People who think that Merrill would side with Solas are Wrong and should bask in their fetor of wrongness. Do you really think she would join up with a snide shithead who looks down on everything her people have tried to preserve in the intervening millennia? 

Solas wants to “raise” the Dalish back to the way they were in the age of Arlathan. I don’t think it’s possible to do that without acknowledging the struggles and adaptations that were required to survive. Yes, Merrill wants information and history about the Evanuris. But I don’t think she’d want it at the cost of that sort of disregard of her people.


Giovanni Falcone (18 Maggio 1939 - 23 Maggio 1992)

Io non dimentico. Dimenticate voi per diventare complici di Caino, dimenticate per nascondere la vostra vigliaccheria, dimenticate per giustificare la vostra ignavia, per dire che il male non si può vincere  nascondendovi nelle vostre paure, per negarvi una voce. Dimenticate chiudendovi nell'indifferenza, dicendo che il vostro presente e il futuro dei vostri figli non vi interessa, dimenticate pensando che il male non appartiene a questa terra accecata dal dolore, crocifissa dall’ingiustizia, tradita ad ogni canto del gallo dai suoi stessi figli.

E’ scritto che gli uomini  si distinguono dalle belve perché quest’ultime credono solo nella forza e fanno della morte il loro unico verbo. Tu tutto questo  lo sapevi. Gli uomini credono nella legge, nelle regole che loro stessi si danno in accordo e consenso. Tutto questo era il tuo fine. Chi difende quest’unione degli uomini nel consenso del loro convivere, e per questa sua difesa viene ucciso dalle belve che col sangue vogliono celebrare l’abisso in cui sono, quest’uomo non può essere dimenticato, nell’animo di tutti deve restare ad esempio e prova dell’amore che unisce gli uomini. Tutto questo lo hai lasciato a noi: la vita è solo una parola nel vento, il senso di quella parola è una montagna, un mare, un fuoco che nessuno può smuovere o spegnere, questa montagna, questo mare, questo fuoco è il motivo per cui non possiamo dimenticare

Dimenticate voi che siete ancora i servi di principi e baroni, abituati a vivere piegando la schiena solo per baciare le mani. Dimenticate voi che svendete i diritti degli altri, voi che vi pensate al di sopra al di la di ogni legge che amate vantare la vostra furbizia assassina e vivete come i corvi e i vermi sui corpi dilaniati dei morti, contando i vostri trenta denari.

Quante volte l’angelo nero della morte ti ha l’annunciato la tua. Quante volte ti sei visto in mezzo al sangue sull'asfalto o nelle lamiere contorte di una macchina. Sono gli eroi che rendono fertile il mondo ed eroe è chi affronta conoscendolo, il suo destino funesto perché il prezzo di questo è nella salvezza di molti, nel affermare i diritti dei giusti, nel confermare le leggi che guidano la vita degli onesti

Dimenticate voi, seduti sulle vostre poltrone d’oro, con le vostre fasce tricolori comprate con favori oscuri, scambiati con le mani strette sotto i tavoli, dietro la cassaforte in una banca, voi che uccidete non sparando ma comprando, pagando, raccomandando, proteggendo, tacendo, non vedendo, negando, votando in cambio di un posto, giurando il falso in cambio di una busta dal fetore di soldi.

Io non dimentico. Può un figlio svendere la madre che l’ha creato? tradire il sangue da cui è nato? negare ogni legge e credere solo nella morte? Io non dimentico. Può un padre accecare i domani dei suoi figli, lasciare la loro vita nelle mani di chi uccide a tradimento, di chi si nasconde dietro le bombe o dietro le minacce come un serpente sotto una pietra, come un ladro nel buio, un usuraio dietro ad un sorriso. Io non dimentico: per tutti quelli cacciati in altre terre o vinti in questa santa terra dal bisogno, per tutti quelli il cui sangue cola ancora dai muri abbeverando di lacrime la nostra isola e soffoca silenzioso il suo tempo uccidendole ogni speranza, avvelenandole ogni futuro, per tutti questi martiri della giustizia, per avere ancora il diritto di chiamarmi uomo libero, il dovere di essere un uomo giusto, il coraggio di essere uomo, io non dimentico, io non posso dimenticare, io non voglio dimenticare.

I do not forget. You can forget to become Cain’s accomplices, forget to hide your cowardice, forget to justify your sly, to say that evil can not be won, to hide yourself in your fears, to deny you a voice. You can forget closing in the indifference, saying that the present and the future of your children is not important for you, thinking that evil does not belong to this earth blinded by pain, crucified by injustice, betrayed at every singing of the rooster by her own sons.

It is written that men stand out from the beasts because beasts believe only in the force and they make the death as their only verb. All this you knew. Men believe in the law, in the rules that they give to themselves in mutual agreement and consensus. All this was your vision. Who defends this union of men in the consensus of their coexistence, and for this defense is killed by the beasts who with the blood want to celebrate the abyss in which they are, this man can not be forgotten: in the mind of everyone must remain an example and proof of love that unites men. All this you have left to us: life is just a word in the wind, the meaning of that word is a mountain, a sea, a fire no one can move or turn off, this mountain, this sea, this fire is the reason for which we can not forget you.

You can forget that you are still the servants of princes and barons, accustomed to living bending your back only to kiss their hands. You can forget so you deceive the rights of others,  you can forget who think your self free from every law, you that love to boast yourself as a murderer cunning and live like crows and worms on the dead bodies of the people, counting your thirty dinars.

How many times did the black angel of death announce yours. How many times have you seen yourself in the blood on the asphalt or in the contorted plates of a car. The heroes make the world fertile and hero is the one who faces knowing his fateful destiny because the price of this is in the salvation of many, in asserting the rights of the righteous, in confirming the laws that guide the life of the honest

You can forget, seated on your golden seats, with your tricolor bands of mayor bought with dark favors, exchanged with your hands under the tables, behind a safe in a bank. You can forget, you who kill by not shooting but buying, paying, protecting, be silent, not seeing, denying, voting in exchange for a job, swearing the fake in exchange for an envelope with the dark smell of money.

I do not forget. Can a child dispose her mother who created him? To betray the blood from which he was born? Deny any law and believe only in death? I do not forget. Can a father blind his children’s tomorrow, leave their life in the hands of those who knock out betrayal, who hide behind bombs or threats like a snake under a stone, like a thief in the dark, a usurper behind a smile. I do not forget: for all those who are thrown into other lands or won in this holy land by their need, for all those whose blood still falls from the walls scrubbing of tears our island and choking silently her time, killing her hope, poisoning her future, for all these martyrs of justice, to still have the right to call me free, the need to be a fair man, to have the courage to be man, I do not forget, I can’t forget, I do not want to forget.

Feeling more human and hooked on her flesh I
Lay my heart down with the rest at her feet.
Fresh from the fields, all fetor and fertile -
It’s bloody and raw, but I swear it is sweet…

(fullview recommended.)

got that song stuck in my head and realized i’d never given G!Sans a proper attempt before? so hell yeah rolling with the frequent hc of him as a musician.


EAU CLAIRE, CONNETICUT –– population: 7,000. Tucked beneath the city scape of Hartford and far removed from any major metropolises, the picturesque town ( filled with equally as picturesque, collar-popping tenants ) strongly leans towards the rural end, boasting of wealth and reeking of a greater immaculateness unparalleled in neighboring suburbs, whilst fetors of stagnancy leech through both residents and residences. Steeped in small town tropes, from the north end to the southernmost border of the city, everyone knows everyone. Secrets are seldom kept and rumours are brought to light in the cruelest examples, although what transpires in the underbelly of the city, unencumbered by a useless force of authorities, remains tactfully unspoken.

19 MAY, 2016: When it was revealed in the Eau Claire Gazette that Caroline Warner, wife of the town’s Mayor, had gone missing, all activity in the city was put to a collective and resounding halt. Warner’s disappearance had been the second of that month, the fourth in a year. The city took another plunder when her body was extracted by a lake in the local park, bruised and overtly beaten, appearance more of a pulp than what it once was : the mayor’s shrewd albeit lascivious spouse. Fingers were pointed, allegations and conspiracies were made and published, the nature of a Salem witch trial encompassing the town of seven thousand in full-throttle. As webs of lies, incidences of indecency, affairs, scandals, and other iniquitous deeds come to light as authorities attempt to uncover the true culprit of Warner’s  murder ––– will you be framed?

PLOT NOTICE: Given that there have been many disappearances, your character is welcomed to be involved in those. However, please message me privately if you’d like your character to be Warner’s killer. Alternatively, your character’s own family members/acquaintances can have gone missing/murdered if you’d like that as a plot point!

TAGGING ( for starters, biographies, graphics ) : #BADRPGROUP 


  • just be nice don’t be a dirt bag yadayada
  • cannons/faceclaims are first come first serve sry babes :(
  • be a hoe do ur thing
  • ic drama yes god / ooc drama hell no
  • post a short bio / informative sheet on your char in the #badrpgroup tag when you’re accepted!


PRESENTING:  [name], the [age in letters] year old [occupation] from [birthplace]. [name] has lived in Eau Claire for [amount of time] and they bear an uncanny resemblance to [face claim]. ( ooc alias, age, optional: pronouns ) ––– note: don’t remove brackets!
SUBMIT YOUR APPLICATION HERE. (or send it to me privately idc)


Keep reading


Un bambino di Parigi, 12 anni, povero come tre milioni di bambini francesi, sta per trascorrere un pomeriggio eccezionale.
Insieme ai suoi genitori e a un volontario che si occupa di famiglie disagiate entra al museo d’Orsay.
Il bambino di Parigi si ferma davanti a un quadro di Van Gogh, che era povero quanto lui e ha arricchito il mondo.
Ma nella sala sono presenti altri visitatori. Si lamentano con gli inservienti perché il bambino e i suoi genitori hanno un cattivo odore.
È la puzza della povertà.
Hanno i vestiti impregnati dell’umido fetore di chi vive in baracca.
Il bambino di Parigi viene accompagnato all’uscita dagli inservienti del museo, a causa delle proteste di chi - se fosse vissuto ai tempi di Van Gogh - gli avrebbe dato dell’ “imbrattatele” e l’avrebbe denunciato per vagabondaggio.
Un pomeriggio eccezionale.
Il bambino se lo ricorderà per sempre. Probabilmente si vendicherà. Commetterà piccoli o grandi reati contro la profumata società.
Ma io sogno che, una notte o l’altra, Vincent Van Gogh lo vada a visitare e gli porti in dono un pennello, una penna, un violino o un po’ d’argilla.
Io sogno una notte eccezionale, quella in cui un bambino su milioni diventa uno scrittore, uno scultore, un poeta. Io sogno che Van Gogh o un altro angelo crocifisso, gli sveli che la grande arte puzza come le baracche, ed è riconoscibile a dito come i mendicanti e i dannati della terra;
ma è immortale e profuma di fiori proibiti i giardini di cemento della cultura che per tutti non è.
Io sogno che, giorni fa, a Parigi, un pomeriggio di merda si sia trasformato in una notte da far tremare il mondo, una di quelle in cui nascono, fra lo stupore delle stelle, i Kafka, i Picasso, i Van Gogh;
e in un’occasione eccezionale di riscatto e di gioia per un bambino che stava guardando i girasoli allo stesso modo di chi, nel fetore di una baracca, li aveva dipinti meglio di Dio.

(tratta da “Un’anima a 7 euro e 99” Diego Cugia)

The Legacy of My Late Dresser

I decided to pick apart my dresser today

Limb by limb.

It had been deceased for

A couple of days now-

I was never really quite fond

Of the fetor of tender, rotting wood.

Fetor of any kind, to be frank

Was really never my 

Preferred kind of Yankee Candle scent anyways.

Upon firm dissection of my late dresser,

I noticed it must have coughed up

Some 25 sock balls 

Before its last meal. 

I felt that something was off…

My dubiety kicked in and soon

I felt this awful churning in my stomach.

With more prodding,

I was able to find that it was still holding captive

10 petrified bras

5 timid panties

2 chatty pairs of jeans

4 antisocial sweaters

And a mute open purse 

Lying prostrate on top of one 

Of the sweaters, clearly exhausted

With its back to me.


When I rummaged some more, 

I found that 

My clingy, rotting dresser 

Was even harboring the receipt 

Of the brand new mahogany one 

I had recently purchased and hired 

To take its late place.


Campi espropriati alla Mafia e coltivati dalla cooperativa Libera Terra; il marchio Centopassi è in memoria di Peppino Impastato ucciso dalla mafia il 9 Maggio 1978

In queste terre stappate alla mafia, dedicate ai cento passi che ti separavano dalla morte, abbiamo seminato giustizia e vendemmiato onestà. Tutto questo perché tu sei morto per la nostra giustizia per difendere la nostra onestà. Tutto questo perché tua madre ha trasformato le sue lacrime in unghie, ha rinnegato il suo sangue ha preteso ed ottenuto quella giustizia per cui eri morto, tutto questo perché i tuoi amici hanno portato il tuo nome in ogni strada mostrandoti come piaga di morte nel costato della Sicilia, e la verità che da noi è derisa, nascosta, offesa è stata riconosciuta, è diventata una necessità l’aria con cui possiamo ancora respirare. Ora che i campi dei soprusi e del ricatto non sono più abbeverati con il sangue dei giusti, è finalmente è venuto il tempo degli onesti, queste terre hanno perso il loro fetore di morte e liberati dalla mafia sono diventati un tuo monumento vivo ed eterno per non dimenticate e santificare con il pane e il vino chi come te è stato ucciso per noi, per la nostra terra, per la nostra libertà e fede nella legge. Ora mietiamo giustizia e brindiamo con l’onestà, le ombre della morte non sono scomparse, i vermi dei morti hanno ancora fame, ma qui, in questa terra affrancata anche con il tuo sangue, è stato piantato un seme che noi crediamo, pretendiamo, desideriamo che germogli per sempre.

Fields expropriated to Mafia and cultivated by the Libera Terra Cooperative; The Centopassi brand is in memory of Peppino Impastato killed by the mafia on May 9, 1978 .

In these lands expropriated from the mafia, dedicated to the hundred steps that separated you from death, we sowed righteousness and picked honesty. All this because you are dead for our justice to defend our honesty. All this because your mother turned his tears into sharp nails, denied his blood he pretended and got that justice for which you was dead; all this because your friends brought your name in every street showing it as a death plague in the cost of Sicily, and the truth that is hidden from us, hidden, has been recognized, has become a necessity the air with which we can still breathe. Now that the fields of abuses and blackmail are no longer drowned with the blood of the righteous, the time has finally come to the honest, these lands have lost their death sting and released from the mafia have become your living and eternal monument to do not forget and sanctify with the bread and wine who like you was killed for us, for our land, for our freedom and faith in the law. Now let us consider righteousness, and we worship with honesty, the shadows of death have not disappeared, the worms of the dead are still hungry, but here in this land also with your blood is planted a seed that we believe, we pretend, we want to sprout forever.

C'è un uomo ,da solo, in uno scompartimento del treno. Gli scappa la cacca e va in cerca di un bagno, ma li trova tutti occupati. Torna nello scompartimento, ma non ce la fa più. Chiude tutto, apre un giornale, la fa lì. Poi appallottola i fogli e cerca di buttare il pacchetto da finestrino. Ma è incastrato. Intanto arriva il controllore.
L'uomo caccia tutto sotto il sedile, entra il controllore:
“Biglietti… Madonna, che puzza! Ma cos'è?”
“Io non sento niente, non saprei…”
“Come, non sente che fetore? Vediamo… cosa c'è là sotto?”
Il controllore trova il pacchetto, lo apre ed esclama:
“Ma questa è merda!”
“Eeeeh” replica l'altro “non crederà mica a tutto quello che c'è nei giornali!”

“Venice appeared to me as in a recurring dream, a place once visited and now fixed in memory like images on a photographer’s plates so that my return was akin to turning the leaves of a portfolio: a scene of the gondolas moored by the railway station; the Grand Canal in twilight; the Rialto bridge; the Piazza San Marco; the shimmering, rippling wonderland; the bustling water traffic; the fish market; the Lido beach and boardwalk; Teeny in the launch; the singing, gesturing gondoliers; the bourgeois tourists drinking coffee at Florian’s; the importunate beggars; the drowned girl’s ghost haunting the Bridge of Sighs; the pigeons, mosquitoes and fetor of decay.”
Gary Inbinder (The Flower to the Painter)

(via pinterest)

Nell’aria intorno

Quando due odori molto forti si uniscono, la sensazione è quella di cercare quale prevalga sull’altro. La verità invece è che se ne forma un terzo, completamente estraneo ai primi. La percezione dipende dallo stato d’animo: se il primo è un profumo, l’altro un fetore, il prodotto sarà di nuovo una delle due cose, per quanto non sarà facile indicare quale. Non esistono odori neutri - o comunque di certo non si formano da due cose così importanti. Che sia un lezzo o una fragranza, la forza travolgerà altri sensi oltre l’olfatto. Ci sarà una pesantezza dovuta alla prepotenza dell’odore. Dal naso alle meningi la strada è breve: una forte emicrania salirà non appena ci si sarà resi conto di cosa ci sia nell’aria intorno. E si proverà a fuggire, contro tutto e tutti, con tutte le proprie forze. Si sentirà il bisogno di cambiare - aria - e di nascondersi. L’apnea sarà d’aiuto solo per quei pochi secondi che si può resistere. Ci sarà la resa, è matematico. Allora il respiro non si tratterrà più, si farà solo pesante, lento, duro - come l’aria intorno. 
In momenti come questi mi sono reso conto che per vivere c’è bisogno solo d’aria. Pulita, libera da ogni tipo di inquinamento artificiale o immateriale. Qualcosa che riempia i polmoni senza stringere il cuore, che non porti la mano alla bocca e la voglia di capire cosa sia quell’odore nonostante faccia male. 
Quando il terzo odore, quello indescritto, riempie la stanza l’unica volontà è quella di aprire la finestra - e magari volare via. 
Nel momento in cui il primo filo di vento inizia a soppiantare quell’incubo cambia tutto. Il problema nasce quando nemmeno il vento ce la fa. 
Inebriato o soffocato, si perdono i sensi e la mente s’annebbia di pensieri confusi. 
Al risveglio si distinguerà di nuovo tanfo e aroma nettamente, ma sarà sempre presente, vivo come ricordo, l’essenza nata dai due odori.
Il rischio è forte di abituarsi e non sentire più né l’uno, né l’altro, né qualsiasi altra cosa al di fuori dell’aria intorno. 

KastleintheHozier Week Day 7

With her sweetened breath, and her tongue so mean
She’s the angel of small death and the codeine scene
With her straw-blonde hair, her arms hard and lean
She’s the angel of small death and the codeine scene
Feeling more human and hooked on her flesh I
Lay my heart down with the rest at her feet
Fresh from the fields, all fetor and fertile
Bloody and raw, but I swear it is sweet
With her sweetened breath, and her tongue so mean
She’s the angel of small death and the codeine scene
With her straw-blonde hair, her arms hard and lean
She’s the angel of small death and the codeine scene
And lease this confusion, I’ll wander the concrete
Wonder if better now having survived
Jarring of judgement and reasons defeat

-Angel of Small Death & The Codeine Scene

Preference #34

The Hozier song that resembles your relationship:


Work Song

Boys workin’ on empty

Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat?

I just think about my baby

I’m so full of love I could barely eat

There’s nothing sweeter than my baby


Like Real People Do

I will not ask you where you came from

I will not ask and neither should you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

We should just kiss like real people do


From Eden

Honey, you’re familiar like my mirror years ago

Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword

Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know

I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door


Cherry Wine (Live)

Her fight and fury is fiery

Oh but she loves

Like sleep to the freezing

Sweet and right and merciful

I’m all but washed

In the tide of her breathing


Take Me to Church

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

Offer me that deathless death

Good God, let me give you my life


Angel of Small Death & the Codeine Scene

She’s the angel of small death and the codeine scene

Feeling more human and hooked on her flesh I

Lay my heart down with the rest at her feet

Fresh from the fields, all fetor and fertile


It Will Come Back

Through the cold, I’ll find my way back to you

Oh please, give me mercy no more!

It’s a kindness you can’t afford!

I want you baby tonight, as sure as you’re born


To Be Alone

All I’ve ever done is hide

From our times when you’re near me

Honey, when you kill the lights, and kiss my eyes

I feel like a person for a moment of my life


Jackie and Wilson

She’s gonna save me,

Call me “baby”

Run her hands through my hair

She’ll know me crazy,

Soothe me daily 



You and I nursing on a poison that never stung

Our teeth and lungs are lined with the scum of it

Somewhere for this, death and guns

We are deaf, we are numb

Free and young and we can feel none of it

Arman (Armand Pierre Fernandez, Nizza, 1928 – New York, 2005)

Long Term Parking

1982, coll. privata

“Accumulo” di 59 vetture entro 1600 tonnellate di cemento, 609,6 x 183 x 183 cm


Mo te conoscerai sicuramente Armani che nun dico nun sia n’artista a modo suo, ma oggi te vojo presentà questo qua, che se chiama Arman. Tra le tante cose, lui ha fatto ste opere che se chiamaveno Accumuli, anzi in francese Accumulatiòns, ma nun annamo troppo sur difficile. In pratica accumulava robba, che poteveno esse cucchiai, machine fotografiche, timbri, pistoni, pezzi de carta, o popo automobbili intere come qua.

Accumulà è na robba primitiva dell’essere umano, che pe paura de rimanè senza fin dall’arba dii tempi accumulava frutta, carne, pelli, ova, legna, semi, ndo trovava pijava e metteva da parte nun sia mai viè ‘a carestia. Ner corso dii secoli amo inventato na cifra de modi pe potè accumulà de più e mejo: prima er sale, poi er ghiaccio, poi i frigoriferi, poi er sottovuoto, poi i conservanti. ‘E banche, i boni postali, i fondi de investimento. Ciò mille ma mejo avecce dumila nun se sa mai. Come dici? Te nciai manco dieci pe magnà? Cazzi tua. E continuamo a accumulà, chi cià de più sempre de più, e chi nun cià ciao core. ‘A legge daa giungla.

Ecco, poteva avè un senso, forse, all’epoca dee caverne, che l’omo doveva da compete chee tigri e i leoni, e mors tua vita mea. Ma noi ommini e donne moderni occidentali ancora accumulamo, accumulamo, continuamo a accumulà, ma a che ce serve? Ciamo più robba de quanta ne riuscimo a usà. Scarichi dischi che nun te senti mai, te compri scarpe che manco ‘e riesci a consumà che sò passate de moda, robba da magnà che poi taa scordi ner frigo e ce fa ‘a muffa che dopo tre giorni apri e senti n’effluvio che te pare ‘a gora dell’eterno fetore e scopri ner cassetto un sacchetto de limoni che boh t’aveva preso ‘a smania che pareva che te dovevi fà limonate per n’esercito, e poi? E poi invece te sei messo a scaricà firm che nun te riesci a vedè, a vende er telefonino perché vòi er modello novo, a piegà ‘e majette che arcune t’eri pure scordato de avelle. Nun parlamo daa monnezza che nun sapemo più ndo ficcaccela. De machine ce n’avemo due a famija più er motorino, nun sapemo più ndo parcheggialle, ndo rottamalle, ndo buttalle. Tra un po’ ‘e dovremo lassà pe strada e continuà a piedi. E verà er fango e ‘a porvere dii secoli e ‘e coprirà tutte. E tra mill’anni n’archeologo scaverà e farà un carotaggio (che sarebbe tipo come quanno fai er tassello ar cocommero pe vedè si è rosso) e tirerà fori na robba tipo questa. Quant’era avanti Arman.

Words: F

Faffle to blow in sudden gusts, to stammer or fumble

Fage to coax, flatter and beguile

Famelicose (adj): “constantly hungry.” Example: I’m famelicose for a grilled cheese.

Famulus a medieval sorcerer’s assistant

Fanger a guardian, one who protects, as do fanged animals

Farouche sullen or shy

Farraginous consisting of a confused mixture; formed of various materials in no fixed order or arrangement

Fary a state of consternation, tumult

Fatidical having the power to foretell future events; prophetic

fatuous        FAT-chew-us      foolish; stupid; silly

Febrile of or relating to fever; feverish

Fecund fertile; intellectually productive

felicity       fa-LISS-a-tee      bliss; a pleasing aptness in speech and deportment; grace

Fetor (or foetor) an offensive, stale or putrid odor

Firefanged scorched, overheated and producing a singed taste or smell

Flagitious atrocious, heinous or appalling wicked

Flerd deceit, fraud

Flexuous having curves, turns or windings; lithe or fluid in action or movement

Fliperous a proud gossip, a prattler

Flosh a swamp or stagnant pool overgrown with weeds

Flummery meaningless flattery

Fonkin a little fool

Foozle to manage clumsily; to bungle

Fop a man who is excessively concerned with fashion and elegance

Fopdoodle a simpleton; an insignificant fool

Formicate swarm like ants

Frowsy musty, stale; having a slovenly or uncared-for appearance

Frush to crush, strike, break

Fudgel (v): “pretending to work when you’re not actually doing anything at all.” Example: Sometimes fudgeling can actually increase your focus.

Fulgent shining brilliantly; gleaming

Fulsome excessive; cloying through surfeit

Fulvous dull brownish yellow; tawny

furtive        FURR-tive      sly; shifty; secretive

Fustian ridiculously pompous, bombastic or inflated language


The first time I cut my own hair it was after a long period of emotional plague associated with my physical and mental abuse had come to an end following an altercation with my abuser. I had stabbed his shin with a Khukri – a curved Nepalese knife quite similar to a machete. He had tried to assault me while I was suffering from a crippling fever and in the sheer hysteria I was experiencing between pain I was already under and the pain I expected him to put me through, I found the nearest cudgel & jabbed it into the loose meat wrapped around his tibia. He let out a malignant bawl and limped out of the tiny kitchen. That evening it was decided that I would leave for a boarding school by the next semester and the period between that day and the hour of my departure to the hilly town where I completed the remainder of my school education was unblemished by any attempts on his part to encounter me in any way possible.

I don’t remember his face very well except for my nightmares where I can see his insufferably bucolic gaze hulking over my petite frame. Then, I remember his face right down to every precise coordinate of the misshapened nose, the fetor of tobacco emanating from his dust-smudged mouth. Mostly I remember how he had started – by tousling my hair, by telling me how it was like “Chinese silk” & how special it made me.

So, when I finally rid my days of his presence, I took a pair of kitchen scissors to my long, ebony strands and soon the floor looked like a massacre of ravens. It wasn’t an act of haste or anger – it was done very slowly, with calm and almost practiced strokes and though it was my eponymous attempt at barbershop antics, the result wasn’t all that asymmetrical or uneven. I looked like a sullen pixie and I liked it. I sat in that sea of hair and carefully palmed the confetti of tresses as if I had just lost a pet and I was running my fingers through its dead- cold fur. Suddenly the reality of the act struck me – I was now shed of what was constantly reitrated to be the essence of my beauty. I was now distinctly and beyond a shadow of doubt – “ugly”. I think in our hour of grief, we lose the idea of object permanence; we become infants who believe that what is not there right now, will never ever be again. We wither periodically with a pendulum of pangs; we assume that once separated from a part of ourselves we considered so central to our identity, we can never reclaim that lost territory or its peaceful vantage that inverted our gaze towards our own existence.

By the time I reached the boarding school, my sprite-cut had slowly bloomed into thick even if somewhat brusque tendrils & I remember entering the dorm with a harp shaped hairpin clasping my tender locks into their rightful place so I didn’t appear the proverbial pirate with a god-gifted eye patch made of my own fringes. That hairpin was the conversation starter that led me to meeting the Naz/Noush sisters who went on to become my room-mates for the rest of the year.  Farinaz and Farinoush were Persian sisters with an age gap of 2 years separating them. Naz, the elder, stoic mathematical genius and Noush, the younger, impish & very fashionable budding basketball champion. Besides their well enunciated and diverse personalities, the two girls also differed in the texture of their hair. Naz had crow-colored, chock-full ringlets sprouting from that near Einsteinesque head. Noush had honey tinged satin flowing out of hers. It was almost as if Naz’s impulsive waves were a sharp antithesis to her patient endurance whereas Noush’s velvet-feathered serenity contradicted her prank-happy grins.Their mother visited them twice every month & every visit was a culinary revelation with well packed plates of chelow kebabs, shishlikh, zereskh polo, tah-chin, vinegar drenched olives garnishing august salads. Mrs Ghorbani was a wine complexioned woman in her early 40s and aside from the two girls she had a son who was our consistent eye candy through the hostel years. She always wore beautiful cashmere jackets and paisley printed scarves covering her forehead. Naz said her mother was not so much as pious as she was obedient. I fail to recollect how we segregated the individual meanings for those terms so as to establish clear parameters for contrasts. The Ghorbani family had fled their native country during the Khomeini era and had been vagabonds since them. The girls were toddlers when they were first displaced and had lived in almost as many countries as the years on their birthday cards. Often when Mrs Ghorbani visited she would sit with us on the wide swing by the chapel garden and talk to us about music or dance or something equally pleasant and non-political. In all my bursting curiosity and childish candor I blurted my undying interest in why she always kept her head covered. She suddenly looked pale; a swan anticipating an archer. Quickly though, she calmed down and handed me an almond muttering something about how as women got older they lost their hair and she kept it covered to protect it.

Later during the night, after her mother’s departure, Naz told me that when her mother lived in Iran, she was once arrested by the secret police for some of her copper-tinted curls showing from under the chador and she had received 10 lashes as the designated punishment for this assumed offense.

I stayed up till late wondering about how a slithering leather whip in motion looked a lot like a witch’s braid shaking its angry sting at an offender. I wondered if Mrs Ghorbani’s welts would have borne the same shade as her uniquely hued hair.

Till then I had never seen someone brutalized before my own eyes but I had once tried homemade remedying of my househelp’s daughter’s injuries who was around my age when the incident occured. She’d come home looking for her mother; her unkempt frock in tatters, snot caked around her nose and her lips & a deep stench rising from her. Some boys had chased her down the road, she said. They had tried to drag her into the skeletal ruin of a long abandoned house, she said. They had pushed her face into the mud and used electric wires to whip her malnourished back. They had poured kerosene on her hair, she said. They wanted to turn me into a cherry bomb, she said. She was a lower caste than the culprits so she was no longer a person in their eyes, merely a pawn, a pandered object. Ironically, she belonged to a village of ‘untouchables” whose shadows weren’t even allowed to fall onto the temple courtyard and yet the very men who would cut off her father’s tongue for speaking to them, didn’t feel a lot of impurity impinge on them when they tried to violate her. She had bit one on the hand and had run like she was a puma on steroids. She had come straight to our house looking for her mother. As she spoke my mind digressed to the time I had seen my grandfather cook fish on an open coal oven and I thought she resembled the char of that burning softness. My grandmother was sleeping and so I took her to the bathroom and helped her clean herself. Then I made a paste of sandalwood and turmeric for her back. What I remember most was how tufts of her sand-stained, matted plaits floated into the drain. I think I smelled kerosene on my fingernails for days onwards. I woke up at midnight with images of matted hair filling up my throat.

Every time the thunderbolt of my own depression struck me with a calculated violence, I would feel magnetized by the aura of sharp, razor-edged glint of things surrounding me. Over a period of time, I taught myself to eschew the ones that left me with grotesque mementoes dug into my arms and instead choose ones I could willingly gift a fraction of my falling self. I would cut my hair instead of my hands or my knees or my stomach. I learned to let go in these slight steps. Unlike the first time, this time I knew that was I was losing with the knowledge  that this part of me was far more likely to return with more lushness and less mistrust as compared to what I would lose without consent; that which would be taken from me unwillingly; its legs failing, its face- the demeanor of a wildifire swallowing everything in its path.

No longer did beauty sleep in the comfort of this guileless veil. I couldn’t hide behind the opaque, obsidian enclosure of what had grown from me. At the same time, when it grew back after I had threshed it, I was revived by its incendiary fervor to emerge again. I was thankful for the option of being able to pour it to the front of my face and make my own private room for reflection under its elaborate serape.

During my first stint of volunteering, a young Liberian and I sat under the ragged canvas of a refugee camp and roasted peanuts as the rain’s heartbeat pulsated against the widespread thicket. Her hair was shorn and the baldness was a second even if darker moon in the thinning light of the first one. I didn’t know of her name except that she called herself Eba and had pink nails. She wanted to be a beautician, she told me. She offered to make cornrows for me and I told her of my habitual hair sniping proclivity. I wondered why did she not grow her own hair. She said she couldn’t after the soldiers poured acid over her head. She said that once she made it to Netherlands, she would save money and buy a wig of dreadlocks. The word always sounded peculiar – dread and locks. The lock of dread, the dread of locks. I gave her my mailing address and asked her to send me a picture of herself when she made it through.

Through the forest, as the roads diverged and converged, their truncated arteries growing under the willow’s weep, their forked tongues pointing out to different surrogate shanty towns clanking their canister of chores, I saw women sit next to the asthmatic hearth and dress each other’s hair. In this bleak, acrid stain of a landscape, they gripped some vague hope in the loose fists cinched around each other’s tresses.

I, of course, came back and stood speculating in front of an ornate, ivy-filigreed mirror – an heirloom from my grandmother who oiled my hair on winter mornings; a domestic concoction of sapindus extracts, coconut oil and shikakai. Her gentle rinse was a ritual for cleansing that extended beyond the grime and grit that had collected in my schoolgirl’s ponytail.

A while ago I watched the very erudite inspection of hair and the its political heritage by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in conversation with a very white guy who seemed baffled with the love for hair and efforts afforded to its maintenance. Her precise humor, her exquisite laugh peppering the length of that dialogue. She spoke of hair in conjunction with race, love and exile – physical and/or spiritual.

In Hindu mythology, Draupadi – who was betted at a game of draught that led to the epic battle of Mahabharta – decides to keep her mane unwashed till she could bathe it with the blood of the man who stripped her in a full assembly of kings and courtiers in an attempt to insult her husbands (she was married to the 5 Pandava brothers who were vanquished by their cousins in lust for the kingdom they had inherited). She keeps her vow. Even if it means the extinction of an entire bloodline of kings.

At every stage that I let go of my hair, I also let go of the inherent fear that the things I was born with or into, that I didn’t have an intrinsic control over, were irreplaceable; that the paradigm of this loveliness bestowed upon me always had to be physically determined and socially approved. Similarly, every time it grew back, I was bred bolder in my belief that with time all that seems forfeited or sacrificed is reincarnated and learns to occupy its own riotous expanse.

Science says that any given time, any two strands of hair can be in two entirely different growth phases. This endowed me with a sense of relief; it was ok to not always be congruent, aligned and organized on the same dimension. It was ok to tumble along a spectrum. It didn’t mean that I wasn’t ready or complete - or incapable of developing further.

So I go back to being a young, trembling creature kneeled in the sable sea of my own aftermath and the tiniest cry wells up in the very pith of my ribcage. Then I look up and I see someone new, someone who wasn’t going to let anyone harm her anymore, someone who had been dragged through broken glass and somehow managed to maintain her passion for the dance of fate. Someone who was slowly transforming into a phoenix. Someone who would be reborn every time she changed the shape, the summary of her hair. It wasn’t cosmetic. It wasn’t clinical. It was akin a seed that raises its small knuckles against the hardness of husk, makes one persuasive dent after another till it has broken into the sun that it deserves.

Recently I had a sudden threat of breast cancer thrown my way and my closest friend placed a loving arm around me to ask – “Are you worried about losing your hair?”

I said no. My hair would never lose me.