carved weave

Everyday Witchcraft

1. Meditate - still the mind, the breath, the heartbeat, open a channel through which the spirits can communicate if they wish to, listen.

2. Walk - honour the genii loci, notice the changing seasons, observe signs and omens, traverse the kingdoms of humanity, flora and fauna, give aid where it is needed.

3. Divine - build relationships with divinatory tools, sharpen skills, train intuition, ask questions, receive answers.

4. Invoke - the presence of spirits to assist in tasks, to protect on journeys, to grant guidance, maintain connections and uphold contracts.

5. Craft - use the hands to create, to construct, imbue each creation with spirit and purpose, a meal, a potion, a carving, a weaving, enchant the mundane and material.

6. Sing - the old songs, the power songs, the prayers, the chants, to heal, to awaken, to enforce, to ward, sing the sun to sleep and the moon to rising, sing in the bath, at the hearth, in the heart.

7. Read - widely and deeply, old and new, academic and popular, across boundaries and taboos, slowly and with full attention, take notes, research, reflect.

8. Write - record experiences, practices, thoughts. keep journals and grimoires, spellbooks and scripts, remember, elucidate, illuminate.

9. Draw - sigils and runes, symbols and signs. Carve, paint, scratch, blacken, redden, scrawl, in the sand, with salt, in the air, with chalk, ink, blood, charcoal, the mind.

10. Collect - herbs, woods, stones, feathers, bones, teeth, soil, the raw materials of natural magic, fill jars, boxes, bags, gather, forage, wildcraft, thrift, take that which is discarded, value the found over the bought.

11. Observe - the cycles of moon, sun, planets, stars, take heed with the eyes as well as the almanac, feel the sap rise, the birds migrate, the bulbs awaken, the leaves wither.

12. Renew - old spells, old wards, protections, and boundaries. Clean what is obscured, recast what has weakened, maintain what is working, replace what is lost. Tie up loose ends.

13. Communicate - with everything, stones, trees, spirits, the dead, that which grows in the garden and that which visits it, other practitioners, mentors, students, seekers, the younger self, the higher self, the wyrd. 

anonymous asked:

What makes you say Roadhog is from New Zealand? I thought he was an Australian

Well, being an Aussie, we are pretty close to the Kiwis, and their culture is quite alive and very welcomed here. Aside from Roadhogs physique (Which just quietly, I find to be a little stereotypical) he also has his Toa and Islander skin which brought on a lot of heat when it was first released because it was considered ‘Cultural Appropriation’ or ‘Racist’. But these skins clearly shows his heritage is New Zealand, not Australia.. 

In New Zealand, weaving, carving, unique and traditional tattoos  and contemporary arts are all part of the culture and are all things which Roadhog shows in this skin.

Another interesting thought was with the release of Moana, Maui has a similar appearance to the Toa and Islander skins (Not going into debate about the fact that Disney may or may not have been pretty offensive when depicting a very valued hero/demi god and spiritual guide) with the tattoos, woven outfits and even the carved hook. Maui was believed to have fished the North island of New Zealand from the sea, and is held in high regard. 

Originally posted by animated-disney-gifs


oh and also.. it says right here. 

betsforsythetrash  asked:

Could you write something where F.P. is in Bughead's lives in the future? Like clean, sober, doting Dad helping plan the wedding or dancing with Betty at their reception or BABYSITTING their child or something? (:

Not gonna lie, I got ridiculously carried away with this, I literally just sat for ages and wrote it all in one go! I was gonna post this tomorrow but I’m too impatient so here you go :)

Thank you so much for the prompt, clearly I had some FP family feels I needed to get out <3


Jughead wasn’t sure why he’d come. Maybe it was because he knew that this time was different. His dad, though perpetually drunk, could usually take care of himself. It was a rare instance when he rang his son, babbling incoherently on the line about how he was sorry, that he couldn’t do this anymore. But that’s exactly what had happened tonight, which was why Jughead was currently making his way up the steps of FP’s trailer at 2AM on a Thursday.

“Dad?” he called out in trepidation, peering around the room at the mess of empty bottles and stale takeout cartons. A groan rang out from the kitchen to his left. Rounding the corner he found his dad, hunched against the cabinets on the floor, broken glass surrounding him, sticky amber liquid pouring out from what remained of the whiskey bottle, blood quickly soaking the fabric of his shirt from the gash in his hand. “Jesus, Dad.” Jughead crouched to get a closer look, tilting FP’s head to meet his foggy, unfocused eyes. He sighed, turning to his hand, picking up the heavy limb and examining the wound. “It’s not that deep, hold on.” He straightened up, searching the draws for a clean dishtowel to wrap around the wound while he cleaned up as best he could. He’d brushed up most of the glass when he realised it would be better to move his dad out of the way if he was going to get this done more efficiently. The smell of alcohol was starting to burn his nose. Jughead flung open a window before reaching down to pick up his dad, staggering against the dead weight that now bore across his shoulders. He dropped him into a nearby chair with a groan, placing a glass of water in front of him before turning back to the task at hand.

FP watched him with dazed eyes, head lolling slightly, blinking slowly as if he were insurmountably tired. Jughead tried not to feel the weight of his gaze burning into the back of his head as he swept, grabbing a mop to tackle the next mess. He was filling up the bucket with warm water when FP finally spoke.

“’m sorry, Jug.” The words were barely defined. Jughead scoffed, slamming the tap off and rested his hands against the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white with the strain.

“Why do you keep saying that?” he bit out. FP blanched at the venom in his son’s voice, one that he hadn’t heard before. Disappointment, sure. Weariness, definitely. But this? Never. “You don’t mean it, you never mean it. If you were sorry you wouldn’t keep doing it over and over.” FP hung his head in shame. “Did you even try? Did you even pretend, to yourself, that this time it could be different?” Jughead turned finally to look at his broken mess of a father. His eyes were hard, fed up of being forgiving. “I can’t believe another one of your empty promises.” He tried to keep the crack out of his voice.

“This time…” FP trailed off, voice drowsy. “You’re mom, Jellybean…” The sound of Jughead slamming a fist against the counter echoed throughout the trailer.

“Stop!” he shouted, tucking his quivering lower lip between his teeth, willing the tears away. He didn’t want to cry over this anymore. It was beyond repair, beyond redemption. “I can’t hold on to this hope, anymore. I’m sixteen, Dad. This isn’t… it shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t have to pick you up off the floor,” he let out a humourless laugh, “on a school night.” Jughead averted his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get this out if he didn’t look away. “I have to start looking for a home somewhere else. With Mr Andrews and Archie. With Betty.” He paused, the image he conjured up of the blonde girl with the soft green eyes and gentle touch calmed him. She felt like home. “I think… I’m gonna marry her someday,” his voice caught and he stopped to clear it, swallowing away every doubt he had about his future. “I want a life with her, a home. And it can’t involve this, I won’t let it. You-” he paused, steeling himself for his next words. “You shouldn’t call anymore. You shouldn’t try and reach me. I can’t be your fall guy anymore. I can’t be the collateral in your messed up life. I won’t do that, not to Betty. She deserves more so that’s what I have to try to be, starting with this.” He took a shaky step towards the door. He saw FP lift a hand towards him hesitantly before thinking better of himself, letting it drop against his thigh with a defeated thud. Jughead shook his head almost imperceptibly - that confirmed it, he didn’t want to try. “Goodbye, Dad.”

The door had swung shut before the first tear slid down FP’s cheek.

***

It was almost three weeks later when Jughead saw FP again. He shook his head in disbelief at the familiar figure of his father standing outside Pop’s. FP stood up straight on Jughead’s approach.

“Dad, I wasn’t kidding-” he began in a furious whisper, glancing round frantically for prying eyes. He was supposed to be meeting Betty and the rest of the gang here.

“I… I’m sober, Jughead.” The words hung between them as Jughead jolted back in disbelief. He took a moment, now, to really take in the man before him. His skin was pallid and sunken beneath the eyes, dark circles standing out in striking contrast. His hands, Jughead noticed, were shaking. “Almost a week now, for real this time,” FP announced. His tone wasn’t prideful, it was holding something else… hope? Hope that’d he done enough this time to reverse the irreversible. Jughead’s eyes narrowed.

“Really?” he asked sceptically, body stiff with uncertain tension. FP nodded vigorously.

“Yeah. Yes, I swear,” he pleaded. Jughead looked him directly in the eyes, an eerie replica of his own staring back at him, earnest and clear for the first time in years. Jughead felt himself begin to nod slowly.

“Ok. Ok, I believe you. I’ll… come round and see you tomorrow,” he promised, still not making a move to close the distance between them. FP visibly deflated in relief.

“Tomorrow, sure. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he smiled, still small and unsure, before turning to mount his bike, roaring out of the parking lot with renewed hope spreading throughout his chest.

***

“Here,” FP said, handing Jughead the box. Jughead looked up at him before opening the black velvet lid, smiling at the delicate ring nestled inside. “It was your grandmother’s, she’d want you to have it,” he finished, shrugging awkwardly at the offering.

“She’ll love it,” Jughead murmured, running a finger lightly over the blue sapphire surrounded by clusters of tiny diamonds, set in a gold band. He looked back up at FP with a genuine smile that reached his eyes, nervous excitement beginning to settle in his stomach. FP clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, looking down at him with pride.

Seven years sober. A little worse for wear but he’d made it because of this boy - this man - stood before him. It had been the furthest road from easy, but he’d endured every shaky step to get him here because he knew this was it, his only chance.

He’d got to be there, in the gym itself, as Jughead took his steps across the stage to collect his diploma, see him look out into the audience for him and not be disappointed to find nothing but an empty seat. He got to be there to help Jughead pack for college, loading his and Betty’s boxes into the beat up old car that he’d salvaged for them as a graduation present, working with Betty in secret to fix it up so it ran smoother than it probably did when it was new.

“He’s gonna love it, Mr Jones,” Betty had giggled excitedly when they got the engine purring just the way they wanted. He laughed at the way she clasped her hands in front of her gleefully as he closed the hood.

“You think?” he asked nervously, dusting dirt off the bumper that wasn’t there.

“Of course! It’s so thoughtful,” she smiled warmly, resting a light hand on FP’s arm. He couldn’t help but smile back at her. He knew why his son was drawn to her, felt so safe with her around. He couldn’t have asked for a better guardian angel for him.

“And you can call me FP, Betty,” he called casually as he moved to clean up their tools. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “You’re family.”

He was there, once again, when they graduated from college, whooping loudly, much to Jughead’s chagrin, as his son’s name was called. He was there as Jughead announced at dinner that he was going to be a published author. He was there on the day of the launch, posing for photos and making jokes about how he was gonna get a couple of autographed copies because his son was a big shot famous author now, Jughead rolling his eyes while his cheeks flushed. He was there at Betty and Jughead’s housewarming. They’d moved back to Riverdale, Jughead being able to write from anywhere and Betty wanting to be near Polly, taking the opportunity to learn the ins and outs of the family paper. FP said a silent prayer in thank you, as he looked around the room of guests, that his son had chosen to come back to him, even after all that had passed.

And he was there now, as Jughead’s voice shook, telling him that he was going to propose to Betty.

“Took you long enough,” he’d quipped, hand reaching out to ruffle the dark mop of hair as Jughead ducked, laughing shyly.

***

“Oh, this one’s beautiful, Juggie!” Betty had gushed as she poured over wedding magazines while the three of them sat in their living room over coffee - a weekly routine for them now. FP leaned over to catch a glimpse of the image she was pointing to. The wedding was outside, full of white fabric and furniture. Betty was pointing to the ornately carved archway, weaved with white roses, lilies, baby’s breath. Her eyes were shining.

“Well I could make you one of those, help with the cost,” FP said casually, taking a sip of his coffee. Betty turned her glowing green eyes on him immediately, gripping his forearm lightly.

“Really?” she was radiating hope. FP laughed at her enthusiasm.

“Yeah, sure. There’s a lumber yard not too far away, and I can borrow a couple of tools from the construction site. Easy,” he nodded in affirmation.

“Oh, thank you, FP!” she gasped, leaning over to kiss his cheek in gratitude. A shy laugh burst from his lips as he looked down, pink dusting the tops of his cheekbones. Betty flew out of the room to call Polly as FP looked up, catching Jughead’s mouth turned up in amusement. He smiled back contentedly.

***

“Need a partner?” FP asked, holding his hand out to the bride where she sat, chin resting in her hand as she watched her husband dance with his sister. She smiled gracefully, accepting his offer and floating out onto the dance floor, an ethereal wave of satin and lace.

“Thank you so much, FP,” she said earnestly as they began to sway, reaching up to adjust one of the flowers in her hair.

“Aw, it was nothing, Betty, really,” he replied, casting his eyes to the floor.

“No, it was! You did all this,” she insisted, gesturing to the space around them. He’d gone a little further than just building the archway he’d promised. He’d practically taken it upon himself to build the whole venue. Along with the arch he’d set up strips of white fabric, draped through the trees to create a canopy above their heads, illuminated by rows and rows of soft yellow string lights. Petals covered every inch of the floor, strewn delicately down the isle that was created by the rows of mismatched chairs FP had found in various scrap yards and secondhand stores, all cleaned up and painted white. “It was just how I imagined it, more even.” FP lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well. I just wanted to make it everything you wanted… that you deserved.” He paused, looking down at her warm smile for a moment before taking a breath to continue. “Betty, I want you to know that, without you, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.” She furrowed her brow, waiting for him to continue. “I’d gotten to a place where Jughead wasn’t willing to help me anymore, where I’d done too much to ever redeem myself. Being with you helped him see that he deserved more than I could give him at that time, that he could be more than just my safety net. When he told me that… I saw everything I was going to miss out on, and that never would have happened if he hadn’t found you. So, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life thanking you, the both of you, in any way I can for what you did for me.” Betty blinked away the tears in her eyes, not bothering to wipe away the stray few that still managed to fall.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered.

***

He’d been speechless when they told him, knowing there was something different in the air as they sipped their usual morning coffee together.

“A baby?” he’s asked incredulously, hoping beyond hope that he’d heard them right.

“Yeah, Dad. You’re gonna be a grandpa,” Jughead had laughed, his face glowing at he gazed down at his beautiful wife, tucked under his arm with an equally bright expression gracing her face.  

Grandpa. Him, a grandpa. That was going to be his new title now. He couldn’t believe it - he’d made it.

***

“Ugh, thank you so much, FP,” Betty had greeted him with a relieved expression as he bumbled through the door, a paper grocery bag under each arm. “I would have asked Jughead but he’s out all day in the city at this press thing for the new book and I just…” she broke off, gesturing flippantly at her huge swollen belly stretching out before her. He laughed as he set the bags down on the counter, turning to watch her waddle in behind him.

“No problem, Betty. Anything I can do, remember?” he said, eyes taking on a hint of seriousness round the edges. She nodded in understanding, smiling gently. She placed a hand on her back, groaning as she brushed a few stray hairs back from her sweaty forehead.

“Whoever thought being pregnant in the summer was a good idea was seriously- oh!” She flinched, hand flying to her stomach. FP was at her side immediately.

“Betty? Everything alright?” he asked, hovering by her. She nodded slowly, eyes staring at nothing in particular as she focused on the sensations happening inside her body .

“Yeah, I just… FP, would you be able to take me to the hospital, I think I’m about to have this baby,” she said casually, straightening up and placing her hands on her hips. FP’s eye bugged as he took in what she said.

“Now?! How-” he broke off in question.

“Well, I’ve been having contractions all morning but I thought they were just Braxton Hicks or something, and I didn’t want to stop Jug going to this event…” she trailed off sheepishly glancing up at her father-in-law from under her eyelashes. He blew out a chuckle in disbelief, shaking his head slightly.

“You really are something else, Betty Jones.” She just shrugged, blowing out a slow breath as another contraction took over. “Ah, ok, where’s your bag? Ring Jughead, I’ll meet you by the car.” He rushed towards the bedroom, swinging back round the corner to raise an eyebrow at her. “He’s going to kill you for not saying anything, you know.” She waved a hand dismissively, already making her way outside.

“I’m about to push out his child, he doesn’t have the right.”

***

“Are you sure?” Jughead asked nervously, hands hovering over Juliet where she lay, cradled in her grandpa’s arms. “Maybe it’s too soon, Betts…” he trailed off, turning to look at his wife with anxious eyes. Betty sighed, coming over to place a reassuring hand on his arm, smoothing out the crease between his eyebrows with a cool finger.

“It’ll be fine, Juggie. You’ve got everything covered, right FP?” she asked, turning to face him with a confident smile. FP nodded, never taking his eyes off his granddaughter’s face as he bounced her gently.

“Both your cell numbers are in my phone, bottles in the fridge, spare milk in the freezer, extra diapers in the cupboard under the stairs. We’ll be fine, won’t we, lovebug?” he cooed at the soft bundle in his arms as she snuffled slightly before settling down again. “See?” FP looked up at Jughead with calm eyes. Jughead stared down at him for a beat, battling with his instincts internally before letting out a sigh, nodding his head.

“Ok, yeah. But if you need anything…” he repeated, fixing his dad with a look.

“Just go, already!” FP laughed gently, trying not to disturb the baby. Betty giggled, pulling on Jughead’s arm slightly to get him towards the door. “Have fun!”

FP stared down at Juliet, allowing her tiny hand to wrap round his finger as he spoke softly to her.

“You have the best parents, I hope you know that. They’ve saved me more times than I can count and I’ll never be able to repay them for that. I made some bad decisions, worse than most, but here I am. I get to hold you in my arms because your mom and your dad didn’t give up on me. They were there when I needed it the most.” He sniffed, blinking rapidly. “I got to see it all because of them, and I can’t wait to see it all again with you.”

Postulate

Imagine with me, if you will.

Imagine with that deep faculty that built worlds for you as a child.

That, if you try, even now, can make trees speak and rivers laugh.

Back and back. Beyond the ages of Iron and Bronze and Stone.

Into the Golden Age, and this is not the age of metal-glint.

Oh, no.

This is the age of honeycomb and honeydew, of mead-blood and winedark sea. Of nectar and ambrosia and the golden apples of Idunn and the Hesperides.

Drink with me, all flushed and rolling, all whispering, all gorged on godflesh and wreathed in smoke. Swallow it down as it boils and bubbles in the belly and bowels. 

Falling back and back, dizzy and something lifting in your chest, something peeling back, the muscles of your face shifting, baring your teeth in a smile so very eagerly shared by all the others in the room.

Perhaps they have hair like snakes, faces all ash-white and blood-daubed; ochre-bodied, painting fingers that writhe and twist in strange and potent shapes that leave electric blue-traces across your vision.

Did you think you were the only one? The only child of this ancient knotted line; your breath like all the winds flasked in skin, all tied together with thread? 

And now you are undone, the storm unleashed:

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.  -  Kubla Khan, Coleridge

Imagine then. Imagine, yes.

Imagine the salt on the wind, the iron in the blood. The crackle of flame.

He waits beside the fire, there in the bloodlight of womb, there in the centre of the very heart of big bellied verdant Mother.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

The antlered shadow there, scalp festooned with the roots of the bone-tree, stretching up and down into darkness, wreathed in laurel and vines. There, all enmeshed, lie serpents and eagles, black-eyed and unblinking in their wisdom.

He throws the bones, carves the lots; weaves a cat’s-cradle out of his own viscera. She nourishes him there. in the darkness. Enfolds him as he tends the flame that he brought from the stars with a word that is not a word..

Such a handsome beast is he. Such a monstrous uncreated coming-together and breaking apart of vision and form. Did you think yourself the only one, when he still remains buried here in dark earth?

Well, did you?

The shining colours of his guts; with one deft pull he snares you; ten thousand masks cast out by his shadow; plays you like a lute, like a liar strumming a lyre.

Down and down. There lies his spear, his club, his bow, his skull-breaker, his arrow of gold.

Down and down, in fire and flux, in ice and pestilence. There he sits, in the age of honey and amber. Even the rocks groan and bleed at the pulsing of his drum, as he bores his way down through the top of your head, as he kisses, wakens the snake and she rises to meet him

The secret centre. He drinks from the freezing fount and transmutes it to intoxicating gold. 

Poisoner and poisoned.

Pharmakon. Body and blood. He gives himself to us, so to be devoured, to ignite the fire in our breast and bellies.

A mocking smile, echoed from the other end of time:

Do this, in remembrance of  me.

We, the hunted, lay ourselves prostrate, as his curved bone knife cuts us free, hands roughly kindling organs, filling them with light and darkness. With solemn mockery, he cleaves the stone of our heart in two; we are to bleed forever, to stream back across the tracks, to this, the place beyond beginning and end.  

Bones disarticulated and dismembered, we are naught but hide and flesh to be stitched together with thorn, scratched and cut down to the bones, our marrows stuffed with secrets.

Burns us black, so he does, until we all go up in smoke; draws us in, holds us there, and then expels us as changed breath and a gesture, so we rise and stream forth from that place; almost to see her emerge from the darkness, this lady of feline grace and hawkish beauty, this leader through the labyrinth.

We do not imagine her, flanked by kings of beasts, heavy pawed and golden. Do not see her in feathered cloak and covered in gleaming jewels. Do not see her place her hand upon his shoulder, and watch him strengthen, watch the weariness we never saw was there, the loss of what he gave for us, be banished once more. We do not see her give him the cup, the mark of her eternal favour.

For this is just postulate. Just a might be. 

Isn’t it?

2

@dickgraysoff asked recently about what Jason Todd would read. It’s canon that he reads Jane Austin. He also reads business and marketing books, fashion, historical novels, fantasy, Sun Tzu, any and all philosophy, math theory, and so on. In short, Jason Todd reads. He reads everything and anything. He and Alfred had a book club before he died, they probably resumed it after he came back.

I should probably look for more canon Jason and books. Because learning is his one true love.