her colors are muted and she looks tired.
‘holding up,’ she says,
and i’m just holding up too but god, this contrast;
light and dark,
soft and bold,
melancholy and anger,
beauty and the furthest thing from it.
she is unsettling, yet…
not in a bad way.
not at all.
and she is lovely.
her eyes are gentle,
blue like twilight
(and i understand for the first time why
they’re supposed to be the windows to the soul).
her hair is not spun gold
and she doesn’t shine like the sun;
she is the moon in all its glory.
the kind of light she carries cannot be explained–
it’s in her bones and the way she walks,
and the way she speaks.
like she doesn’t want to be seen or heard.
but she is beautiful.
god built the universe
with a voice like that.
when a girl loves a girl the stars fall to the earth.
Seriously though. I can’t be the only one who envisions Lance being injured on a mission, and Keith is helping him walk back to where the lions are. Keith is trying to keep Lance from passing out until they can get him into a healing pod. Keith promises that once they get back and Lance is healed, they can get some food and just talk and relax.
And Lance, despite the dried blood crusted over his eye and cheek and the way blood oozes from his tongue through his teeth everytime he breathes, looks at Keith smugly out of the corner of his tired eyes and smiles in smug flirtation. “Talking? Eating? Are you asking me out on a date?”
Lance expects Keith to drop him right there on the rocks, but instead, Keith looks away and mumbles, “Yes.”
Maybe some time you could talk about Susan and what it would be like if she didn't desert Narnia
How about we talk about what might have happened if Narnia hadn’t deserted Susan?
What if, instead of sending a stag to lead them astray, the Pevensies had been given time to end their first rule– to have finished their reports, their negotiations and treaties, that letter in the bureau Lucy was half-done penning to Mrs. Beaver to thank her for the fruitcake and to ask about her grandchildren.
They had lived there more than a decade then, grown from children to kings and queens, to brave young adults with responsibility heavy on their shoulders. They had lived through storms and wars, peace and joy, lost friends to battle and old age and distance. They had made a home. What if they had been given time to say good-bye?
What if we didn’t tell Susan she had to go grow up in her own world and then shame and punish her for doing just that? She was told to walk away and she went. She did not try to stay a child all her life, wishing for something she had been told she couldn’t have again.
There is nothing wrong with Lucy loving Narnia all her life, refusing an adulthood she didn’t want for a braver, brighter one she built herself. But there is also nothing wrong with Susan trying to find something new to fall in love with, something that might love her back.
You can build things in lipsticks and nylons, if you don’t mind getting a few runs in them. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be pretty, especially when pretty is the only power left to you.
Let’s talk about being the last one left. No, really, think about it. You get a call in the middle of the night, in the little flat you can just barely afford, and you are told there has been an accident.
Think about it, that moment– you scramble over everyone you know, everyone you love, and try to figure out where they all are that night. There are things rushing in your gut, your fingertips, your lungs, your ears– there are words in your ears as the tinny, sympathetic voice starts to tell you: it is everyone.
They were on a train. Something went wrong. They probably died instantly. A rushing sound. A bright light. (You try to imagine it, for years. You try not to think about it. You imagine it, for years–a rushing sound, a bright light.)
Your little sister, who you always felt the most responsible for, who you never understood, really– Your big brother, who disapproved of your choices but loved you with a steadiness you could never regret leaning into– Your little brother, a smug and arrogant ass except for the days when he drowned in self doubt– Ed was going to go far and you knew it, were waiting for it, were shoring up your defenses and your eye rolls for the days when he’d think he ruled the world–
Your mother is gone. Your father, with his stuffy cigar smell and big hands and the way he got distracted telling stories– he is gone. Your cousin Eustace, who suddenly lost that stick in his ass one summer. That friend of his, Jill, who you’d never actually quite met. Gone. A rushing sound. A bright light.
Go on. Walk through this with me. You can’t sleep all night long, because you still can’t understand it, still can’t quite breathe in a world where you are the last Pevensie. You finally fade sometime between midnight and dawn and when you wake up you don’t remember for half a second. You think ugh and you think sunshine why and then you remember that you are an orphan, an only child. You remember there probably isn’t anyone else to handle the funeral arrangements.
Get up. Make tea. Forget to eat breakfast and feel nauseous and empty all day. Call the people who need to be called. Your work, to ask for the time off. The mortuary, to ask about closed caskets. Distant relations. Friends. Edmund’s girlfriend and Peter’s boss. You listen to Lucy’s friends weep hysterics into the phone while you stare out the kitchen window and drink your fourth cup of tea. You call Professor Diggory, out at the old house with the wardrobe that started it all, and it rings and rings. You don’t find out for three days that he died in the train crash too. When you do, you stare at the newspaper article. You think of course.
You are twenty one years old. You have ruled a kingdom, fought and won and prevented wars, survived exile and school and your first day as a working woman. Nothing has ever felt worse than this. You have a necklace in your dresser you meant to give your mother, because she loves rubies and this glass is painted a nice ruby red and it is all you can afford on your tiny wages.
Excuse me, a correction: she loved rubies. She is dead. You never wear the necklace. You cry yourself to sleep for weeks. The first night you don’t cry, the first morning you wake up rested, you feel guilty. You wonder if that will live in the pit of your stomach all your life and you don’t know. The years reach out in front of you, miles and eons of loss. You are on the very shore of this grief and you do not know how you will survive feeling like this for the rest of your life. But you will survive it.
Get up. Make tea. Make yourself eat breakfast. Make plans with a school friend to do lunch. Go to work and try to bury yourself in the busyness of it. Remember that you’d promised to lend Peter a hand with some task or other, but you don’t even remember what it was– Collapse. Hide in the bathroom until you’re breathing again. Redo your makeup and leave work the moment your shift is over. Drop your nylons and your sweater and your heels in the apartment hallway. Fall into bed and pull the covers over your head.
Get up. Make tea. Eat. Don’t think about them for weeks. Don’t feel guilty when you remember. Feel proud. Spend an indulgent weekend in your pajamas, reading Lucy’s favorite novel and making Ed’s favorite cookies and remembering the way your mother smelled and how it always made you feel safe. Love them and miss them and mourn them. Keep breathing. Cry, but wash your face after in cool water. Wake in the morning to birdsong and spend three hours making breakfast just the way you like it.
Imagine the next birthday, the next Christmas, the next time you hit one of those days that herald the passage of time, that tell you how much you’ve grown and how much they haven’t.
Lucy, Peter, and Edmund will be at the same height for the rest of your life. Lucy will always be seventeen for the second time. You see, you think you know, when you lose them, what the dagger in you feels like. But it grows with you, that ache. You grow with it, too, learn how to live with that at your side but it grows, that ache, finds new ways to twist–
At the first friend’s wedding you go to, you cry because it’s lovely, those two smiling and promising and holding hands– but you also cry because you wonder what Lucy would have looked like in white, joyous and smiling and promising the rest of her life to a boy who deserved her.
Go on. You tell me if Susan deserted a world or if a whole life deserted her. You tell me who was left behind.
So yes, let’s talk about it– what if Narnia hadn’t deserted Susan? What if lipstick and nylons were things worn and not markers of worth?
What if we had a story that told little girls they could grow up to be anything they wanted– all of Lucy’s glory and light, Susan’s pretty face and parties, the way Jill could move so quiet and quick through the trees?
Because you know, some of those little girls? They were the little mothers, too old for their age, who worried and wondered, who couldn’t believe like Lucy or charge like Jill. Susan was reasonable, was hesitant and beautiful and gentle, was pretty and silly and growing up, and for it she was lost. She was left. And when Susan was left, so were they.
The little girls who worried louder than they loved, who were nervous about climbing trees and who would never run after the mirage of a lion, who looked at the pretty women in the grocery store and wondered if they would grow up pretty too– some of them looked at their little clever doubting hands, after they read Peter and Eustace and Jill scoffing at Susan’s vanities, and they wondered what they were worth.
Imagine a Narnia that believed in all of them. Imagine a Narnia that believed in adult women, lipsticked or not. Imagine Susan teaching Jill how to string a bow, arms straining. Imagine her brushing blush on Lucy’s cheeks, the first time Lu went out walking with a boy she was considering falling in love with. Imagine that when the last door to Narnia was shut, there was not a sister left behind.
A fogbow, solar glory and Brocken spectre are all coexisting in this wonderful picture taken from San Francisco’s Golden Gate bridge. As Marc Twain famously quipped, the worst winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco, and the bay is famed for its heavy mists that sap the heat out of the air. For these to be visible, the fog must be below and the sun above the photographer. Seeing all three of these together, the first two covering 360 degrees is uncommon at best. Fogbows are similar to rainbows, due to reflection and refraction of the light passing through them though their colours are usually weak. Glories resemble saint’s haloes, and are caused by complex optical phenomena that are still being debated, to do with resonance between different light paths within the drops. The spectre is the large magnified shadow of the photographer in the centre of the halo, and only arises when the sun is behind the observer. What a wonderful combo…
1. Sexual- restraining inhibited appetite, becoming a slave to desire 2. Physical surroundings ~the comfort created by material acquisition 3. Money, Resources, Abuse of Power, discarding spiritual invocation 4. Fear ~ Elevating consciousness into higher dimensions so the torment of fear evaporates 5. Hatred ~ the ability for extreme love can transmute to hatred 6. Ambition ~ the power of devoted aspiration transmutes to a vessel of healing 7. Pride ~ Grandiose self delusions to unraveling ego so body can connect to soul 8. Separateness ~ forced isolation, disconnecting the self, and transmuting this into union 9. Cruelty ~ satisfaction resulting of maltreatment, often for reasons of power
Scorpio is a sign of judgement and tests, resulting in the figurative phoenix rising from the ashes and eventually triumphing in glory. form light, soul light, and the pure light of life emanate and coalesce in Scorpio. The head of the hydra held 9 raging heads. (”Returning, Hercules stood before his Teacher. “The victory is won”, the Teacher said. “The Light that shines at Gate the eighth is now blended with your own”.-Francis Merchant). The Scorpio’s first test involves relinquishing the need to prove to God, or fellow men that he or she is something, it’s consciousness must be aligned with acknowledging the grand delusion, that nothing is containable or capable of being possessed, because none of it exists. -C.
I want to marry the sun. It’s the one thing in this world I can depend on, that I know will always be there. I can’t touch it, but it seeks me out. The warmth I feel on my skin is because of the sun, and the freckles on my face are marks of love. The smattering across my cheeks and nose is a reminder of its eternal presence.
I can’t stare at the sun, because it’s too bright. Isn’t that the way love is supposed to feel? Like if you stare at it for too long you have to look away, because it blinds you in its glory. Love should light up the sky and take your breath away.
True love should give you everything. It should be the beginning and the end and all that is in between. That is the sun. When we are nothing but a tombstone weathered into an illegible sentiment, the sun will remain. When I am no longer walking about this earth, the sun will go on. Maybe it’s a daunting thought to others. For me, it’s comforting.
When I close my eyes and see the red through my eyelids, I smile. Because there is no such thing as true darkness when the light is at your side. It chases away the shadows, and any creatures lurking in the depths of my mind cower in its wake.
When the sun is gone and the night approaches, they come back. They beckon and taunt me. Tell me the thoughts I try so desperately to shut out. It’s funny really. We’re afraid of the monsters in our closets when the real ones dwell in our hearts. The darkness laughs in my face and brings horrible thoughts to life. In those times, it’s difficult not to resent the sun. After all, it left me when I needed it most. And as if it knows I call for it, knows I am close to breaking, the sun comes back, lighting up a world cloaked in shadows.
People say that the sun is a star, but I’m convinced otherwise. If the sun were a star, then it would be like billions of others. Unremarkable. How could something that gives me everything be so ordinary? It grows love in a world of hate. Its gentle touch on my neck and shoulders is the only reassurance I need to go on. The sun gives me strength. It seeps through my skin and floods my veins with sweet honey and warm embraces.
Some cannot handle its touch. They see it as a nuisance. But truthfully, I’m amazed. Something millions of miles away has the ability to leave a mark on my skin. We pass hundreds of people every day, none leaving marks. None influencing. We’re like planets, all of us. All caught up in our own gravity. We never truly step out of our borders, not with anyone. Yet the sun, in its mighty defiance, dares to permeate the walls we so effortlessly put up.
I wish I could be like the sun- bright, strong, influential, important. Instead, I will just marry it. I will attach myself to it in hopes to become its reflection. And one day, even if it’s just one, I will light up the sky. I will leave the marks. I will do the influencing.