a tiny cup of cardamom-scented coffee.

At Misfah, as in all Omani homes, dates are intrinsic to the culture of this Arabian Peninsula country. They are a sign of hospitality, served both in greeting and after every meal.

“Dates and coffee are served at all events — whether that be a funeral or a wedding or just a family meeting,” Al-Abri says. “They are something essential.”

Dates are a popular food across the Middle East, but in Oman they hold a place of honor in the national culture and cuisine. Palm orchards form lush oases in an otherwise harshly dry environment; their fruit provides daily sustenance. Both the National Museum in the capital city of Muscat and the museum at the Nizwa Fort, a 17th-century citadel and popular tourist attraction, have exhibits dedicated to the majestic date palm.

A Love Affair With Dates, The Fruit At The Cultural Heart Of Oman

Photos: Amy E. Robertson for NPR

hacked town ideas

I have a lot of these;; If you’re hacking your town or starting a fresh town to hack, maybe these ideas will come in useful!

  • A desert town. No grass, no plaza stone and no river (or else a very small one if you want to catch river fish yourself), just a handful of scattered ponds to act as oases! Palm trees, flowers and buildings are clustered around the oases. Out in the barren desert are a few pyramids, a sphinx, maybe some scarce weeds. Might be cool to have a hot spring or a water pump out in the middle of nowhere.
  • A jungle town. LOTS of grass and palms and tropical fruit and hibiscuses and lilies ahHHH!! Like four waterfalls. Huge beaches. COLOR and PLANTS are just everywhere. Geysers and stone tablets and moai statues?? Villagers that used to be islanders YES and baskets of fruit as decoration and cute stepping stone paths!
  • A post-apocolyptic town. Very little water, not much grass, modern everything. Dead trees and lots of weeds. Could use a lot of different PWPs for this… streetlight? Bus stop, pile of pipes, fire pit? Paths that look like cracked highways! Cluster most of the buildings in the center somewhere and have a few villagers living alone in the wastelands.
  • An icy forest town. Always winter and cedar trees EVERYWHERE! Lots of waterfalls and ponds. Small tiny beaches, most only accessible by swimming. Sooo many penguin villagers. Illuminated trees would be really pretty dotted throughout a thick forest. White and blue flowers, water fountains, zen renovations cause they look a little cabin-y if you squint.
  • A farm town?? There’s a way to manually set grass deterioration, I’m not sure how that works but it would be so cool to set up little fields of dirt and decorate with flower seed bags and fruit baskets! Persimmons could be pumpkins and for other growing things make use of patterns. Scarecrow and rice rack PWPs would be super cute, and a water well! Lots of tree orchards. Could use bamboo to make a ‘corn’ maze. A resident’s house could be decked out as a farmer’s market!
  • An enchanted forest. The town tree is in the middle of a big forest and not on any plaza stone. To get to it you follow a little path behind town hall. Town hall, Retail and whatever other important buildings are all clustered together, and the villagers are dotted throughout the forest. Lots of illuminated PWPs. Always summertime so fireflies float around the ponds and rivers! Fairytale renovations and PWPs.
Kelak, tolong ingatkan aku untuk jadi istri dan ibu yang memberi ketenangan, memberi kenyamanan, bagi engkau dan anak-anak, yang masakannya selalu dirindukan, serta kesabarannya jadi oase bagi setiap keresahan.
Când spui cã vrei sã mori,nu e vorba cã simți prea multã durere.E vorba cã nu mai știi ce simți.Toate sentimentele îți sunt îmbãlsãmate într-o incertitudine de neegalat și toate simțurile îți sunt amorțite .Simți prin oasele parcã mult prea îmbãtrânite un frig inexplicabil și o negurã pustie.Singurãtatea dar și rãnile de-a lungul vremii ți-au secãtuit din puteri.Și simți cum existența ta devine una tot mai în van.Fãrã nici o importanțã și fãrã nimic.

Kadang, bahkan seringkali, kita mesti menundukkan seberapa tinggi pangkat jabatan kita atau seberapa mentereng jenjang pendidikan kita untuk melihat pahlawan tak dikenal, mencari ilmu dari mereka yang tak pernah angkuh dan selalu bersih hatinya.

Dari ibu-ibu pedagang sayur di ujung desa yang setiap kali melangkah dari satu angkot ke angkot lain, selalu membaca basmalah dan berhias diri dengan shalawat. Kita? Belum tentu.

Dari petani teh yang berangkat ke kebun setiap pagi sembari membangunkan anaknya dulu untuk shalat subuh. Membuat teh manis dulu untuk istrinya sebelum memetik teh sampai senja.

Dari bapak tukang sapu yang sekilas hanya membersihkan trotoar, tapi niatnya agung; untuk memberikan satu fakta bagi dunia bahwa lingkungan muslimin itu bersih dan asri. Berizzah tanpa bualan kata-kata.

Dari bapak penjual bubur ayam di alun-alun. Setiap mangkuk yang disajikannya diniatkan untuk mengisi tenaga penuntut ilmu dan pekerja, agar negeri ini bisa mandiri dengan menjaga kehalalan dan selamat dari syubhat.

Kalau ditafakkuri dalam-dalam, Indonesia mesti berterimakasih pada mereka. Sebab bisajadi azab Allah tertahan di langit, atau diangkat-Nya sebab orang-orang berhati bersih itu.

Terimakasih Allah. Ajarakan kami memandang setiap sesuatu dan mengambil hikmahnya. Biar jiwa ini tidak kerontang selalu dan selalu oleh hingar bingar dunia. Dan, jadikan kami jua sebagai oase sejuk bagi pengembara hikmah lainnnya.

—  @edgarhamas
o să-mi tai pielea și o voi pune la uscat,
voi picta cu al meu sânge pe ea
și îi voi face ramă din oase.
—  Purgatoriul– puţin psihopată

anonymous asked:

can we have another FMM scene of jamie really missing lallybroch/his family? the little moment in the supermarket broke my heart!

Flood my Mornings: Stones

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
  • Previous installment:  Night Check (Jamie takes a night shift at the stable and gets some visitors)

October, 1950

Claire stirred and came to life as he laid her gently in their bed and tucked the blankets around her. “What time-zt?” she mumbled.

“Just after nine. Lay your head, lass.”

“But–Breen—” She struggled against the palm he’d laid on her head and she managed a half-sitting position, though she could barely open her eyes. “Brianna–”

Is already abed,” he promised, putting gentle hands on her shoulders and easing her back down.  “Sleep, mo chridhe,” he whispered, pulling the blankets up around her and kissing her cheek. “I’m just going for a walk, aye?”

“Mmmhmm,” she acknowledged sleepily as she relaxed, eyes already closed. “B’safe, love. Take th’ torch?”

“I promise,” he said, turning off the bedside lamp and kissing her once more, lingering with his lips on her temple as he murmured, “I love you.

“Love…y’too,” she managed from her stupor, giving his hand a squeeze.

Poor lass, he thought as he closed the door and made his way toward the foyer. Claire had had to switch back and forth and back again between day and night shifts for the last week and the irregularity was wreaking havoc on her rest.

The three of them always sat in the living room after dinner, playing, reading, talking, listening to the Radio, and the like. Tonight, Claire had sat down on the sofa with a book whilst he and Brianna played on the floor with cuddly toys, and yet had fallen asleep within the first ten minutes. She needed the sleep and so he was very glad to see her abed early—and he’d wished to go to the wood this evening, in any case. 

Jamie pulled on his hat and coat, and though he could feel the small candles and matchbook in his pocket, he took care to bring the Electric Torch for Claire’s sake. 

Feeling the familiar pang of fear at thought of leaving them, he made his nightly rounds with all the more care: every window, secure; Bree, snoring away in her bed; TelePhone, functioning, ready in case of need; rear garden quiet and still; back door, locked; and, at last, pulling it shut after him, front door locked as well. Laying his hand and forehead against the door, he closed his eyes in earnest prayer:  

“God, shield them….preserve them from violence and harm, in this place and everyplace; on this night and every night.”

Hands in his pockets for warmth, he made his way down the quiet street, over four blocks, and up the knoll that led to the wooded path behind the neighborhood. The air was brisk and cool, whistling betwixt the trees and shaking the browning leaves into their nocturnal susurrus. In the distance, a dog barked. It wasn’t a mountain, but tonight, the wood held the same peace and stillness that had been a balm to his soul all his life; the peace of being amongst living things that chose to remain silent, waiting.

He felt well, this evening; very well.  More than two months’ laboring at Fernacre had brought back his old strength, sapped as it had been by the hunger of the years after Culloden and the months spent seeking Claire. It was a warrior’s body no more, he reflected, but unquestionably strong and muscled, able to do his bidding without the slightest hesitation. Even his senses seemed more acute: though it was an all-but-moonless night due to gathering clouds, he found he had no need of the Torch, able to see clearly the shapes and shadows of the wood; able, even, to find the Fridstool easily in the dark, unmarked a half-mile down from the head of the path.

He squeezed between the hedge of chest-high bushes and stepped into the tiny clearing, hardly bigger than the wee rug in Brianna’s nursery. 

It was just as he had left it the week before. All still. All quiet.

Reverently, he knelt and brushed away the Autumn leaves that had fallen since his last visit.  He placed the new candles atop the layers of wax in the wee glass jars. They lit quickly and gave the place a tiny, warm glow, the barest of oases in the blue darkness. 

Crossing himself, he placed his palm on the largest of the flat, worn stones.

Hello, Jen.

They had discovered the small burying ground only by chance some weeks ago, when a gust of wind had blown Claire’s hat off into the overgrowth to the side of the path.

It was naught but a handful of stones laid flat in the ground; but neatly grouped, arranged with care. So far from Boston-proper, and with no visible markers bounding it, it was likely a family plot, Claire had said, not a consecrated cemetery; a simple patch of ground chosen as resting place for loved ones in a New World. 

It had been full daylight when they’d happened upon the place, and even then, it was nearly impossible to read the inscriptions. The names and other words appeared only as blurred scratchings; an S here, a Wm there. 

Nearly all the birth and death years, though, had begun with the same two numbers: 17. 

And it had been that that had brought Jamie to his knees. 

Riding away from Lallybroch in April, I kent I’d never see them again,” he had said—wept—into Claire’s shoulder a long time later. 

“You did?” 

“Aye…I kent that—whether by the noose or rotting in prison, it—it would be heaven before I saw any of them again….“

They had not spoken much of events that had transpired in Scotland after Claire’s departure. The hurt of Culloden, of Murtagh, of the cave, of all of it, was too real and raw, and Claire hadn’t pressed him for detail. Speaking of it now, he knew the memories caused her physical pain, as they did him.

“And in the months since, I’ve thought of them—missed them—longed to see them—Worrit myself half to death wi’ knowing that they’ll have heard of my disappearance and never know what truly happened  that I’m happy and safe…..But I havena before thought of—thought of them as—”


A hundred years dead or more. 

Jenny. Ian. All the bairns. Wee Fergus. 

“All of them are dead, Claire.” 

“I know….I know…” she’d whispered, her own voice tight as she held him there in the leaves while the grief washed over him. “God, it cuts me like a….Yours is the only true family I’d ever known…and sweet Fergus was…But, darling, they ARE also alive. They did have–WILL have the whole rest of their lives—Good lives!”

But those 17s…17… 

“Are they—already in heaven, d’ye—think?” he managed to choke out. There would be bruises on her skin, later, from how tightly he clung to her.

“I—I don’t—Well, if—” She’d made a sound of pain and frustration, crying. “Damn it! Damn all of this time rubbish! I don’t know…I really don’t, but I think—” 

She’d taken a deep breath that resonated through her limbs into his own body, calming him, somehow. “I think…you have to keep them in your heart as living. Which…” She shuddered. “Maybe that way hurts all the more because… if they’re alive and yet unreachable—” 

She’d squeezed him tighter. “But hold on to that; hold on to them how you knew them, because that’s how they are right now. Just think: they’re at Lallybroch right now, tending the sheep and the kailyard…Mrs. Crook is cooking in the kitchen….The children are playing their games…”

“Ian’s telling daft jokes…” Despite himself, he’d felt his features tighten into a smile against her shoulder. 

She’d pressed her head tight against his. “They’re alive, Jamie…ALIVE….It’s impossible, I know, but they are alive.”

A long time later, as they were picking themselves off the ground, Claire had said softly. “We—we could find them, if you ever wished to.” 

Find them?” he’d croaked. 

“Look in the records….find out what did—will—happen to them. Perhaps we could even visit Scotland to see their resting places?”

He’d nodded slowly, reeling. 

“Someday. But…not soon.” 

Because they need to be alive. 

They’d come once every week since then, to light candles and say a prayer for their lost family. His wife’s presence was always a comfort; but tonight, alone, he felt truly able to speak his heart to them through these stones, to treat these not as monuments to the dead, but as an open channel to the living. 

Jamie felt not the slightest qualm or doubt over speaking weeping to them aloud into the night. Perhaps it was the influence of the twentieth century upon him, with its technologies that made the unfathomable possible every day; perhaps it was simple pigheadedness on his part, a refusal to admit futility; but if travel through the fabric of time had been possible—thrice, no less—then his words could reach the hearts of his family, somehow. Perhaps it would be in the voice of a stranger they met on the road; or in the pages of a book as they read in the study; perhaps simply in the whisper of a thought in their own minds as they drifted toward sleep; but they’d know

“Wee Jamie….You good lad. I ken you’re taking good care of Maggie…Kitty…wee Janet and Michael….I miss hearing all your sweet voices….Be brave for them, and listen well to your Mam and Da, aye?”

“Ian, I miss ye, brother….Every day I wish to have ye here by my side….I pray that it was enough—the gold. I tell myself that there was nothing better I could do…that having me nearby was a danger to your family. But I fear; I fear, brother….If I was wrong to go, forgive me….”

“Jenny….I canna tell ye how many times in this new place I learn of some daft way things are done now, and think, ‘how Jenny will laugh when I tell her of it’ and then I remember that I never can tell ye…that you’re behind the veil….I ken you’re strong and you’ll have no real need of me…but Christ, how I miss ye ….And oh, Jen, that you could meet our Brianna. A Fraser, teeth to toenails, this one…Feisty and cantankerous…ready to put up a skelloch the moment things are no’ to her liking…and bonnie and canty and clever….and how she’d love her Auntie Jenny….Keep hope, a piuthar.

And finally, his voice worn and breaking: 

“If anything is wrong in my being in this new world…it’s that I had to leave you behind, mon fils…. Please…please, dinna ever believe that you’re forgotten to me, a chuisle...“

Jamie felt a lump in his throat as he tried to conjure the memory of the lad’s face. Never forgotten…but all of their faces were more blurred with every passing day. The knowledge of it, that even the vestiges of them would slip away from him, tore at his heart like claws and teeth in the dark.

And yet, Claire’s voice rested on him like a hand on his shoulder: 

They’re alive…hold on to that.

His sorcha with him, now and always, Jamie fixed his heart once more on their boy. 

“Look after them all, aye? You’re the man of the place when Mister Murray canna be….Be strong for me…and live well, son.”

Keep reading


La tumba de los muertos vivientes (Jesús Franco, 1982).