carved into memory

inspiration ♡ jonghyun
lyrics by: jonghyun
translation: shineetalks
(*) listen to the song here!

be quiet.
i’m so dizzy, i’m so dizzy.
(inspiration) i’m so dizzy.

don’t open your eyes,
there’s no harm, there’s nothing.
in truth, i’m feeling it for the first time too.
struck by a convulsion in my senses.

how many were there before me?
you should carve it in your memory.
break it.

i get dizzy when i look at you.
my mind gets crowded
when i hold you in my arms too.

be quiet.
i’m so dizzy, i’m so dizzy.
i’m so dizzy, i’m so dizzy.

a lot of inspiration is needed. (x8)

the moment those eyes open to start
and meet endless chaos.
you, me our roles are unclear.
it doesn’t matter who is first
i have to take the lead in the end.
my lead (inspiration).

be quiet.
i’m so dizzy, i’m so dizzy.
i’m so dizzy, i’m so dizzy.
(inspiration)

i get dizzy when i look at you.
my mind gets crowded
when i hold you in my arms too.

i’m so dizzy, i’m so dizzy, i’m so dizzy.

The word “rune” means “secret”. Runic magic could be dangerous if the user was not knowledgeable about its secrets. This is revealed in the sagas. A warning against the dangers of using runes without sufficient knowledge features in Egil’s saga, for example. There were many who did not know the secrets of the runes. Even Odin had to sacrifice to himself in order to obtain knowledge of their magic powers. During this self-sacrifice, he went without food and drink for 9 days and hung pierced by a spear at night.

Runes carved upon rune stones also served a variety of purposes. For example, the Glavendrup stone on Funen displays a warning to anyone who dares to damage or move the stone.

The runic inscription reads: Ragnhildr placed this stone in memory of Alli the Pale, priest of the sanctuary, honorable þegn of the retinue. Alli’s sons made this monument in memory of their father, and his wife in memory of her husband. And Sóti carved these runes in memory of his lord. Þórr hallow these runes. A warlock be he who damages(?) this stone or drags it (to stand) in memory of another. This last sentence puts a curse upon anyone who damages the stone or places it as a monument to another person.

he has crushed your soul and smothered you until your breaths are mere gasps. i am a goddess, you rasp. you will scream your name until he has it carved into memory and echoing in his mind. (he will feel what you have felt) you will clutch his bloodied heart in your fists and eat him alive.
—  GODDESSES DON’T FORGIVE / j.m (via ghaffas)
your heart is my home

How soon we forget the smell of survival,
we are buried again in the darkness.
we find skeletons and skulls digging arabian treasures,
we find children building sand castles,
we carved cracked memories
and dead muggle bones for so long,
that my hands transformed roses in ashes, at the touch
alchemy was in blue blood time the desolate nest of wizards,
and your heart is my home as long as you curl
reciting Oscar Wilde’s poetry on my chest
and sweet zephyrs unfurls the sound of magic dreams
in my soul.

Hannibal Rewatch meets Hannibal Advent: The Great Red Dragon

Hannibal

Incense and melting wax. Glittering Byzantine mosaics. In Hannibal’s memory palace are many rooms, yet mostly he lingers here, waiting.

How long since his last glimpse?

Three years, two days, twenty hours…

Smells Will first. Appalling aftershave, the same he wore in court. A cheap confusion of artificial scents chosen for its novelty value. Chosen by a child.

I’ve been left behind.

Harsh reality stings. Blinks hard, fingers tightening on the sketch he holds. Turns around.

‘Hello, Doctor Lecter.’

Still his beautiful, cruel boy. Still pretending. Still unable to stay away…

Tenderly savours the taste of his name.

‘Hello, Will.’

Will

Incense and melting wax. Glittering Byzantine mosaics. The image of Hannibal graven on his heart, carved into his memory.

How long has he managed to stay away?

Three years, two days, twenty hours…

Cast out into self-imposed exile until Jack came calling. And now, horrifyingly, feels like he’s home. But for what? Bitterness in Hannibal’s eyes, jealousy in the stiffening of his spine?

He thinks I’ve left him behind.

So let’s pretend. All is well. Happy husband, happy father. Duty calls one last time.

‘Hello, Doctor Lecter.’

Waits for the sound of his name on those lips.

'Hello, Will.’

Breathe.

Hannigram: Apéritif to The Wrath of the Lamb

When Artists Fall in Love: A Tragedy

I met a guy.


Nevermind.



No, wait. I met a guy.

He…intrigues me. He speaks in future-tense and hyperbole – a fused language I thought was dead. He is clear in his intentions and direct about wanting me.

He is an artist.

With his words. The way he speaks. With his voice. The way he sings. With his mind. The way he thinks.

I told him that I don’t really date artists. No one values their creations until they’ve carved memories into a casket. He may not value his own creations until they are carved memories –  Everyone throws money at a tombstone. It isn’t fair that the world is like this; but that doesn’t change that I try to stay away from artists…

I had fallen amused with a man who called me his muse and I was afraid to hurt him. I hated tip-toeing around the glass of broken bottles all over the kitchen floor. He was mass destruction confined in closed quarters, in a box labeled fragile, I thought I would break him. How does one waltz around thumb tacks and mouse traps? But, he’d pull me to dance like no one was watching, and whisper sweet nothings because no one was listening. We were two artists trying to paint on one canvas, with little regard for all the damage we could cause, and no apology in sight.

I thought I had fallen in love with this artist. He made me feel when I had gone numb. I never felt like I would be the woman he needed me to be. He called me his inspiration…and I didn’t like having that kind of pressure thrust upon me.

I had convinced myself that I had fallen in love with this artist. It was like Pablo Picasso had dropped a mixtape, he made songs in hues of blue. They were abstract but they made sense to me. I could hear his thoughts in the melodies of trumpets and piano, though he wasn’t speaking. I could understand him…. And I think he understood me because I ad-lib and sing along. I never asked. I like it better this way.

I knew I fell in love with this artist…and that it would be nothing more than a beautiful disaster. We would never learn how to close doors, paint with regard to our floorboards, or say goodbye…because we were artists.

-bchrisrenee

10

Buildings Ornamentations (No. 10)

Connaught Building, Ottawa (two pics)

Bank of Canada Building, Ottawa

Veterans Memorial Buildings, Ottawa

Canadian Tire Centre, Ottawa

Old City Hall, Toronto (three pics)

St. Georges Hall, Toronto

The Elmwood, Toronto

Critical Role Aesthetic || Percy x Vex + Wise Man’s Tree

Her hands flinched. Her heart burned. She needed – gods, were there even words for this feeling? - she needed to press her lips to his pale throat and dig her nails into his skin. She needed to carve a good memory into him, something at once undeniable and undeniably hers.

3

“I’m bringing forth the past
To change into the one who committed those sins
Despite the signal carved into my memories”

Viking Runestones

Viking Runestones are large carved stones that memorialize ancient Scandinavians who participated in various Viking expeditions over land and sea. These expeditions went as far west – across the Atlantic no less – and into modern day Newfoundland. They also went as far east as Byzantium and the Middle East.

It is unlikely that the stones mention all the Vikings who participated in these expeditions, nor is there sufficient evidence to point to any specific Vikings who partook in any pillaging, despite the fact that pillaging certainly occurred.

All of the inscriptions are engraved in Old Norse. The stones were carved during the so-called “Viking Age” which is somewhat arbitrarily defined as ranging between 793 and 1066.

The Kjula Runestone (final picture) is considered to be the most famous, as it contain an Old Norse poem in the alliterative poetic meter known as fornyrðislag: a verse form common in Old Norse Eddas. Fornyrðislag roughly translates to “way of ancient words.” The Kjula Runestone recites the poem of a man called “Spear” and his war-like ways. The poem and its translation are below.

saʀ vestarla                                who had been

um vaʀit hafði,                            in the west,

borg um brutna                           broken down and fought

i ok um barða;                            in townships.

rð han karsaʀ                         He knew all

kunni allaʀ.                                the journey’s fortresses.

“if you keep looking at me like that, i will personally see to it that you, your children, and your children’s children will feel my wrath. you will see my face in your nightmares. this is a hate crime–” ro’s teeth ground together as they spat out the term, the image of the dark mark carving out a memory inside their skull. (they’d only ever seen it in books.) “you don’t get to tell me that it’s not.” 

A Little Love ...

I just want to take a moment to personally thank the fan artists out there.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and as a writer, I can whole heartedly agree.

I write stories, trying really hard to picture everything in my mind, but I never truly succeed. But you—all of you, manage to etch out the finest of details for all the world to see.

I have your pieces carved into my memory. They give life to my imagination. They make my heart finally have something to latch on to. Your time and efforts make me truly and completely happy—and I can’t thank you enough for that.

But I will try.

So—again, thank you, artists.

You are all truly amazing.

If you stand just past High School Hill on Route 9 in Irvington, N.Y., and look west toward the Hudson River, you’ll see a beautiful white house with lots of columns and terra cotta tiles that evoke a Mediterranean elegance. It is one of many mansions nestled on these leafy green streets; memories carved in stone from a time when this suburban town was the jewel of the “Hudson Riviera.” Kykuit, Shadowbrook, and Nuits, Sunnyside, Hillside, and Strawberry Hill — these were the homes of robber barons and writers, judges and doctors, the 1 percent of the Gilded Age and the early 20th century.

But Villa Lewaro, that white house, was unique. It was built by Madam C. J. Walker, who was born Sarah Breedlove in 1867, one of six children and the first born free. Walker rose to prominence as the first nationally successful black female business magnate in the country. She and her daughter, A'Lelia, were the hair care queens of black America. By the time she began building Villa Lewaro in 1917, the New York Times Magazine estimated her net worth at “a cool million” (a fact that didn’t stop some of the neighbors from being appalled that a black woman was moving into town). 

Until recently, the Walker legacy was treated somewhat poorly by history. The house itself was nearly torn down in 1976. A'Lelia is rarely remembered at all, and when she is, it is as the prodigal daughter under whom the Walker hair care empire shrunk drastically. Or, as historian Eric Garber put it in his essay A Spectacle in Color, while “Madam Walker had been civic-minded, donating thousands of dollars to charity, A'Lelia used most of her inheritance to throw lavish parties.”

It’s easy to dismiss these events as fluff and folderol. But Walker’s parties, both in Irvington and at her Manhattan salon, The Dark Tower, played a crucial, if invisible role in the Harlem Renaissance: They provided a safe, welcoming environment for queer people at a time when there were few other social options available. While she herself was not known to be lesbian or bisexual, Walker’s parties were places where anyone could express their sexuality however they pleased.

Remembering A'Lelia Walker, Who Made A Ritzy Space For Harlem’s Queer Black Artists

Photo: A'lelia Walker. Credit: Carl Van Vechten/Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library

4
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS IN HONOLULU | SLAMSQUAD2016.

I don’t know just exactly how one rewrites a place in their memory, carving out new neural pathways and feeling new feelings, but I do know that hot, fresh donuts help. I repeated this mantra to myself as we drove to the airport on Maui, stashing our luggage in Alana’s dad’s office and sauntering through the relaxed, open air terminals that make up Kahului International Airport. I repeated it to myself as I broke into the emergency stash of chocolate Stephanie had packed for us, and as Molly began daydreaming about all the SPAM musubi she was about to eat on Oahu. We were embarking on #SLAMsquad (Stephanie, Lily, Alana, and Molly) phase 2: Oahu. I should have been thrilled.

But here’s the thing. I haven’t been to Oahu in 9 years. Haven’t been since my mother was diagnosed with late-stage endometrial cancer, haven’t been since I sat in a cold, damp stairwell of the hospital with my hot pink Motorola RAZR 3 flip phone and called the boyfriend who’d broken up with me three days before to tell him that something else in my life had broken, too. I hadn’t been since my heart was shattered. Oahu, for me, had become one of Those Places That Hurt™. We all have them. But nine years later, I was determined to undo the trademark, to make Oahu new for me.

Beginning with donuts.

Read more and get the full travel guide here.